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Minister for Magic Harry Potter pressed his fingers into the indents at his temples where a headache pounded. It had started that morning before he crawled out of bed, and the never-ending process of reviewing and rewriting new legislation made his brain feel like it was slowly turning to mush.

Of all the things he hated about his job, trying to get new laws passed was at the top of his list. At thirty-two, he was the youngest Minister in recorded magical history and there were many, many days when he felt like he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He'd been recruited by the liberal party fifteen years almost to the day after the war, when a law was proposed legalizing bias against magical creatures. Harry hadn't been able to ignore it; he couldn't believe it had even been proposed to begin with, let alone so soon after they'd fought a war against attitudes just like it.

As an active Auror, he knew he would never be able to enforce it. His godson was sixteen and Ted showed no signs of his dad's lycanthropy; the disorder wasn't passed along that way. You had to be bitten by a werewolf in order to become one, but there was so much ignorance around the syndrome. Unfortunately, voters weren't required to know the truth before they cast their ballot. Because Teddy was related to Remus, if the law had passed, he'd have been forced to register like a sex offender and carry identification marking himself as a dangerous creature. It was that heinous bill that hauled Harry, kicking and screaming internally but resigned, into politics.

His candidacy and vocal repudiation helped to defeat the hated magical creatures bill, but now he was stuck being Minister. He hated it. He hated the glad-handing and bull shit that came with the title 'Minister for Magic'. He liked meeting and talking to the witches and wizards who made up the wizarding world, and he liked the feeling that occasionally he was actually doing something important, but he discovered early how much he disliked career politicians.

He also deeply resented the loss of his personal life; when he first came out at twenty-two, the Prophet had done its usual hysterical flailing. The front page screamed 'did killing the Dark Lord turn our Harry Gay' for weeks, even attempted to pass off nonsense as 'research' stating that fighting the war had turned a large percentage of the population under thirty queer. The opposition party tried to use it against him when he ran for Minister. What they found out, to their breast clutching horror, was that most people simply didn't care. It hadn't stopped them tossing the story up every so often just to see if anyone suddenly cared, but so far having a queer Minister hadn't bothered anyone other than the oldest of the old guard. There were people who felt 'the right woman would cure him', (that one pissed Ginny right off, to his amusement) or that he should 'settle down with a nice man', and 'have a real family life', but so far their voices were not loud enough for him to feel like he needed to pay much attention. Other than Molly Weasley, of course. But that was another story, and he knew Molly's motivation. She was his Mum, and simply wanted him to be happy. He knew Rita Skeeter didn't care if he was happy; she just wanted her name on a sensational by-line.

The voices of the people in the room around him rose in anger, and Harry blinked, pulled back into the conversation.

"We'll never get it through with the current language," Justin Finch-Fletchley argued. "It's too confrontational."

"What?" Hannah Abbott-Longbottom said incredulously. "Justin, we've spent hours and hours going over this crap. It's not confrontational; it's direct. And I'm so bloody tired of soft pedalling so that we might get old people to vote for something that won't impact their lives because, pardon my honesty, they'll be dead."

Justin grimaced. "Oh, nice attitude."

"You want to talk about my attitude?"

"All right." Hermione Granger-Weasley raised her hands, palms out. "This isn't productive, people."

Harry sighed, and Undersecretary Hermione Granger-Weasley gave him a pointed look.

"I think we're about to lose the Minister's participation."

"The Minister has a killer headache, and this arguing isn't helping it."

Both Hannah and Justin murmured shamefaced apologies, and Harry waved them off. "You both have valid points, but if we can't be civil to one another, and we're on the same side, how can you expect the opposition to get on board? Or to at least not kill the bill in committee before it ever gets to the floor." He shook his head. "Look, it's – " he looked at his watch, "four twenty on Friday afternoon. Can we please shelve this discussion until Monday? If we all have a nice, relaxing weekend, perhaps we can come to an agreement about the wording then?"

Realizing that they were being dismissed, Hannah and Justin began to gather their things, slipping parchment into file folders.

"Hannah," Hermione said gently, "read it through again and see if there aren't areas where we can compromise." Finch-Fletchley gave his colleague a quick side eye, but Undersecretary Granger-Weasley, who didn't miss a thing, saw it. "And you, Justin – " He looked up, attempting an innocent expression. He was very bad at it. " – You needn't be smug. This Minister is far more likely to come down on her side than yours."

Harry kept his expression carefully blank when Justin shot him a quick look, but they all knew what Hermione said was true.

"I just want the bill to have a snow-ball's chance in hell of passing," he said, finally somewhat chastened.

"As do we all," Hermione replied. "Let's take the Minister's advice and postpone further discussion until Monday, shall we? We'll find a place for it in his schedule, won't we, Marta?"

Harry's executive assistant gave him a long-suffering look. "Somewhere."

"I have complete faith in your organizational skills," he said, slipping all the parchments with the amendments and addendums and the endless rewrites into a file. He opened a drawer in his desk and slipped the folder into it on top of others marked 'opiate legislation' and 'witches rights to sue for divorce'. The moment he slammed the drawer shut, he felt some of the tension ease from the muscles across his shoulders.

Justin and Hannah headed out of the office, continuing to bicker under their breath, and Marta followed, giving Harry and Hermione an expressive eyeroll before closing the door behind them.

Harry chuckled. "I would say those two were actually attracted to one another if I didn't know they both loved their spouses."

"And if Justin was straight," Hermione replied dryly.

"There is that, too," Harry said with a wry grin. "I don't know how Oliver stands him, frankly."

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe he gives good head."

Harry choked on a startled laugh. She almost never said things like that, even to him. "Hermione!"

"What?" There was a teasing glint in her brown eyes. "Can you think of another reason someone who looks like Oliver Wood is settling for a prig like Justin? He's in our party, but honestly, I hope Oliver is getting something out of it."

"Oh, he is," Harry said wryly. Hermione's eyes sparkled with intrigue. "And no, I will not tell you what. Not when I'm spending this evening with Oliver, and I might have to converse with said prig."

Hermione arched a brow.

"Going up for Scotland verses England?"

She wasn't looking at him, but he could see the way the corner of her lips turned down.

"One of the benefits of being Minister," he said, refusing to give her anything else. "Box seats."

"Hmm."

She didn't begin to gather her things and Harry waited. He'd known her too long and too well not to recognize when she had something to say.

"I imagine you'll be far more relaxed when you return on Monday." She tapped on the stack of files resting on the table in front of her. Harry watched her long, graceful fingers, with the perfect buffed nails.

"I always find going to quidditch matches relaxing."

She bit the corner of her lower lip and her fingers began tapping in a faster, restless rhythm. He let it go until he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Hermione, for god's sakes, just say whatever is on your mind so we can both get out of here at some point this evening."

She sniffed. "You know I don't tell you how to live your life, Harry."

He linked his fingers over his flat stomach and gave her an ironic look. A pink blush washed her cheeks.

"All right, fine. I try not to tell you how to live your life."

"I'll give you that."

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you so very much."

"Hermione – "

"Fine. You know I don't care what you do, but there are other people who do."

Irritation flared in his belly. "They can kiss my arse."

"Harry…"

"No, I mean it, Hermione. I told you this when you first came after me to run. I will not adjust my personal life to make other people comfortable. I fuck men. If they don't like it, there are a lot of other things I can do besides being Minister for Magic."

"I don't think it's that you – have sex with men in general that's the problem. I think it might be, well… who the current man is."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and she held up her hands. "Please do not kill the messenger. There's been some scuttlebutt circulating."

Harry hadn't heard that. "Circulating where?"

"Nothing specific as yet, but you have to know some people object to your… bachelor lifestyle."

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed. "Why Hermione, I do believe that's the nicest way I've ever been called a whore."

Her mouth dropped open. "I didn't call you any such thing," she protested.

"Didn't you?"

She crossed her arms tightly, her chin at a pugnacious angle. "No, at least not intentionally. But you need to know the talk is out there."

He reached down by his leg for his briefcase, pulling it up and setting it, forcefully, on the table. She winced at the noise. "I don't care if there's talk," he said firmly, standing and opening the smart leather case. "There's always talk. They need to remember that I'm not married. I have no plans to be married. I'm currently enjoying being unmarried. And if there are constituents who have an issue with who I fuck or how often I do it, they can have my resignation any time."

"Harry." She sighed. "I know you, remember? Are you trying to tell me that you'd honestly rather… sleep around than have a real relationship?"

"I am telling you, in the nicest way I possibly can, that I am currently enjoying my lack of monogamy. When I change my mind and I want something else, you'll be the first to know."

"You can't tell me you don't have feelings for him," she said earnestly.

Harry gave her a warning look, and she raised her hands.

"All right, all right. I'll stop." She scooped up her stack of files and started for the door, pausing just before leaving and turning back. "Just… bear in mind that people are already talking, all right?"

"About specifics, or just my seeming inability to settle to one person?" he asked casually, but she knew him too well, and knew what he was asking.

"No names at this point."

"If that changes, I might address it. Until then – " He arched a brow at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I just thought you should know."

A tinny version of 'God Save the Queen' began to play from the top pocket of his briefcase, and a small, involuntary smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

"It's at the very least appropriate," he remembered the posh voice drawling as long pale fingers flew over the mobile keys, programming the number into the phone.

"You said it, not me." Harry was lounging against the fluffy hotel room pillows with his arms stacked behind his head, one long leg laying bare on top of the tousled bedding that just barely covered his nudity while the beautiful man at his side played with his phone. His companion was unapologetically nude, and his suite reeked of come and sweat.

"Well, of course I said it." The phone was placed on Harry's sweat slicked chest. "Who would know better if it was true or not?"

He grinned, dropping the mobile onto the bedside table before reaching around the long pale neck and pulling the gorgeous bastard onto his chest. "I think I would know."

The slow smile that was his answer sent a streak of renewed desire down his spine, and elegant fingers curled around some of the dark hair on Harry's chest.

"Gods, you're a furry bastard." He spread his hand and stroked over to Harry's side until he reached his damp arm pit. Without warning, he tugged sharply on Harry's under arm hair, which was in fact thick and black, and Harry yelped, smacking the hand away.

"Ouch, you prick."

"Oh, relax, you big baby. I wouldn't actually hurt you." A glamourous smile spread as he stroked his hand over Harry's stomach, caressing his abs. He pressed his hand lower, and Harry caught his wrist in an unforgiving grip.

"Yank on that hair, and you'll be sorry."

"Now, why would I do that?" He took Harry's sticky prick in his hand with a slow smile. "Tugging on your pubes would be unlikely to render this much use to me, and I have plans for it." Holding Harry's gaze, he lowered his head and licked a stripe up the underside of his cock. Watching avidly, Harry sank his fingers into the shaggy, white blond hair.

Harry fished his phone out of the briefcase, pausing to glance at Hermione before answering it. He waited, the instrumental national anthem covering the silence between them. Finally, she shook her head and gave him an indulgent look before leaving the room.

He pressed a button on the face of the phone as soon as the door closed behind her, smiling as he dropped into his chair.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." The smooth voice made the hair on the back of Harry's neck twitch, and a pleasant chill raced over his shoulders. "Where are you?"

"I'm still in my office, but I'm about to head out."

"Minister," the voice said with prim amusement, "you're cutting it fine. The match begins in just under two hours."

"And I can be there in fifteen minutes, bag packed for the weekend, ready to have dinner with your owner."

A dark laugh came through the speaker. "No one owns me but England."

Harry leaned back, smiling at the ceiling. "You could do worse."

"I could do better. I hear the Americans pay three times as much. My only compensation is that I'm fucking Britain's golden boy."

Harry rubbed one hand over his face, noting he'd need to shave before he headed out. "I do hope wherever you are, you're alone."

"No, I'm sitting in the locker room, actually, surrounded by naked men."

Harry snorted. "It hasn't been so long that I don't remember what a locker room sounds like."

"Admit it. You stroke off to the thought of the smell of a crowded locker room, don't you?"

Harry grinned. "Not so much. I will confess to getting turned on by seeing a good-looking man in team leathers, however."

"Kinky sod. You're in for an uncomfortable couple of hours this evening then, aren't you?" The voice dropped to a smooth purr. "Are you hard now, just thinking about it?"

A flicker of arousal curled through Harry's balls and he shifted slightly to take the weight off them. "Talk about kinky sod's," he muttered. "I will be if you don't stop that."

The laugh that followed was so dirty Harry's cock twitched in delight.

"Is there something wrong with getting turned on in the office?"

"While sitting in Kingsley's old chair, behind his old desk? Yes."

"Didn't Kingsley marry his secretary?"

"His executive assistant," Harry corrected because he'd spent the first six months behind the large desk being corrected by Hermione. "Secretary is misogynistic."

"Only if used in a derogatory manner describing a woman. Was my manner derogatory?"

"Your entire life is derogatory," Harry retorted, which brought another laugh.

"True enough. Didn't Kingsley marry his 'executive assistant'?"

Harry could hear the air quotes, and he smiled. "So he did. What of it?"

"Then I'm guessing," the rough purr was back, and Harry closed his eyes. He could all but feel the cheeky bastard's hand stroking him through his heavy black trousers. "Unless theirs is a marriage of convenience and he never noticed how absolutely lovely Germina is, Kingsley got hard in that chair. Maybe he even fucked her on the desk."

Harry looked at the blotter he hadn't replaced in horror. "If you're attempting to turn me on, talking about Kingsley fucking his wife on my desk is not the way to do it."

"Snob. I happen to know Harry Potter had himself a fanny or two before he discovered the superiority of cock."

Harry shook his head. "Was there a reason you called, other than to discuss my previous sex life?"

The sharp crystal tone returned, thickly threaded with humour.

"Just wondered if you were on your way yet."

Harry felt a delighted curl of anticipation. "Anxious to see me?"

"Anxious to fuck you. Wood, the sadist, is threatening to fine anyone he hears about having sex with a team-mate five hundred galleons."

Harry whistled. "That seems excessive."

"Doesn't it? And it's bloody difficult riding a broom with a case of blue balls."

Harry laughed, but something climbed, like a spiky vine, around his stomach. He didn't want to ask what he was about to, but his mouth was moving without his permission. "Were you…uhm, fucking a teammate?"

The resulting silence through the line made him clench his fingers.

"Would you care if I was?"

Harry coughed roughly. "No, no. Not at all. That was the deal, right? No complications."

"Exactly." The response was light, flippant even, and Harry grimaced. He felt abruptly awkward, an uncomfortable revisit to the Harry who had fumbled through his first kiss with Cho Chang. "All right, Minister, go home and pack your kit before your Portkey leaves without you. I'll see you at Oliver's dinner party after the match."

"You won't see me during the match?" Harry shot back.

"Oh, I suppose so. Standing for England, surrounded by your legions of admirers and your Auror detail. Whatever is a poor quidditch player to do to compete?"

"Try catching the Snitch; that might help for starters."

There was a snort of laughter. "Only that? We can't all be Harry Potter, you know."

"You've never needed to be Harry Potter." He heard the hum of startled silence through the line.

"Hmm. Easy for you to say. At any rate, I have to go because warmups start in half an hour. Get your arse in motion, you wanker. I'll be very cross if you miss the beginning of the match."

"Yes, sir."

"Remember that phrase for later."

Before Harry could respond he heard the click of the line disconnecting.

"Cheeky bastard," he muttered as he dropped the phone into his briefcase, but when he stood and closed it with a snap, he was smiling.

As it was, Harry nearly did miss his Portkey. He dawdled in the shower, having a nice wank, then took his time over his personal grooming, making sure his shave was as close as he could make it and the expensive haircut Hermione talked him into was settled into intentionally tousled layers rather than unruly peaks. Harry had never really been a vain person, but he cared about how he looked that night. He was representing England; he was also about to get up close and personal with one of the most beautiful men he'd ever seen. He could, at the very least, make an effort.

He Apparated from Grimmauld Place, which he'd completely renovated after the war, directly into the small chamber attached to his office at the Ministry. Inside and waiting was his personal Auror detail along with one face he hadn't expected to see. Head Auror Ron Weasley was leaning against the wall in his dark red Auror robes, his arms crossed.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as one of the junior Auror's, standing almost painfully stiff when he arrived, reached out and took his small rucksack. Hermione had taught him her spell to extend the interior of a bag, and he'd found it extremely handy in his necessary travels as Minister.

Ron looked pointedly at his watch. "Your Portkey leaves in two minutes, Minister."

"Oh, shut it," he muttered. "I'm here, aren't I? And you didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?" Ron was too important, and frankly, too busy to be part of Harry's regular detail.

"Your Undersecretary felt like your security detail needed some beefing up." He looked around at the men who stepped in to flank Harry. "No offense, Mate. She's just a bit paranoid about his highness's safety."

The men shared a meaningful look, and Harry elbowed Ron in the ribs none to gently. He grunted and rubbed the spot.

"Oy, is that any way to treat your security? I'm here to protect your arse, remember? Plus, free tickets to England verses Scotland? Who wouldn't take that?" He grinned at Harry as they all put their hands onto a round copy of the Ministry seal, a Portkey that could be reactivated multiple times but was only used when zero contact with Muggles was virtually assured. This night, they were going from the Ministry to Oliver Wood's private garden. "Wow, someone smells pretty."

Harry scowled at him as the Portkey activated and braced his feet, closing his eyes. Gods, but he hated Portkey travel. It made him dizzy and nauseated, and he could never know how long it would last. It had got better as he'd entered his late twenties, but he was still never sure how he'd do. Knowing how iffy Harry's Portkey landing could be, Ron took a half step closer and curled his fingers in the back of Harry's hip length black Minister's robes. He was wearing one of the less formal sets he owned; there was a high collar that curved behind his neck and hugged his sharp jaw line, and a simple Ministry logo was embroidered on the front right breast. The lining was black satin, the tunic beneath black wool with a row of buttons up the front, not unlike the ones Snape used to wear. He wore black trousers, wishing they were jeans, with a short black boot, wishing it was his trainers. He doubted he'd ever settle into the idea of most of his Minister's robes, particularly the ones with the swags and epaulets and jewelling; they were for more formal events and he frequently wanted to hit them with an Incendio. These were the least objectionable ones he owned and he still wished they weren't so very…poncy.

His ears popped and he staggered a bit on landing, and Ron's fingers tightened, preventing him from falling flat on his face. As Oliver's garden came into view, he was particularly grateful for his best friend's hold at his back; he'd been told there was going to be a small gathering to greet him before they went to the quidditch match, but there had to be fully a hundred people watching as he straightened. He was again thankful for the Auror's, the six men who tightened their formation around him as the crowd broke into welcoming applause. Harry felt his face heat; he doubted he'd ever get used to this aspect of his job.

"Straighten up, Minister," Ron murmured near his ear, his amusement plain. "Your public awaits."

"Oh, fuck off," Harry muttered back, and he heard Ron laugh as he released his grip on Harry's robes and patted him on the shoulder.

Oliver Wood walked forward and held out his hand, stopped by two beefy Aurors who wouldn't move aside unless told to.

"It's all right, men," Ron said softly. "You can stand down." They shifted aside, but the look they gave Oliver wasn't welcoming.

"Minister," Oliver said, shaking his hand. "Welcome."

Harry took it, but he gave Oliver a pointed look along with a tight smile. "A small gathering, wasn't it, Ollie?"

Oliver had the grace to look a bit mortified. "I'm sorry about this, Harry," he said quietly. "Once the local government hacks found out you were coming, there wasn't much I could do short of locking the gates and putting on guards."

"They're not going to dinner after, are they?" Harry asked, still holding the stiff smile.

"No, no," Oliver assured him. "They think you're headed straight back to London after the match."

"If they turn up for dinner, he will be," Ron provided from just over Harry's right shoulder, and Harry didn't have to see his face to know his expression was foreboding in a way he'd grown into along with his job. Oliver nodded quickly, then stepped to the side to perform introductions.

It felt interminable. He met the Mayor and the City Council and representatives to the Wizengamot, most of whom he already knew, at least peripherally. He shook hands until the fingers on his right hand began to cramp. Oliver finally announced that they needed to make their way to the pitch, which was conveniently a block away from his spacious country home. Harry was only momentarily discomfited by the way his Aurors cleared a path for him. Once the crowd knew he was in attendance, people surged in his direction and if he hadn't been surrounded by the beefy men he'd have been swamped.

Harry didn't consider himself small; he was just shy of six feet tall and weighed thirteen stone, most of which had turned to muscle during his years in the Auror rank and file, and which he'd taken great pains to keep that way. He developed an exercise regime, and he maintained it. He ate well, he ran when he could, he spent an hour a day in the Ministry gym. And still, if he had to handle the enthusiastic crowd by himself, he'd have been in trouble. He tried to shake an occasional hand, waved, smiled, but his crew made very sure no one got too close or stayed in his orbit for too long. Tonight he appreciated it. When they arrived at the English VIP box, he was relieved. He shook a few more hands, struggling to keep the wince off his face.

"Well, that was fun," Ron said dryly, settling into the seat on Harry's left. Oliver gave him a wry look but directed the other dignitaries to seats behind the front row. Moments after the gates were closed behind the last of the small group, the box lifted slowly into the air. Harry startled and gripped the arms of his seat, and Ron's blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Forgot that was one of the perks, eh?"

Harry exhaled slowly, loosening his fingers. "I did, yeah. And you know I'm not fond of these bloody things."

"For a man who flies as well as you do, it's downright weird how you feel about heights."

Harry scowled at him. "When I'm on a broom, I control it. With this," he looked around, forcing himself to let go of his seat, "I have no idea who the bloody hell is at the controls. You know how I am with that."

"Yeah, I do. Relax, Harry. I spoke to the company who provide the free cruising lifts. There will be no abrupt moves. You go to mid pitch for the coin toss, then hover at about eighty feet for the match. There's a barrier spell on all the perimeters, and levelling charms built in. You're as safe here as you would be in your living room."

Harry wasn't sure he believed him. "When did you have time to do that?"

Ron shook his head, giving him a beleaguered look. "What do you think I do when I'm heading your security detail? I research your agenda, Minister. I know every move you make when you're travelling. Give me some credit."

Guilt settled in his stomach. Harry reached over and placed his hand on Ron's forearm, giving it a light squeeze. "I know you don't take my security lightly, Ron, and I appreciate it. I really do." He looked around, then leaned in and lowered his voice. "I do hope you don't know every move."

Ron grimaced. "Once the hotel suite is checked and I know you're as safe as I can make you, you're on your own." He held up one large hand. "I don't want details, thanks."

Harry smiled. "You sure?"

"Fuck off, you sick tosser."

Harry laughed, then his attention was drawn to the centre of the field as an announcer spoke through a Sonorous charm, his referee robes floating around him where he sat on his broom.

"Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to this season's annual match between the English team, and the fine boyo's from Scotland!"

A loud cheer went up from the crowd, and the unmistakable sound of high-powered brooms soaring through the air filled the stadium. The referees in their unmistakable yellow and black uniforms entered first, and Harry always thought they looked like bumble bees. In fact, their nickname was the Bumbles, and the crowd made a loud buzzing sound that made Harry laugh. Once they were in position, one at each end near the rings, one hovering in the centre of the pitch, the crowd voiced its approval as England flew from their tunnel. Harry leaned forward in his seat, his eyes avidly searching the players who zoomed into view wearing their red and blue uniforms, red leathers strapped over them, flying in chevron formation.

Harry spotted him instantly, long lean frame bent over his sleek quidditch broom at the point of the vee. His white blond hair blew back from his handsome face, shining like a silver flag. It needed cutting, Harry thought, but he could see why he didn't; it was certainly striking and the bastard loved the attention. His little fangirls, the ones who threw their hotel room keys and panties and chanted his name, were probably creaming said panties on sight of him, Harry thought uncharitably. When the team pulled out of formation and came to hover near the official at centre pitch, the seeker sat back on his broom as it floated easily the air. He hooked one of his long legs over the top of the broom and reached up to pull the fine, sleek hair back into an elastic he had around his wrist. He curled it into a messy 'man bun', a term that always made Harry sneer. However, with a few strands falling around his sculpted features and the messy knot at his crown, it was undeniably sexy. Very sexy. Harry felt a stirring in his groin, and the cheeky tosser gave him a knowing side-eye.

The Scottish team was introduced to a bag pipe salute and a roar from the crowd. Their blue and white uniforms seemed to gleam in the twilight, a huge version of the blue Scottish flag with the white crossed stripes shining for a moment before exploding in a shower of sparks that looked like fireflies.

"Scotland wins the pre-game show," Ron leaned close and muttered.

"Yeah, but their regular Keeper is out." Harry's reply was soft.

Ron's brows shot up. "McLarren is out? How do you know that?"

Harry gave him wry look. "How do you think?"

"Damn it. And you couldn't tell me earlier so I could place a bet, at least with these blokes?" He gestured with his head towards Harry's detail, lined up at the rear of the box. "I could have cleaned up."

"That would be betting with insider information," Harry reminded him. "Which isn't legal, Head Auror. You'll notice I didn't bet."

"Yeah, but you're the bloody minister and everyone would notice. Me, I'm just lowly civil servant. Who would care?"

"I wouldn't want to be you if your wife found out."

Ron shuddered. "There is that. And you'd tell her, wouldn't you?"

Harry grinned. "I wouldn't have to. You, my good friend, have zero poker face. She'd know just by looking at you."

Ron grimaced. "She would, too. I'm telling you; it's hell, mate, having a woman who knows you so well."

"Oh, shut it. You love it."

Ron sighed. "Well, I love her. But I guess it's the same thing, in't it?"

"I would say so, yeah."

They called for the coin toss, which Scotland won, choosing the East end of the stadium. Then the crowd, including everyone in the VIP box, stood for each national anthem. During England's anthem, played by musicians floating on brooms just beneath the Union Jack, which Harry found quite an accomplishment, he felt the hair on the nape of his neck begin to twitch. He was almost always being watched, but only one person had ever caused that reaction, and he had since they were eleven years old. He glanced towards the English players and found the dove grey eyes of the Seeker fixed on him, a soft smile on full lips. Chills ran over his shoulders and down his spine, and his cock twitched again, growing heavy when the man ran his tongue slowly, sinuously over his full lower lip. Harry gave him a quelling look, but he merely grinned and winked.

"Bastard," Harry mouthed.

Draco Malfoy threw back his head and laughed.

It was one of the best matches Harry had ever been privileged to see. The teams were very equally matched, even with the substitute Keeper, and the score was never more than two goals apart for the first three hours and twenty minutes. Then Malfoy spotted the Snitch and it became a Seekers game from there out.

The Scottish Seeker was shorter than Malfoy, and his frame was stockier, but he was a brilliant flyer. He matched Malfoy move for move and used his weight advantage to try to bully him, twice nearly intentionally knocking him from his broom as they chased the Golden Snitch around the stadium's perimeter. Harry was on his feet with everyone else rooting for England, screaming obscenities along with his entire Auror detail, Ron louder than anyone else. But Malfoy was quicker and ultimately more agile, and with his longer, mobile arms he was able to grab the Snitch from under the Scottish Seeker's nose.

Malfoy crowed in delight, throwing the hand gripping the struggling Snitch triumphantly over his head, gold wings flashing in the bright lighting. He circled the stadium as the English, including Harry, stood and cheered themselves hoarse. After one circuit he took a sharp turn on his broom and flew up in front of the VIP box, which was hovering near the English rings. Malfoy held in mid-air, regally nodding and staring at Harry with a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair had come free of the elastic band and hung around his handsome face, and his pale skin was flushed. He caught and held Harry's gaze, then flicked the Snitch in his direction. Startled, Harry still managed to snatch the winged ball from mid-air just inches from his face, to the delight of the of the crowd. Only a very few people in the stadium knew the gesture was anything more than England's popular, cheeky Seeker, taunting their Minister for Magic with a well-aimed throw.

Harry gave Malfoy another warning glare, but he was already gone, waving to the crowd, joining his team on the grass at centre pitch to shake hands with the vanquished Scot's. They accepted their trophy, did a team lap and then exited out through the team tunnel. As the VIP box settled back into its place in the stands, Ron turned to him, one ginger brow arched.

"That is one brazen son of a bitch."

Harry laughed ruefully. "He is that." He looked down at the Snitch, still struggling against his grip. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, now?"

"Get him to sign it. In fifty years, it'll be worth a fortune."

"Well, there's something to look forward to." He thought he would probably put it in his school trunk where he kept his memorabilia; it was where he saved the Snitch Dumbledore left him, the words I open at the close still visible on the shell, the mug that had been his for the months they spent sleeping in a tent, his invisibility cloak, his house scarf and tie, and the Marauder's Map. It was a pretty paltry showing, considering. But the Ministry had seized anything they deemed of 'historical significance'. They had all of what was left of Voldemort's horcruxes; to Harry's fury, they'd even entered Dumbledore's tomb and seized the Elder Wand because they deemed it 'a danger to wizarding society'. One of the first things Harry did after being elected was to order it returned. The horcruxes and Dumbledore's Pensieve had disappeared in the bowels of the Ministry, and Harry wouldn't be surprised if they'd ended up in the home of some bloody, well-placed collector.

"If you don't want it," Ron said as they began the walk back to Wood's house, "I'll take it and save it for Hugo. Whether I like it or not, the tosser is a bloody super-star."

Harry pretended to think about it, then shook his head. He loved Ron, but he had no intention of letting it go to anyone but Draco, just in case he wanted it back. He tapped the top of the Snitch and the wings folded in and disappeared, and Harry dropped it into an inside pocket of his robes, planning to offer it to Malfoy when he saw him later. His heart kicked up at bit at the thought; it wouldn't be long now, and Harry enjoyed the pleasant heaviness the thought generated in his groin. Draco had been on tour with the English team for the past six weeks, and Harry hadn't seen him since the night before he left. He wouldn't tell Mr let's keep things casual, no commitments, just friends with benefits, but he hadn't slept with anyone else while Draco was gone, and he didn't plan to.

It was a much smaller group of people at Oliver's house after the match than had been there before, and Harry began to relax a bit. Ron took his outer robe and disappeared with it, off to hang it up somewhere no doubt. Things seemed to go much smoother when Ron was with his detail; Harry would have to tell him that later. He did see Justin, who nodded at him but didn't approach, and several of the Wizengamot wags who weren't as reticent. He was relieved with Ron returned; his glowering presence kept the hangers-on at bay. The gathering seemed to be two to one in favour of blokes, but Harry had noticed most parties he went to since coming out broke down that way. Still a bit green to the way things worked back then, he'd been startled to see how many of the men in attendance at gatherings and gay clubs wore wedding rings. That could never have been him, he'd thought then; he knew he'd never have been able to live the life of a cheat, mainly because he wasn't that good a liar.

Enthusiastic applause broke out when the members of the team arrived at Ollie's, bringing with them the scents of outdoors and freshly showered skin, huge grins on their faces. Draco entered last, and Harry's mouth went dry; he looked amazing. He was wearing perfectly fitted tweed trousers with some sort of devilishly complicated closure, an oatmeal toned cable knit jumper and a camel coloured leather jacket Harry knew smelled like a wet dream. His cashmere scarf hung down around his neck, subtle strips of dark green and grey, no doubt done to intentionally remind Harry of their school days; Malfoy didn't do anything without careful consideration. His hair was pulled sleekly back from his face, once again secured at his crown, and the match and a hot shower had brought high colour into his face. Just the sight of him made Harry's heart pound and his breath short, and he had an almost overwhelming urge to grab him, shove him against the wall, drop to his knees and yank open those prissy trousers…

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and Harry jerked his head around. Knowing blue eyes stared into his face.

"You're staring, Minister," Ron muttered. "And you aren't subtle. Here," he held out a glass of something dark brown on ice, "drink this and take a deep breath."

"No booze," Harry said in response. "If you think I'm not subtle now…"

Ron laughed. "You think I don't know that? It's cola, which is about all you can manage at one of these things. We don't want a repeat of the French fiasco."

Harry scowled at him. "Dirty pool, Ron. I was newly Minister and he hit on me first."

"And then you got pissed and hit on him back, with his wife standing next to him. Here, take this. I feel stupid chasing you around the room with a soda in my hand."

Harry took the glass and sipped deeply on the straw, hoping the bright red blush brought to his face was fading as the first bubbles burst on his tongue. That international incident had been a potential disaster if not for an understanding spouse and Hermione's diplomatic gifts, and Ron was a right wanker for bringing it up. But it certainly reminded Harry of his position, and of the fact that someone, somewhere, was always watching, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

"If it makes you feel any better," Ron murmured casually, "the son of a bitch is right attractive, and that's coming from an avowed straight man."

Harry gave him a wry look. "Why would that make me feel any better?"

"No idea. Just thought I'd toss it out there. And pretty clearly, you aren't the only man who'd like to get into his boxers."

Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw an older gentleman with grey hair and a neatly trimmed goatee ceremoniously presenting Draco with what looked like a dirty martini, his favourite drink. With four olives. Draco caught him looking and saluted him with the stemware, a very naughty smirk on his face. Harry turned back to Ron, draining his glass in a few long pulls. He saw Ron narrow his eyes, and thought the expression would be quite intimidating for anyone but him. And probably Draco. Unexpectedly, Harry wanted to smile.

"That won't work on him, you know," he said around his straw.

"I know. Cheeky bastard."

"Excuse me, Minister?"

Harry turned to find Justin standing a few feet behind him. "You needn't be so formal, Justin."

"If I'm not, Oliver will kill me. I've also been firmly instructed that I am not, repeat, am not to discuss politics over his dinner table." Harry gave him a slight grin.

"I'll bear that in mind," he said, eternally grateful to Oliver.

"Oh, that's for me, not you," Justin said hurriedly. "Anyway, he sent me to tell you that dinner is served."

Harry glanced toward the wall, where his six Auror's stood like a rusty red wall. "Does my detail…"

"Oh, we've made arrangements for everyone, as long as they don't mind eating in the family breakfast room."

"Someone will have to stay with Harry," Ron said. "Not wishing to foul up your seating arrangements, of course, but his security is our primary mission."

"Oh, not including you, Ron, of course. We've seated you next to the Minister."

"That will be fine, then. Auror's don't much mind where we eat, as long as we get to eat." He nodded to Justin and went to speak to the detail.

"Well, that was ham-handed," Justin muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. "I do apologize."

"Don't worry about it, Justin. Truly, they don't care as long as there's food." Harry watched his guys smiling and nodding as Ron passed along the news.

"I guess it comes from knowing the two of you for so long, you know?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Even working with you every day, it's hard outside of the Ministry to wrap our heads around the fact that you and Ron are the two most important people in our government."

"And Hermione," Harry said, but he could agree with the sentiment. He certainly never planned to be important at the Ministry. There'd been a time when he'd vowed never to be important at the Ministry. How things changed.

"Oh, yes," Justin said with a slight smile. "Always Hermione. Without her… well, we don't want to think about that, do we?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "We don't."

"All right, your seating is solved." Justin's blue eyes hardened as he looked across the room. "Now we just need to figure out what to do with that."

Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw Justin was giving Draco and his admirer an irritated look. Harry felt a surge of his own annoyance. "Who is that?"

"The Ambassador from France," Justin muttered, and Harry nearly laughed. Why was it always the French? "He's old enough to be Malfoy's grandfather, and yet he's just reeling the old bastard in. Plus, Rueben's been married for longer than Malfoy has been alive, to the same woman. He does tend to cause her… regular irritation."

"Hmm." Harry stared down into the contents of his glass, which now contained nothing but melting ice.

"We thought, perhaps, if we seated him on your other side, being next to the Minister might…"

Harry looked up at him. "Who? Rueben?"

Justin chuckled. "Oh, no. That would be like offering a diabetic a box of chocolates. Pardon my mentioning it, but you're very handsome, Harry. Then he'd just become an annoyance to you. No, we thought if we put Malfoy there…knowing how the two of you share a somewhat complicated history, but that you're too polite to cause a problem at this dinner party. It is important to Ollie …" Harry stared at him in mute horror, trying to think of an excuse he could use to get out of this nightmare. If Draco sat next to him through an entire meal, he'd tease and torture him half to death. Harry knew all of the blood in his body would go straight to his prick, and because there would no longer be enough for his brain to function, he'd do something that would reveal their relationship in front of half of the most important people in his government. And apparently, France's.

"Put him next to Oliver." Ron clapped his hand down on Harry's shoulder, hard enough that his knees, weakened with relief at the suggestion, nearly buckled. "That way the Minister can get through his dinner without Malfoy induced indigestion, and Oliver can keep the cheeky prat in line. Nothing quite like sitting next to your coach, who can successfully threaten you with decreased playing time, to keep you from acting out."

"That is an excellent solution, Ron." Justin gave him a bright smile. "Thanks!" He turned and hurried away, in search of Oliver no doubt.

"Thanks," Harry murmured to Ron. He gave Harry a rueful smirk.

Dinner was interminable. It was good, probably excellent, but Harry wouldn't have known the difference between the succulent Wellington with Yorkshire pudding and fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. He ate, drank one glass of wine very slowly, and conversed with the people seated on either side. Ron was easy; he was the perfect dinner companion when you didn't want to talk at all. He spent the entire meal happily stuffing his face, clearly enjoying the menu. But then, Ron was an avowed meat and potatoes bloke. On the other hand, the older woman on Harry's right seemed to require his opinion about everything, from the wine to the salad course to the weather, all the while patting her white hair and batting her thin pale lashes at him. It took him an hour and a half to realize she was flirting with him. Once he did, he was so horrified he gulped the remaining half glass of wine in ten seconds. When the waiter approached to give him a refill of the full-bodied Merlot, Ron, who Harry hadn't even noticed was paying attention, put his hand over the top of his glass.

"The Minister is taking a course of antibiotics. He'll need to switch to soda now, if you could."

The waiter's nodded, his attitude appropriate for a young man serving at a dinner party with a high-powered attendance list, but Harry thought he looked amused.

"Which type of soda would the Minister prefer? Cola, Sprite, Dr Pepper?"

"He'll take a cola, thank you."

The young man nodded and walked away.

"Thanks, Mum," Harry muttered. "I can order my own drinks, thanks so much."

Ron arched a ginger brow. "I have one word for you," he said softly. "France."

"Oh, stow it." Harry glared at him. "Am I going to be paying for that forever?"

Ron grinned. "As long as I remember it. Makes me smile, every time."

"Arsehole," Harry growled. "Antibiotics? Seriously? Now that waiter thinks I have the clap."

"I thought it was better than 'the Minister is a lightweight and can't be trusted to behave himself once he's in his cups'." Ron's grin warmed and Harry huffed as his dinner companion on the other side tapped his hand. He gave a resigned sigh before turning back to her to offer his opinion on the chocolate souffle.

The plus side of the needy acquaintance was that he didn't find any time to watch Draco during dinner at all. Oliver was seated at the centre of the long table to his left, making the angle awkward, with Draco seated on his far side and spending most of his meal apparently chatting up the handsome young man on his other side. Of course, Harry doubted the star Seeker for England, who'd just won the most highly contested match save the world cup, was having any trouble entertaining his dinner companion. Harry forced himself to look away from Draco, aware of the other eyes around the table, following every bite he took, reminding him of the need for subtlety.

He hated being seated at the head of the table; he felt like he was on display the entire time, with a spotlight in his face. Everyone around the table had a clear view of him; all they had to do was turn their head one way or the other. Harry had to all but stand on his head to see Draco; he found that irritated him more than it ought. By the time he ate half of his souffle, then placed his plate convenient to Ron's right hand so he could finish it, he had a headache again and just wanted to go back to the hotel, take a pain potion and go to bed. He was no longer sure what was going on with Draco; he seemed to enjoy the man seated next to him enough that for all Harry knew, he was going back to his room. He pushed back his chair and moved to stand until Ron put his big hand on Harry's forearm.

"Cool your jets, Minister. I'll need to get your detail, and we all need a change of wardrobe before we head out."

Harry settled back into his chair with a rough sigh. "Fuck," he muttered. He'd forgot he was staying in a Muggle hotel and needed to change out of the black robes with the ministry logo embroidered on them. They were subtle, but not that subtle. Even more in need of different attire was his security detail; seven burly men in rust red, military style robes and knee-high black leather boots rather stood out in a crowd.

Ron wiped his lips with his napkin and he stood. "If you could just wait here a moment, please."

"Doesn't leaving me alone sort of defeat the purpose?" Harry said drily. Ron gave a pointed look toward Harry's elderly dinner companion, then leaned forward, speaking softly.

"If you can't take her, we need to step up that workout routine of yours."

Harry responded through his teeth. "And you can fuck right off."

Ron laughed, patting Harry on the shoulder before he turned and headed for the kitchen.

Others began to leave the table and all Harry could think was 'thank Gods' when the Mayor of wizarding Edinburgh came to fetch his mother from Harry's side. They exchanged a few moments of chitchat then went on their way, and Harry nursed his soda as he waited for his detail. He allowed himself a moment of disappointment now the party was breaking up and Draco hadn't even made an attempt to speak to him. Harry had thought, based on their telephone conversation that afternoon, that he intended to. He glanced around the room but didn't see him, and his disappointment deepened.

Ron returned and leaned to speak near his ear.

"Oliver has offered his dressing room, if you'll follow me, sir."

Harry quirked a brow at him, then realized that there were still people lingering around the edges of the room, watching. Always watching. He wondered what the hell they were seeing, but managed a weak smile as he stood and preceded Ron from the room.

"Up the stairs, right at the landing."

He waited for Ron to be even with him, and Ron tapped his side gently with his elbow.

"What, you don't want me to follow you?"

"You don't think that's obnoxious enough?" Harry glanced back at the rest of his guards, following them, now dressed in assorted Muggle attire. "At least it's not as bad as when they're all still in uniform."

Ron shook his head. "You never have been cut out for life in the spotlight, Harry."

"There's a newsflash," he muttered, turning when Ron gestured to a door at the top of the stairs. Harry walked through and stopped.

All four walls were hung with clothes, clearly of a very nice quality, colour co-ordinated, shoes on racks along the floorboards. On the far wall, under a spotlight, hung Oliver's World Cup jersey, framed under glass.

"Clearly I went into the wrong line of work," Ron said after he'd positioned the Auror's outside the door and closed it. "Ollie must've done all right playing Quidditch."

"I'd say," Harry agreed.

Harry's suit and over-coat were hanging on the back of the door, tailored and black, next to what must be Ron's jeans, jumper and squishy, oversized jacket. The jacket was huge and bright orange, with neon lettering spelling out 'Cannons' on the back.

"Wow, that's ugly. Is it new?"

"Isn't it great? Hermione hates it; says it glows in the dark."

"It probably does," Harry replied, unbuttoning his tunic. He looked down as the heavy fabric fell open, revealing the fitted black t-shirt beneath. "Why is everything I own black?"

"Because it's… dignified, maybe?" Ron shrugged, letting his Auror robe fall from his shoulders. "Much better than Fudge in his tatty tweeds and bowler hats. Think about it; can you imagine turning up at the Ministry in that?" he gestured toward his new jacket, grinning. "Might be worth it just to see how everyone reacted."

The thought made Harry smile. "Might be, at that."

Ron let his robes drop to the floor, revealing a slightly grey, ancient t-shirt sporting a picture of a Norwegian Ridgeback, paired with his black trousers and boots. He sat on a bench in the middle of the room and yanked off his right boot.

"You know," he said, dropping the boot to the floor and reaching for the other, "Hermione says she thinks you wear the black as a sort of… mourning. You know, for the people who…"

"Yeah," Harry said curtly. "Maybe." He'd never seen a mind healer after the war was over, despite being told he probably should. He'd reasoned, why should he when he had Hermione around. "She might be right; I dunno."

Ron shrugged. "She usually is." He stepped into his jeans and hopped a couple of times as he yanked them up.

Harry shrugged; there was no point in arguing with the truth.

He dropped his tunic and pulled a dark grey jumper on over his head, then topped it with a black jacket and a chunky grey wool scarf. A close-fitting black overcoat went on over that and he patted the pockets, making an irritated noise when he realized he'd forgot his gloves.

"Problem?" Ron shrugged into the horrible orange jacket. It clashed so violently with his thick ginger hair that Harry grimaced.

"Gloves," he said by way of explanation. Ron grunted in commiseration. The forecast had been for brutal cold, and Harry doubted it was wrong.

When he was done changing, Harry folded his tunic, placing it carefully in his overnight bag. Ron made a sound of amusement, and Harry sent him a questioning look.

"You, folding everything up so careful. Who are you, and what happened to the Harry Potter who used to roll everything up and jam in his pockets?"

Harry snorted, shrinking his outer robe and laying it on top before sealing the bag. "Appear in the papers often enough looking like an unmade bed and you learn to fold."

"I suppose." Ron rejected the idea by shrinking his robes, trousers and boots, and cramming them in his pocket. "You ready?"

Harry nodded and Ron took the bag before opening the door. "Okay, gents. We're heading out. Be alert." He tossed the bag off to one of the others and they fell into formation as they headed down the stairs.

Oliver and Justin met them and walked with them to the door. Harry and Ron shook hands all around, then they stepped out into the night.

Their shoes crunched in the small stones of the gravel drive as they walked toward the small town, nestled against the craggy mountain cliffs. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold wind as he fiddled with the items he habitually kept in his pockets. His fingers fidgeted with a few bills of Muggle money, rubbing over the linen quality of the notes. He'd moved on to mentally tallying the Galleons and Knuts he carried even though he never spent them when something caught his attention; there was a piece of parchment folded into a small, tight square. Harry frowned slightly. He knew exactly what he carried in his pockets, and that tight little square of parchment should not be there.

The knowledge he should probably tell his head of security something had been slipped into his pocket warred with the possibility Draco had perhaps found a way to communicate with him, after all. He bit his lower lip, wanting so much to take the parchment from his pocket and look at it but knowing he couldn't without telling Ron. He did not like keeping things from his best friend, but he didn't necessarily want to share details of his love life with the other guys surrounding him. He sighed.

"Okay there, Harry?"

Harry turned to Ron, and then glanced at the young guys in his protective crew. "Muffliato?"

Ron studied Harry's face. "Ballenger," Ron said crisply. His second in command turned to him.

"Sir?"

"Hold formation, but back off ten paces."

Instantly, and with impressive coordination, the Auror's spread out in a circle on the lightly travelled walkway and turned their backs. Ron cast the charm that would mute their conversation and turned to Harry.

"Minister?"

The reminder of Harry's position prompted him to reach into his pocket and pull out the small square of parchment. "I just found this in my pocket. I didn't put it there."

Ron looked at the unassuming square in Harry's hand, arming himself so seamlessly Harry was reminded why his best friend was a much better Auror than he'd ever been. Ron cast a series of detection charms which revealed it was in fact; just a harmless, ordinary piece of white parchment. He took it from Harry's hand, and unfolded it. A softly murmured Lumos caused the tip of his wand to glow.

Harry watched Ron's expression morph as he read it, ginger brows arching up into his hairline, and Harry rubbed his hand over a face he knew had to be flaming. He was grateful it was dark outside and damned the impulsive nature that prompted him to do things before thinking. Ron stared at the note for so long, lips pursed, that Harry could only wonder what sort of bizarre, sex related message Draco had written. Finally, Ron looked up at him.

"You sure this is from Malfoy?"

Harry gave him an exasperated look. "I imagine so, but I gave it to you without reading it."

Ron shook his head. "Only you, Harry."

"Fuck me," Harry muttered.

"Not even with a borrowed prick, Mate, but I don't think that'll be a problem for you." He handed the note back, angling his wand to light the parchment.

Harry's first emotion was relief, because the slanted, strong handwriting was unmistakably Draco's. Followed on the heels of that was embarrassment, because Ron obviously knew it. Then there was more relief that the poncy fucker hadn't written something like 'put on the steel cock ring, insert the butt plug with copious amounts of lube and wait'. Harry wouldn't have put it past him, but all he had written was 'order room service at ten'.

"I would like to say," Ron began, and Harry cringed, waiting when he paused. "As much as I'd like to take the piss, I won't because of how much I appreciate you trusting me with this." He tapped the note.

Harry looked at him in surprise. "Of course, I trusted you with it."

Ron cleared his throat. "Well, good. It makes me a bit less concerned that you're sleeping with the ferret." He ended the Muffliato and Lumos, then called the team to close ranks. They walked the rest of the way to the only hotel in the small village in silence.

Harry crammed his hands deep into his pockets, missing those gloves that were still sitting on his dresser at home. He knew how much colder it was up here than in London; Hogwarts was only two miles further up into the mountains, and he'd learned all about preventing frostbite there. The nearest Wizarding town was Hogsmeade, and although he had a standing invitation from Headmistress McGonagall to stay there when he was in Scotland, he didn't like the disruption his presence caused while classes were still in session.

Honestly, it was simpler to stay in a Muggle establishment. There was still a good deal of staring; seven men, eight tonight, traveling together, one of them clearly secured in a luxury suite while the others took one of the double rooms and worked in shifts standing outside the door, attracted a certain amount of attention.

As what looked like a fourteenth century castle appeared in the distance, windows and several turrets lit and invitingly warm against the cold darkness, Harry stared in surprise. He'd had no idea there was another castle so near to Hogwarts, and this one was impressive with soaring turrets, at least a dozen, the pointed spire roofs reminding him of Dumbledore's tower. They walked across a massive courtyard, and Ron sent two men ahead through a set of oak doors on a royal scale, masterfully carved with two rampant stags facing off beneath a spreading tree. After a moment one of them reappeared, nodding to Ron, and he escorted Harry through the door.

He usually hated the bloody falderal that surrounded his going anywhere, but tonight he was so interested in his surroundings he scarcely noticed there wasn't any. The stone entry opened into a large, dark wood panelled hall with an artfully plastered, towering ceiling that showed the curving vines of a pomegranate tree, weighted with fruit. There were thick ornamental carpets covering most of the stone floors, and tapestries depicting medieval hunting scenes hung on the walls. elaborate fireplaces Harry had ever seen, a roaring fire within, and the heat seemed to pull him closer.

He turned in front of the fire gratefully, his hands behind him towards the flames. The chill faded slowly from his body and he looked around at the furniture, sofas and settees mostly upholstered in red velvet, large vases on several sideboards sporting elaborate flower arrangements. All in all, it was a room designed to impress, and Harry was.

Ron stopped to speak to a woman behind a small, antique secretary desk, incongruously surrounded by the other furnishings that were on such a massive scale. She smiled and picked up a mobile, quickly texting. Moments later a man appeared through a nearly hidden door behind her, hand extended to Ron, a smile on an open, friendly face. He was wearing casual clothing; corduroys and a cable knit oatmeal jumper, and Harry immediately liked him for the trainers on his feet. He and Ron shook hands, spoke for a few moments, then Ron led him over to Harry.

"Minister, allow me to introduce Aayden MacDervish, Ninth Earl of Dunleavy. Earl Dunleavy, Minister for Magic Harry Potter."

Harry held out his hand in surprise. "Earl Dunleavy, it's a pleasure."

"Aayden, please. And the honour is mine, Minister."

Harry smiled. "You're very kind." He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "This is an impressive home."

Aayden laughed softly. "More of an enormous ancestral pain in the arse most days but thank you."

"I can imagine." Harry studied the room. "It's amazing." He glanced quizzically toward Ron, then looked back at his host. "No offense intended; I was under the impression this was a Muggle establishment."

His host grinned. "Oh, it is. Mostly. I'm a wizard, but my wife, Sylvia, is a Muggle and this endeavour into the hospitality industry was her idea. I have to give her credit; she's been extremely successful in keeping the power on, which is no small thing when you're heating a drafty old castle. At any rate, this is actually our off season, and the only Muggles on site currently are Sylvia and some of the staff."

"Oh. Well. I suppose that's … our luck then." Harry forced a jovial tone. In actuality he'd been counting on a busy Muggle Inn to cover Draco's slipping into his suite. Now he had no idea what was going to happen.

The men who were gathered in front of the fireplace spoke idly of the Quidditch match, Aayden much impressed with Seeker Malfoy; I understand he can be a bit of an arse, but the man can certainly fly!, and the weather.

"Brass monkey weather, gents. As in, cold enough to freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey."

Harry chuckled. "Colourful, and accurate."

"Well, gentlemen," Ron said apologetically, looking at his watch, "this has been quite enjoyable, but it's nine thirty-five and you have an early departure time tomorrow, Minister. I'm not trying to be your Mum, but…"

He gave Harry a meaningful look, and Harry nodded. "I appreciate that. And my mum was much prettier than you."

"I would hope so," Ron quipped. "Even I know this face doesn't belong on a girl." There was polite laughter all around.

For Harry, that was when he reached his limit of polite -- anything. He'd had enough of being Minister for the day and was ready to go to his room.

Aayden seemed to read his mood exactly, and he led them up two staircases that rose majestically from the back wall of the great hall, then down a wide, elegant passage to a set of double doors. When he opened them and allowed Harry to pass him, Harry paused, dumbstruck.

The room was enormous, panelled in cherry wood that gleamed a dark liquid sherry tone, polished to a deep sheen. Large chairs upholstered in red leather faced a wide, black marble fireplace, above which hung a huge rack of deer antlers. Large portraits of Lord's and their Lady's past hung on the walls, and near the fireplace was the biggest four poster he'd seen in his life. It was covered with a white duvet, a deep green and blue plaid blanket of soft wool folded at the foot and a stack of red and blue throw pillows against the intricately carved headboard. The bed was so high he'd need the provided step stool to mount it, and the four posts were carved with vines and roses, a crown decorating the top of each. The only place Harry had ever seen anything like it was on Downton Abbey on the telly.

"Please tell me this isn't your bedroom," Harry said to the Earl, and Aayden laughed.

"Dear Lord, no." His eyes sparkled with amusement. "This is the most expensive suite we offer the Muggles during hunting season." He glanced around fondly. "My mother redecorated it for a royal visit during the 80's. She was far more interested in playing 'lady of the manor' than the current Lady Dunleavy."

"Think of that, Harry. You'll be sleeping in the same bed the queen did."

He gave Harry an amused look, and the one Harry sent back was a warning not to be clever. One of the Aurors snorted, and because Harry liked these men, he chose to ignore it.

"All right then, gents," Aayden rubbed his hands together with the air of someone anxious to depart, "the kitchen will remain open until midnight in case you should require food or drink."

The part of Harry that hated special treatment wanted to protest people having to stay late just to take care of him, but immediately on the heels of that was the knowledge that he couldn't. Not if he wanted to get laid.

"The ensuite is directly through—" Aayden pointed to a door nearly hidden in the panelling, "—there, and I shall see you at an early breakfast."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. "We appreciate your hospitality."

"Well, we are pleased to have you here, Minister. This is the most excitement we've had since Baron Ludley caught a two and a half stone salmon in twenty ten." He grimaced slightly. "I do feel a bit sorry for you lot – " he looked at the Aurors, " – you'll be sharing a room with only one queen sized bed and a pull-out sofa." He gave them a merry wink that didn't look remotely regretful. "It's the only other suite available on this end of the hallway, and your Ministry said you needed to be close. If you want to blame someone for the fact you have to sleep on the floor, blame them."

"Beats hell out of spending the night sitting on a freezing moor on a stakeout, which we've done, your Lordship," Ron said, and the young men exchanged grins.

"I'll try to make it up to you with a full, traditional English fry up in the morning," Aayden promised, and the Auror's scattered around the room made sounds of appreciation. Aayden gave Harry a shallow bow before heading to the door. "Good night, Minister."

Harry nodded; a bit overwhelmed at having an Earl bow to him. Gods, his life was weird. He watched Dunleavy leave, then turned to Ron. "He's a nice bloke."

"So he is," Ron agreed. "For an Earl."

"Know a lot about Earl's, do you?" Harry teased.

"Met a few on Kingsley's detail, if you'll recall, Minister. Some of them were right arseholes." He turned to his men. "All right; hop to, lads. Let's get this done. I'm sure the Minister would like to wish us all a good night."

"No offense," Harry said, "but a hot bath is calling my name. I'm still frozen through." He moved over to stand in front of the fireplace where a fire popped and crackled happily. He was still cold, and the warm seeping through his coat felt wonderful.

Ron and the rest of his Auror team inspected the entire suite, casting security and detection spells into each nook and cranny. Once they were satisfied the room was secure, they headed for the door and their own room, murmuring good night as they went. Ron lingered when the others were gone.

"All right, Mate. I've got the duty first tonight, and I'll make sure room service has access. You know, should you want it." He winked.

"Thank you for waiting until the others were gone," Harry said dryly. "I know you wanted to let it fly sooner."

"So much," Ron agreed. "Anyway, you tell the ferret from me I expect you to be in a much better mood tomorrow than you have for the last few weeks. You've been a bear, and my wife is unhappy when you are. I'm hoping you getting laid and being happier will mean I might get laid again sometime this century." Harry grimaced and Ron grinned. "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it."

Harry raised a brow at him. "I have tried it, if you'll recall," he said archly.

Ron raised his hands palms out and shook his head, shuddering. "Nope, nope, nope, we are not going to discuss you shagging my sister. We just aren't."

"You brought it up."

"I know. I didn't realize how weird it was going to sound until it went there. I must be more tired than I thought."

"Get one of the boys to take first shift and catch a few winks," Harry suggested, but Ron shook his head.

"I'm all right, and I figure your company won't be late. With that thought, I'll take my leave." He gave Harry a lopsided grin. "Night, Mate."

"Night, Ron."

Harry watched his friend close the door, then rubbed his hands, now warm from the fire, in front of him. He was starting to feel a low thrum of excitement coursing through his veins, and he glanced at his watch. It was nine-forty-five, and his heart gave a little jolt of anticipation. Slipping his overcoat from his shoulders, he tossed it over the back of one of the armchairs, then added his scarf on top of that.

Body tight with nervous energy, Harry paced the room, opening drawers and closets, finding the Gideon bible in a bedside table and a plush white terry-cloth robe hanging inside a massive wardrobe. The room service menu was in the top middle drawer of an elegant desk, and Harry sat in the chair facing it, studying the offerings, knowing he was about to charge a meal to the Ministry account he had no desire to eat. Oliver's chef's meal sat uncomfortably in his stomach, and he wished he'd eaten nothing at all. Over-coming his qualms, he waited until two after ten to dial the phone.

A very friendly man answered, and Harry took Lord Dunleavy's advice and ordered what sounded to be a delicious fruit and cheese platter, then added a bottle of white wine, remembering Draco never drank port. The man also convinced him to add a selection of biscuits and chocolates, "for those late-night cravings, don't-cha know," and Harry had a feeling he was being teased. He told Harry it would be right up and Harry rang off, staring at the receiver for a moment in bemusement, then standing to look out thru the floor to ceiling bay windows, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. The windows were hung with heavy dark red velvet draperies, and several well-placed lights illuminated what looked to be steep drop off between the castle and the small loch behind it. He was considering loosening the drapes from their heavy brass tie-backs to cover the windows, even though he was on the second floor, when two sharp raps sounded at the door, and he stiffened, his heart leaping.

The door opened almost immediately. "Minister?" Ron said diffidently, and Harry knew immediately he wasn't alone.

"Yes?" He was gratified his voice didn't squeak. His throat felt dry as a bone.

"Your room service order has arrived."

Harry's brows shot up. The man in the kitchen hadn't been kidding. He doubted he could walk from the lobby to his suite that quickly. Ron swung the door open and gave Harry a pointed look, then stepped out of the way.

Harry wasn't sure what he expected, but the completely average man with the completely average, straight brown hair, pushing a catering cart bearing covered dishes and wearing a waiter's uniform wasn't it. He came through the door without looking up, and Harry glanced back at Ron.

"Glamour," he mouthed, and Harry inhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing. He remembered the Auror detection spells; he'd learned them all in training. No one got near him now without having the scans run first, so he hadn't had to think about them in two years. Ron gave one curt nod and a snappy salute, and Harry narrowed his eyes in irritation when his friend winked at him and pulled the door closed.

"I'm amazed you're still alive."

Harry turned back, watching as the waiter pulled his wand, touched his own head with a murmured spell, and the glamour melted away. He grew several inches, his shoulders broadened and the brown in his hair faded to gleaming, platinum blond. It was still pulled up into a knot at his crown, but a few swaths framed his angular face and his eyes went from brown to grey over the course of a heartbeat.

"Why?"

The white jacket Draco was wearing became his jumper and leather jacket, and his black trousers became the tweed he'd been wearing earlier. He laid his wand on the linen draped cart, lifted the lid off one of the plates and plucked a purple grape from a bunch, tossing it into his mouth.

"Because your bloody head Auror just waved me through the door without a second thought."

"My bloody head Auror ran a scan on you and knew you were under a glamour, and you hadn't a clue he'd done it."

Draco's brows shot up. "Oh. Well. Good." He put the lid back down with a faint clang, then stood staring at Harry for several seconds, his lips curling in a slight smile. Harry felt the potency of it crawl down his spine and wrap around his tailbone, sending a jolt of pleasure into his balls.

"So, how did you manage to be working for catering?" he asked, approaching Draco slowly across the suite.

He made a dismissive gesture. "I'm just that good."

"And so very modest." Harry shook his head. "Try again."

Draco shrugged one square shoulder. "I know a guy who knows a guy." His smile grew.

"Draco."

"No, really." They stopped a few short feet apart, staring into one another's eyes. "I live here half the year, remember? The man who delivered your dinner is called Donnie Holmes, and he lives across the garden in the servant's quarters. He let me know when they called him in to work the late tonight."

"What if he hadn't been called in?"

"The rest of the lads who work in service have families and little kids. He's the only one who works when they have some stuck-up arsehole of a diplomat who's going to require room service after nine p.m."

Harry's mouth dropped open and he sputtered in irritation. "You're the one who told me to order room service, you obnoxious prick. I'm not even hungry."

Draco laughed, and his eyes sparkled. "Gods, you're easy to wind up." He closed the distance between them. "Whatever did I do for entertainment before we started fucking?"

"Torture little old ladies?" Harry said wryly, feeling his irritation fade and his arousal ratchet up due to proximity. "Pull the wings off flies?"

"Tease and torture Gryffindors?" Draco leaned forward and nipped at Harry's lower lip, and Harry felt that sharp bite through his chest, into his stomach. He reached up and grabbed the small knot of hair on the top of Draco's head, yanking him closer. "Ouch. I'd appreciate it if you left the hair on my head, thank you so much."

"I don't fucking care what you want," Harry growled. "Come here."

He hauled Draco closer and pulled his head to one side, sinking his teeth into the tendon that ran down the side of his throat.

"My, my." Draco's knees sagged slightly as he leaned into Harry. "Someone is tied in knots." He rubbed his palm down the front of Harry's trousers, squeezing the plump line of his straining cock. Harry closed his eyes, sucking on Draco's neck. "You are determined to leave marks, aren't you?"

Harry's lips pulled against his pale skin. "Every chance I get." He reached around Draco and sank his fingers into the firm roundness of his arse, pulling him in tight against his body. Draco's long, slender cock was as hard as Harry's, and he made a sound of satisfaction. "And I'm apparently not the only one tied in knots."

"Well, I am human," Draco muttered flippantly. "I'd have to be made of stone not to react to you gnawing on my neck like that, leaving purple bruises everywhere. Have you any idea the sort of abuse I'm going to have to endure from my teammates?"

"Oh, shut it." Harry's fingers dug into the solid muscle of Draco's arse. Gods, he loved this arse. Hours spent on a broom had made it a thing of beauty. "You can cast a glamour to cover them as easily as you did to become 'Donnie'."

"Well," Draco gasped as Harry nipped his prominent clavicle, "I suppose I could. But in actuality," he gasped when Harry's hand slipped up from his arse, under the heavy oatmeal coloured jumper, his nails moving gently over the taut skin of Draco's back. "I sort of like the marks."

"I know that. You deviant." Harry sucked on his skin again, more enthusiastically. Draco pressed his prick against Harry's hipbone.

"Oh, as if you're any different, Minister. You love seeing them in the mirror as much as I do. And you," he yanked on Harry's jacket, trying to shove it from his shoulders, "need to lose some of these layers. This is one change made by you being Minister I simply cannot endorse. You wear too many bloody layers. I imagine it was a whole lot easier to get you out of t-shirts and Levi's." He stroked up Harry's cock through the expensive wool of his trousers, fingers squeezing the sensitive, swollen head. "The cut of your trousers is better now, however." He pushed his long fingers further between Harry's thighs to cup his balls. Harry grunted softly.

"Snob. There's nothing wrong with Levi's." He pulled back enough to shove both hands beneath Draco's jumper and lifted. "And I'm not the only one over-dressed." The soft, handsome article of clothing sailed through the air and landed on one of the red leather armchairs.

"That's Gucci, you boorish clod."

"Like I give a damn."

Draco snorted. "Clearly."

He was wearing a t-shirt beneath his jumper, now half untucked from his trousers. The artful dishabille created by his hanging shirt and tousled hair was sexier than he'd looked when neat as a pin. The t-shirt, unlike the cotton ones Harry wore, was obviously made of expensive fabric, and Harry skimmed his hands over the luxurious material, enjoying the flex of muscle under his hands. The years of playing professional Quidditch had added muscle and definition to Draco's chest and shoulders, and as Harry touched him his nipples pebbled beneath the thin material. Harry rubbed one with his thumb, then leaned forwards and bit it gently. Draco groaned, his hands fisting in the thick layers of Harry's hair.

"Oh, bloody hell," he murmured, his fingers stroking Harry's scalp. "Don't damage the fabric."

Harry laughed against his chest. "I'll damage your fabric, you fucking ponce."

"Takes one to know one," Draco retorted, shoving at Harry's jacket. "Will you just take this damned thing off?"

"I'll have you know this is Armani," Harry teased. He wouldn't know an Armani from something bought online, and Draco knew it.

"Oh, of course it is," Draco replied wryly. "Armani of Spitalfields. Can you just stop talking and take it off???"

Harry laughed, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. He straightened and began to loosen his tie, but Draco pulled him in to another kiss, ravaging Harry's mouth with nips of teeth before slipping his tongue between Harry's lips. Making a deep sound of pleasure, Harry sucked on Draco's tongue, pressing it against the roof of his mouth and with a sound of delight, Draco wrapped his long arms around Harry's neck and surrendered to Harry's skillful manipulation of his tongue. When Harry finally pulled back and pressed a swift kiss to his lips, Draco gave a weak, boneless sigh.

"Your mouth," he said, stroking his fingers along Harry's scalp. "You do the filthiest things with your mouth."

"You complaining?" Harry squeezed the muscles on either side of his spine.

"Oh, Merlin, no. It's one of the most delightful things I've discovered about you; that for someone who hasn't fucked around with abandon, you apparently have a wonderful, dirty imagination."

"And this pleases you, does it?"

"Enormously."

"Good to know."

With that, Harry slid smoothly to his knees, his hands sliding along Draco's long, supple thighs, gripping him behind his knees and pulling them apart before settling between.

"And what are you doing now?" Draco asked, looking down at him with a softly amused smile.

"Preparing to do something filthy with my mouth."

"Oh, lovely."

Harry looked up at him, his hands going to the flies on Draco's trousers, fighting with the ridiculous openings before dropping his hands with a curse.

"Open the fucking things, will, you please?"

Draco grinned down at him and pulled them apart easily. Harry pulled them past his arse with a few tugs, then yanking down his pants and freeing his cock with a gentle stroke of his fingers. It was hard, angling slightly to the right and tip pressing against his belly, and Harry made a sound of pleasure as he leaned forward and ran his nose the length of the velvety hardness.

"Pervert," Draco teased, swaying slightly on his feet and reaching out for something to brace on. Harry grabbed his forearms, steering him the short distance until the small of his back rested against one of the two red leather armchairs. He took Draco's prick in his hand and stroked him slowly, pressing his nose into the thick thatch of pale hair at his groin. He inhaled and made a low sound in his throat, and Draco pulled sharply on a skein of his hair. "What the fuck are you sniffing?"

"You," Harry answered, nibbling the vein on the underside of Draco's penis with great care. "Soap. Shampoo. Sweat. Your body hair, and your skin." He pushed the tweed trousers and silk boxers down as far as he could on the long, slender thighs and bent his head to run his lips over lightly furred, pale skin. "Your legs." His mouth travelled up until he was sucking the heavy tendon that led from groin to hip. "You, Draco. Just you. I've never been with anyone who smells as good as you." He thumbed the firm cock down from where it lay against Draco's hipbone, opened his mouth, and swirled his tongue around the tip.

Draco had apparently run out of rational things to say, and he simply made an incoherent sound as Harry probed his slit with the tip of his tongue. The taste of Draco's arousal spread through Harry's mouth, and he hummed, relaxing his throat and taking Draco in as deeply as he could.

"Fuck me," Draco muttered. Harry pulled off, stroking him firmly.

"Getting there," Harry promised, then looked up at Draco through his lashes and applied himself to slowly sucking cock with as much skill as he knew how. Even if he said so himself, there was a great deal of skill involved.

Draco speared his long fingers through Harry's fringe, and their eyes met and held for breathless minutes while Harry took the long cock so deep it was resting against the back of his throat as he swallowed around it. His deep throating skill was something of which he was justifiably proud, and Draco closed his eyes with a low moan, his hips arching forward involuntarily.

"Have you any gag reflex at all?" Draco asked raggedly.

"Not much," Harry said, and went back to it.

Draco ran his thumb down Harry's cheek as Harry sucked, his nail scraping against his end of the day beard. It didn't matter how often he shaved, and he had right before he left Grimmauld; by this time of evening he was sporting what on anyone else looked like a full day's growth.

"Hirsute beast," Draco said with a slight smile. Harry cupped his balls in a gentle hand and rolled them. He pulled off Draco's prick tortuously slowly.

"You like it," he said, his voice slightly rough. Draco ran his nails through Harry's hair, over his scalp.

"I do like it," Draco admitted. "With us it's always been about our differences. I'm light, you're dark. The hero and saviour, and the Death Eater's brat."

Harry gave him a stern look. "None of that."

"Fine, then. I'm smooth, and you're hairy as an old boar."

"Flattering." Harry's lips twisted wryly.

"Did I offend you?" Draco asked, a faux expression of concern on his handsome face. "Oh, dear."

"Oh, dear your arse." Harry ran a finger along Draco's perineum, which was swollen and hard, further back still to lightly stroke over his hole. It flexed beneath the pad of his middle finger. Draco's head fell back and he sought the touch again, pressing forward with his hips.

"Like that, do you?" Harry had a smile in his voice as he stroked the quivering opening again.

"You know I do, you prick."

"Ah ah ah," Harry taunted. "No name calling, now."

Draco laughed a bit unevenly. "Since when? If we met even once without insulting one another, I don't remember it. You called me an obnoxious prick not fifteen minutes ago."

"So I did," Harry agreed. "Very poorly done of me. I think I'll have to make it up to you."

"Whatever did you have in mind?"

Harry gripped Draco's prominent hipbones and easily turned him, pushing him against the chair. From the angle he figured Draco's cock was pressed against the top of the chair, and his theory was confirmed when Draco flexed his arse, rubbing against the cushion.

"Stop that," Harry scolded, changing the grip of his fingers and easing him higher so his cock would be above the chair.

"You're an arse," Draco muttered.

"There you go again with the name calling." Harry caressed the firm white globes of Draco's truly beautiful arse, then eased his thumbs between them and pulled them apart. The dusky pink flesh of his tight little anus winked at him. He blew a breath over it, and Draco shuddered.

"Damnit, Harry."

"However am I going to shut you up?" Harry ran one hand up under Draco's smooth t-shirt until he flattened it between his shoulder blades, and abruptly shoved him forward until he was bent at the waist. Draco flailed for a moment, then dug his long fingers into the leather armrests.

"You could warn a man," he complained over his shoulder. Harry grinned.

"I could. But where would the fun be in that?" Harry repositioned his thumbs, opening Draco even further. "Now, stop talking." With that he leaned in and licked a slow stripe over Draco's lovely, pink arsehole.

Harry enjoyed eating arse almost as much as giving head, and he applied himself diligently to the job at hand. Draco began to shake and mewl as Harry's tongue loosened the tight ring of muscle until it could slip a short distance inside. He added his index finger to his tongue, going slowly, adding copious amounts of saliva. He finally leaned back enough to turn his hand palm up and curl his finger, searching gently. Draco's prostate was very sensitive, and he knew he'd found it when Draco let out a soft cry and his legs began to shake.

"Easy," Harry crooned, sliding his other hand over Draco's back in a soothing motion, stroking his skin. He pressed against Draco's prostate inside again, pushing with his thumb on the outside, caressing in a deep circular movement.

"Fuck, Harry," Draco said, pushing back onto Harry's finger. Harry leaned forward to add saliva to his fingers, then pressed a second finger inside, and Draco gave a choking gasp. Harry added his tongue to the mix, gratified by the desperate sounds Draco couldn't seem to keep inside. Finally, when spit, no matter how fun, didn't feel like enough, Harry cast a wandless Lubricus, and his palm filled with the clear, slick lube he'd been conjuring since he was fourteen. He'd tried many Muggle made products in a search for something similar, but he'd never found it.

Harry tipped his hand so the clear substance trickled down over his fingers. He pressed back inside Draco's body, and Draco laughed raggedly.

"Merlin's balls, the miracle lube. Why the fuck is it that we all do the same spell, but your lube feels like heaven compared to anyone else's?"

"No idea." Harry stood up, kissed the base of Draco's neck, and pressed his face into his hair. Slowly, he added a third finger and Draco hissed, muscles tightening around Harry's hand. "Easy," he murmured against Draco's ear, hand stilled, waiting. "You tell me when, yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco whispered, leaning his head against Harry's. They didn't move for several long seconds, and Harry felt it the moment the muscles around his fingers gave way. Draco rolled his hips back, then forward, moving slowly.

"Feel good?"

"Mmm," Draco mumbled in the affirmative. Harry curled the fingers of his free hand around Draco's cock, stroking in slow coordination with the movements of his long body. He was so graceful, Harry thought. Even fucking Harry's hands, he was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

When Draco pushed back onto Harry's hand, Harry made sure each movement brought his fingers into contact with the swollen walnut sized gland. Each time he stroked it, Draco made the most alluring, whimpering sound and tightened around Harry's fingers. As he sped up, the noises he made grew more and more desperate, and Harry began to share the feeling. His cock was straining against the fly of his trousers, had been since he'd seen Draco emerge from his glamour, truth be told, and he knew he was leaking against his boxers now, a wet spot growing. He pressed against Draco's hip, and the pressure gave him a few moments of relief but then just made the need worse. He rubbed against Draco in awkward coordination with the movements of his hands, nothing but a desperate clod in comparison to Draco's smooth elegance, but the thought was there and gone as his orgasm approached. The base of his spine ached, his own arsehole clenching in sympathy with Draco's.

"Are you close?" he whispered harshly against Draco's ear. Draco's cock was dripping and Harry could smell the scent of his excitement.

"Mmm." A pleasure filled, non-committal hum was all the answer he got, and Harry had a sudden desire to spank that perfect arse.

"Draco, please," he said instead. "Please, you bastard, I need…"

Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's wrist and squeezed, pressing his thumb between the strong tendons. It hurt, and Harry gasped.

"What the fuck…"

"Don't you dare come in your trousers," Draco hissed, turning his head to glare.

"Well, excuse me, you selfish son of a bitch, but I can't just – "

"Harry, you can't. I need you." He leaned his head back on Harry's shoulder and closed his eyes. "I need you inside of me. I need you to come with me, in me. Please."

Harry groaned; afraid the words alone would push him over. And no matter how much he wanted to push into Draco and fuck him hard, He still managed to withdraw his fingers carefully from Draco's heat. Draco reached back and their hands tangled at his fly. Frustrated that Draco's fingers were just getting in the way, Harry smacked his hand out of the way. Finally he was freed from his trousers and pants, just enough for his cock and balls to hang clear of his clothes. Draco pressed back with his arse, looking at Harry over his shoulder. The smoky heat in his eyes pulled Harry in, and Harry stepped closer and smoothed his hand over Draco's arse, caressing the smooth white skin.

Draco rounded his back and buried his face in the curve of his elbow. "Gods, just… stop mucking about back there, will you?"

Harry chuckled breathlessly. "Mucking about?"

"You know what I mean, damn you."

Harry did know, and he chose to take pity on them both; he'd already dragged this slow seduction out as much as they could stand. He stepped close enough that his thighs were against Draco's, and with his left hand he spread the full cheeks far enough apart to reveal the shiny, slick opening. Lining himself up, he pressed the spongy head of his cock against Draco's arse and pressed slowly, carefully against the ring of muscle. There was a moment where Draco's body fought the incursion, but Harry felt him bearing down and he slid past the double, tight rings, stopping just barely inside. The grip around his prick's head was tight, so tight Harry gasped as Draco hissed, his back arching.

"Easy," Harry said soothingly, running his hand up Draco's side.

"Easy?" Draco squeaked. "Easy? You try to take it easy with something thick around as a cola can going up your arse, you hung bastard."

Harry pressed his forehead to the middle of Draco's back between his shoulder blades, chuckling weakly. "I think you're exaggerating a bit there."

"I think you're a stupid wanker."

"More like a stupid fucker at the moment."

"Oh, Gods, will you just…" Draco's hole abruptly relaxed, and Harry pressed in smoothly, restriction eased as he slid all of the way inside the tight, wet passage. He didn't stop until his groin was resting against Draco's arse, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain still.

"Tell me when – "

Draco nodded, his hair down, shielding his face. They hung there, suspended in an agony of waiting, until Draco shifted on his feet and sighed.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Harry pulled back slowly, closing his eyes against the rush of sensation. The nerve endings along the length of his cock ignited, and coloured lights flashed behind his eyelids. Every time, he thought. Every time he fucked this man it felt like his head was going to explode, it was so good. Chills raced over his shoulders and down his spine as he pressed slowly back in, and he felt the shudder that shook Draco's slender body. Harry opened his eyes and saw Draco's long fingers go white knuckled as he fisted them on the back of the chair. He wrapped his arm around Draco's waist and found the long, slender cock that bobbed in the air with each slow movement of his body, curling his fingers around it. He held the slow rhythm with some difficulty, moving in and then out, in and then out, luxuriating in the grip, the snug warmth all around his cock, the feeling so brilliant it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Torturing himself with each slow incursion, he held back with more self-control than he knew he had.

Draco shocked him by reaching up and back, fisting his hand in Harry's hair and tugging, hard.

"What the hell – "

"If you don't fuck me hard, right now, I am going to yank every hair out of your fucking head."

Harry huffed in exasperation. "You know, I can always—" He started to pull out, and Draco made a strangled sound, pulling on his hair.

"I will kill you," he ground out between clenched teeth. "I swear to Merlin, I will – kill – you, and I will spit on your corpse."

"Colourful," Harry said, but he was actually more than just a little amused. It would not do, however, to let Draco know that. Slipping his fingers through the long, pale hair, he curled them into a fist and pulled Draco's hair up to his crown and then back. Draco gasped.

"Stop being so bloody bossy," he hissed against Draco's ear. "Trust me; I'll get you there, but when I'm ready. Do you understand?"

Draco bit his lip as Harry tightened his grip on the long hair. "I hate you."

Harry nuzzled his neck, admiring the marks he'd left earlier. "I can live with that."

Bracing his feet shoulders width apart, Harry thrust in. Hard. Driving him onto his toes. Draco's resulting whimper was gratifying. Harry did it again, and again, setting up a hard, steady pace and holding it, skin slapping, the chair sliding loudly a few inches across the stone floor with each thrust. "This better?"

"Nngh," Draco responded. "Ah, uh – more. More."

Harry complied gladly, slipping his hand from Draco's prick to the chair, just to keep it from falling over. Draco made a sound of complaint.

"You have a free hand," Harry ground out. "Use it."

"Lube, then?" Draco asked breathlessly. Harry cast the spell without thinking and could hear the squelching sound of success almost immediately. He could also hear that Draco was stroking himself faster than Harry was fucking him, but it was a thought that was there and then gone. The physical sensations had taken over, and Draco was tightening down around him, so tight it was like he was trying to force Harry out. But Harry knew better, knew Draco's body better than Draco did himself. He paused to bring both hands to the hard hipbones and adjusted his angle. On the next thrust, Draco cried out and went up onto his toes again.

"Oh, god," he moaned, "ohgodohgodohgod."

"Come on," Harry said, leaning forward to speak against the side of Draco's face, "come for me. Come on, Draco."

Draco gave a shattered cry, writhing under Harry's hands. The muscles around Harry's cock were so tight it was almost painful, and Harry groaned. He continued to move, feeling his own release growing in his balls. The heat and the constriction held for several thrusts, then Draco shuddered and collapsed over the back of the chair. The muscles around Harry relaxed, and freed from the constraint he straightened and fucked Draco without rhythm or grace until his arousal burst, and he came so hard he quaked through it, conscious thought of anything but the spilling, wrenching, soul emptying orgasm suspended. Eyes clenched shut, fingers digging into Draco's hips so hard there could only be marks, Harry moved through a series of aftershocks, grunting softly, then collapsed heavily on Draco's back.

He came back to himself still buried balls deep in Draco's arse, the sound of their breathing loud in the large room. He lay there over Draco's limp body until Draco reached back and batted weakly at his side.

"Off."

"Hmm?" Harry mumbled in incomprehension. Draco's capacity for speech clearly returned much more quickly than Harry's.

"Get off," he snapped. "You're heavy, and it's uncomfortable to lie here under you with spunk rolling down my thighs."

"Oh, sorry."

Moving sluggishly, he straightened, reaching down to curl his fingers around the base of his cock, which was still hard, and withdrew as carefully as he could. Draco still hissed in discomfort.

"Sorry," Harry repeated, stroking Draco's lower back. "Stay there. I'll be right back."

"Fine. I couldn't walk right now if I tried."

Harry wasn't sure he could, either, and his first couple of steps were wobbly enough that he paused. But his knees did finally steady, and he reached down and pulled up his slacks, zipping and buttoning before they could slide down around his ankles. The bath wasn't far, and he found the light switch immediately inside the door on his left. He smacked it on his way to the sink, and bright lights flared.

There were lovely, thick white flannels rolled and tucked into a shelf on the wall, and he turned on the warm tap and waited for it to heat. He caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror, and he looked up at his own reflection. Not surprisingly, he looked a mess. His hair was standing on end, his jaw was shadowed, and the hem of his white dress shirt hung messily out over the waist of his trousers. He snorted when he saw that he was still wearing his suit jacket and tie, and he yanked the striped tie off, pausing to lay it next to the sink and loosening his collar.

Once the water was warm, he held the flannel beneath it until it was soaked, then twisted it between his hands, wringing out the excess water. He could have used a cleansing spell; he'd been able to do that one wandless since sixth year, which was handy for a furtive wank behind the velvet bed hangings in the Gryffindor dorms. (He refused to acknowledge how many times he'd wanked to thoughts of stormy grey eyes and what had even then been a world class arse.) But he also knew Draco didn't like cleansing spells, and said they made his skin sore, so Harry didn't use them.

He spared one more look at his reflection, considered dampening down his chaotic hair, then gave it up as pointless and walked back into the suite, surprised Draco literally hadn't moved; he was still draped bonelessly over the chair, his head on his arms, his lovely white arse and muscled thighs visible above the trousers that were clinging to his knees. Harry went to him, touching him lightly on the lower back before gently swiping the flannel up the inside of his right thigh, catching the lines of semen that dripped down his leg.

"Mmm," Draco mumbled without looking back. "Nice."

Harry didn't say anything. He cleaned up the inside of his other leg, then carefully parted his arse cheeks to dab at his slightly swollen pink hole. Draco hissed but didn't move away from Harry's touch. When all traces of lube and come were gone, Harry laid his hand on the expanse of lower back where the matching dimples bracketed his spine.

"Done," Harry murmured. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to both of the small dents he found so alluring. He'd loved them from the first moment he'd seen Draco's back bared; there was so much long lean muscle on his back and arse, which he admired, but those sweet little dimples turned his insides mushy. He could just imagine a little Draco running naked from the bath, water gleaming in those dimples just above his little bum. In reality, in the house which Draco was raised, he probably hadn't dared run naked anywhere. He'd said enough to Harry about his parents to know theirs hadn't been a particularly warm relationship. He doubted Draco had much more in the way of affection than he'd had with the Dursley's.

Draco kicked off his shoes, then shoved his pants and trousers off, leaving them in a messy sprawl on the floor. He straightened slowly, his hand going to his lower back, and he grunted and kneaded the muscles with long, thin fingers.

"Sore?" Harry asked.

"Four hours riding a broom, then getting ridden hard by you?" Draco looked back at him with a raised brow. "A bit, yeah."

"Want a back rub?"

Draco's eyes brightened. "You offering?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't."

"Minister, I'm delighted to accept your kind offer. I know the team trainers were giving rubdowns tonight, but I chose a different sort of relaxation. Oh, can you use a cleansing spell on the chair? I made a bit of a mess."

Harry looked at the tartan plaid pillow in the seat of the red chair and saw the splotches of white across the green and navy-blue plaid. Harry vanished them with an uttered spell and a wave of his hand. For these kinds of spells, he rarely reached for his wand anymore.

"Thank you," Draco said graciously, shivering. "Gods, your wandless magic gives me gooseflesh."

He wasn't lying, Harry saw. The pale skin of his arse and legs was pebbled as if he'd caught a chill, and Harry was flattered. Draco was no slouch in the wandless magic department himself.

"Good thing you hit the pillow and not the leather," Harry said, bending to pick up his jacket and walking to a large armoire against the wall. "Spunk is a bitch to get off of leather."

"I'm assuming you've experience?" One of Draco's brows arched in amusement.

"I've a black leather jacket with a light spot I only managed to cover with a Muggle marker."

"Slut," Draco said lightly, and Harry snorted. Draco examined the front of his tan leather jacket, giving a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief that there were no spots on it before slipping it off and hanging it over the back of the chair.

Harry opened one of the doors of the armoire and took out a hanger, slipping his jacket onto it.

"Good Lord," Draco approached Harry with far more of an elegant swagger than a man wearing nothing but a cable knit jumper should be able to manage. "Can it be that I've had an effect on the mighty Minister for Magic, to the point where he's actually hanging up his clothes?"

Harry elbowed him lightly in the ribs as Draco pulled his jumper off over his head. "Shut up, you git." Harry unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. "You know as well as I do that laundering and pressing spells only work so well. I'd just as soon not walk through the castle tomorrow morning looking like an unmade bed."

"Lord, it's quoting me now," Draco said with an elaborate roll of his eyes.

"It's?" Harry turned to him with a baleful glare.

"It, as in Minister for Magic, the title, not the person, you tit." He softened the words, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Harry's frowning lips. "And I'm teasing you. Lighten up. You just got laid. That, at least, should've improved your mood."

Mollified, Harry felt the sudden stiffness in his shoulders ease. He looked pointedly at Draco's pants and trousers bunched around his shoes on the floor. "It did, I promise you. But your slacks are going to look like they've been tied in a knot if you leave them like that."

Draco pulled his wand from a holster strapped to his inner arm, exactly like the one Harry wore on his left. A quick spell had his clothing lifted from the floor, folded, and laid over a hanger. "There, feel better?"

"It doesn't matter how I feel about it. It does mean those trousers won't look like you yanked them from a homeless bin." It was remarkable how much the idea of Draco, sneaking out through the back hallways of the castle from his rooms in rumpled clothes, bothered him. It should probably bother him more that Draco might be caught sneaking out of his rooms at all. He didn't examine too closely how much it didn't.

Draco pulled his t-shirt off over his head and folded it neatly, laying it in the bottom of the armoire, taking off his wand and harness and adding them on top, leaving him gloriously naked. He ran his fingers through his rumpled hair, and damn it all if the silky strands didn't fall in neatly over his brow, as if spelled to do so. They probably were.

"Any day, now, Minister," he teased lightly. When Harry just frowned at him in incomprehension, Draco sighed dramatically and reached out to unfasten Harry's wand harness and laid it next to his own on top of the silky white undershirt. Harry didn't know why the gesture warmed him, but it did. Draco stepped closer, until Harry could feel the heat of his body all along the front of his legs, and slid his hands under Harry's t-shirt, lifting it off over his head.

"Gods." He tried to pat the resulting lift of his hair flat.

"Don't bother."

Draco grinned at him. "Someday I might understand what it is about you—" He shook his head. "Never mind." He folded Harry's shirt with a few, economic flips of his hand and laid it next to his while Harry kicked off his shoes and hung up his trousers. "Come to bed," he said. "You're naked, I'm naked, we can be enjoyably entertained by something other than your hair."

"You're hilarious," Harry muttered, recognizing the aspersion cast on his hair for what it was.

"I am," Draco agreed. He caught Harry's arm and pulled him toward the high bed, giving him a sly smile. "And someone I know promised me a back rub."

Harry slowly smiled. "So I did."

Harry shifted under thick, weighted bedding, legs sliding on high thread count linens, warmth all along his side and a golden, flickering glow behind his eyelids. Smiling slowly, he reached toward the source of warmth and to his surprise, encountered nothing but an expanse of more unoccupied bedding. He pushed up onto his elbows and opened his eyes. The source of warmth was clearly the fire burning merrily on the hearth, and Harry assumed Draco must've stoked the flames on his way out the door.

He sighed and collapsed back onto his back, disappointed but not surprised to find himself alone. He threw his arm out, and his hand landed in the indent left on the mussed pillow next him on the bed. The crackle of paper did surprise him, and he curled his fingers around a piece of parchment. Lifting it, he squinted, then made a sound of annoyance, raising up again, searching the bed for his glasses. They glinted from the top of a bedside table in the light from the nearby fireplace, and he rolled over to grab them and push them onto his nose. Leaning on one elbow, he read the note.

"Thank you for the most wonderful interlude I've had since, well, the last one. For a politician, you're a remarkably good fuck. I will have what you should consider a gratifying amount of difficulty sitting a broom at practice this morning, and because you're… well, YOU, and I won't even be able to brag about it. Make sure you use a glamour on those marks on your neck; I felt it only fair to reciprocate."

Harry's lips pulled up on one side.

You should probably get up and into that blissfully large shower now; it will take you however much time you have before breakfast to deal with that hair. This note will self-destruct one minute after you first touched it, knowing you're an absent-minded fucker and might just forget and leave it behind. I'll talk to you sooner rather than later. D.

Harry laid the note on the duvet, having been caught holding one of Draco's notes when it self-destructed before; his singed fingers had ached for days. He watched until it lifted and floated, then puffed into flame several inches above the bed and disappeared. Rubbing his hands over his face with a sigh, he grimaced at the feeling of stiff stubble under his fingers. He pushed to sit up, grimacing again when a low throb of pain shot from his arsehole up his spine. The grimace resolved into a self-satisfied grin, remembering how his back rub had led to Draco holding him down and fucking the sense right out of him. He still felt loose and relaxed, his headache gone completely for the first time in a fortnight. He rolled out of the high bed, forgetting just how high it was, grateful Draco wasn't there to see him when he promptly fell right on his arse. Laughing at his gracelessness, he pushed to his feet and headed for the bath, rubbing his tailbone.

He had no idea what time it was, but the rising sun was gleaming through the large windows and painting the cherrywood panelling in a deep, glowing red. He grabbed his rucksack from where it still sat next to the door, opened it on the floor and took out his shaving kit, then grabbed his wand from the armoire. A quick Tempus told him it was already six twenty and Ron would knock on the door at seven. Moving quickly into the bath, he turned the shower on as hot as he could tolerate it, absently noticing the rumpled towel beneath the sink.

"Slob," he muttered, but there was no heat to it. Draco always left his towels on the floor. Disregarding it, Harry opened the glass door and stepped in under the hot spray; he had no intention of missing that promised breakfast fry up. He was starving.

The voices were droning on and on, and Harry had never been so tempted to hex himself in the face before, ending his misery. His head was throbbing and he closed his eyes, rubbing between his brows, feeling the lines that deepened in his skin. A memory came back, and he let it pull him away from the growing conflict in his conference room.

"These are getting worse." Cool fingers moved delicately between his brows, rubbing gently.

"What?"

"These little tell-tale signs of how much you love your job."

Harry sighed. "I know. I look sixty."

Light laughter sounded from above him. "You don't. You're a very, very attractive thirty-two with more than your fair share of stress. I simply point it out because – "

"You enjoy harassing me?" Harry provided. There was a noticeable pause and he opened his eyes to find Draco's eyes hovering above his face, studying him carefully. Finding himself being watched, he blinked quickly, smirking.

"Well, there is that," he said flippantly. "It's certainly a side benefit. I only mention it because—" he shrugged one shoulder, " —I think you work too hard at something you didn't want to do to begin with."

Harry stacked his hands behind his head, musing thoughtfully. "I can't tell you I disagree. But I'm sort of stuck now, aren't I?"

"Forgive me if I blame Granger for that." Draco frowned as he ran his fingers through the hair on Harry's chest.

"It isn't Hermione's fault," Harry argued. "It's my fault. I agreed to it."

"But would you have agreed if it had been someone other than her arguing for it?" Harry frowned at him, and Draco waved his hand negligently. "Ignore me. I'm just hacked off because your job gets in the way of my sex life."

Harry huffed. "Like yours doesn't get in the way of mine?" he countered. "The last time I saw you was six weeks ago."

"Mr Potter, the breaks in my training don't preclude you getting laid," Draco said, looking away. "No strings, remember?"

He should, Harry thought dryly. He'd said it first.

"Of course I do. Not my fault you're the best lay I've ever had."

As he'd known it would, that pleased Draco and the beautiful silver eyes danced. "Well, of course I am. Someone else still might have been able to get you through the worst of it. I mean, clearly, I'm not suffering headaches."

Harry didn't want to acknowledge how much that hurt, thinking of Draco with anyone else, but he had no choice but to ignore it.

"And I'm not a great big old skank," he teased instead. Draco pretended afront, and that led to another light-hearted argument, which ended with Harry's ankles by his ears. It was an extremely pleasurable recollection.

He chose to concentrate on that, fingers moving independent of thought between his eyes. A sharp poke to his arm made his eyes fly open.

"Oh, please," Hannah was complaining. "You're never going to get the old farts to agree regardless. They're too busy being preoccupied with their bollocks knocking their knees under their robes because 'only real wizards leave off the pantaloons'."

"Pay attention," Hermione hissed near his ear. He straightened, trying to give Justin, who was now going on and on, still, about the confrontational language in the bill and how they'd never get it out of committee, and it suddenly startled Harry that he couldn't, for the life of him, remember what the bloody bill was even about. His headache combined with his irritation, and something inside of him snapped with, to him, and audible crack.

"Why?" he asked Hermione, his voice louder than he meant for it to be. Justin, Hannah, and poor Marta, who visibly jumped at his volume, turned to stare at him. Ordinarily, he would have the good sense to apologize and then pretend to listen. But right then, he just couldn't be arsed to. "Why the fuck should I listen to them, when they can't be bothered to listen to each other? Justin, is this or is this not the same shite you were peddling on Friday?"

A rusty stain filled Justin's cheeks, but he didn't deny it.

"And Hannah, colourful as the analogy was, we all fucking know the old geezers won't agree." Dimly, he was reminded how tender-hearted Hannah was when he saw tears brighten her hazel eyes but he was on a tear and couldn't stop. "I categorically refuse to be party to this argument for even another minute. I want the two of you to get out of my conference room and not come back until you can agree to an approach. You do not require my presence to fight." No one moved, and Harry brought his hand down hard on the tabletop, causing it to rattle and his palm to sting. "NOW! OUT!"

Hannah and Justin scrambled to do his bidding, papers slip sliding on the tabletop and Hermione staring at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. Hannah and Justin basically chased one another out the conference room door.

"Minister, do you require—" Marta began softly.

"No, Marta. It's all right. Go ahead."

He braced his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Raising his voice had done absolutely nothing for his headache, and his temples throbbed. The silence following the exit of his two most vocal aides and his assistant was as heavy as if someone was sitting on his chest. He forced a deep breath.

"Go on, Hermione," he said finally. "Tell me I should be more tolerant, tell me I need them, tell me what a shite job I'm doing. I'm waiting."

She waited a few beats, until his skin crawled with the delay.

"Well," she paused, "why should I, when you seem to be doing such a very concise job of managing without my doing so?"

He snorted. "You talk like Draco."

Her amused little sound surprised him, and he lifted his head from his hands.

"I'd say I was insulted by that," she went on, brown eyes shining, "but I know how excellent he is with the spoken word, after listening to his poncy arse for six years of school. Excuse me, Professor Flitwick," she went on, doing a dead-on impersonation of Draco's clear, refined, private elocution tutor's prized pupil's tone, "but was that the 'windgardium levioooosa' you wanted, or was it 'leviosaaaah', as Weasley seems somewhat confused."

Harry collapsed back into his seat, laughing tiredly at her ability to mock herself. That had certainly changed since their school days.

"And speaking of the flying wonder, I find myself quite glad my husband is straight. Listening to him go on and on about his 'technique' otherwise might have been somewhat disturbing."

Harry'd heard most of that song and dance from Ron at breakfast on Saturday morning. He was always the soul of professionalism when he was on duty, but at breakfast he couldn't seem to stop talking about Draco's brilliance on a broom. Harry had merely listened with amusement.

"I'd say he's a fan," Harry agreed.

"And how utterly weird is that?"

"Utterly."

They looked at one another for several seconds. Finally, she sighed.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or am I going to have to extract it like teeth?"

Harry looked away from her keen gaze. "Nothing. I'm tired. I have a headache. They drive me spare. Pick one."

"I think it's more than that," she countered. "You've been like this more often than not lately."

He knew it was true, and he felt guilty. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I know I've been an arse, and you bear the brunt of it."

"Actually, I think that's Marta. You owe the poor woman a raise for putting up with you." He couldn't disagree with that. "For some reason, I'd hoped you might be in a better mood today."

Harry's jaw hardened instinctively. "Why? Because I got laid over the weekend?"

"Well, the thought had occurred." She stared at him hard, as if trying to riddle out a thorny puzzle. "Why does the question make you angry?"

His irritation seeped out like helium, making it's escape through a hole in a mylar balloon. He huffed softly.

"Why have you always been able to read me so easily?"

She gave him a small, irony laced smile. "You have never been easy to read, Harry. I'm just more observant than most people."

"Hmm." He arched a brow at her, and her smile took on a slightly self-effacing quality.

"You have a tell."

He cocked his head to one side. "I have a tell?"

She nodded. "You have a tic, right here, when you're angry. You've done pretty well hiding the others you had when we were kids. You no longer turn red; you don't accidentally blow windows out of their frames." She paused; her brown eyes bright. "You haven't blown anyone up in years, for which I'm eternally grateful." He snorted, and she reached over, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Honestly Harry, can't you talk to me?"

He studied her kind face, and sighed. It felt like it came from the soles of his feet, moving through his body on a wave of melancholy.

"I'm – lonely," he said, surprising even himself. "I'm thirty-two years old, I'm flipping Minister for Magic, I'm with people almost from the moment I get up until I fall into bed at night. But I'm so lonely I ache."

"Wait, aren't you the man who just told me on Friday that you were enjoying your lack of monogamy?"

His lips twitched. "I lied."

"Oh, Harry," she said, clearly dismayed. He laid his free hand over hers and squeezed.

"You and Ron are great friends, Hermione, and I love you both. You hired me a cleaning service, so I go home to an immaculate house, and a food service so when I get to Grimmauld, there's magically prepared and warmed meals that are much better than I could ever hope to make. The work I'm doing is important, and I know that, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm either busting my arse in a job I hate, or I'm alone."

She looked stunned. "You hate being Minister."

"More than I can even say."

The silence was as awkward as the one they'd shared after she showed him his shattered wand that icy cold morning in the Forest of Dean. He didn't think there'd been another since that was so weighted.

"And believe me, I know I can't just quit. What we're doing right now is too important. I guess I just—" he looked down at their hands, "—wish for once it was on someone else to get it done, and I could just have a life." He put his head against the high back of the chair. "The problem is, even if I did have that life, the person I want to share it with just wants to 'screw, without complications. Friends with benefits, but no emotional commitments'."

She was quiet for a long time. "So, it's like that."

"Yeah. I don't think I really knew until I got home, but yes, it's like that. Stupid, I know."

He'd still been feeling loose limbed and relaxed when he'd come through the Floo from Castle Dunleavy. He had to go to the Ministry to check in whenever he travelled out of London, and he found those weekend returns, when the vast building was mostly deserted, were about the only times he enjoyed the Ministry. Huge and silent, marble floors gleaming, his footsteps echoed with Ron's as they'd left the VIP Apparition point near the offices on the fourth floor, then went down in the lift to the wall of Floos in the Atrium.

"See you on Monday, Mate," Ron called as he stepped through first, giving his destination and disappearing into the cavernous fireplace.

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place," Harry said, stepping into the cool draft of the lime green flames. His lovely remodelled kitchen came into view and he stepped out, instantly smelling the mouth-watering aroma of something with marinara sauce. There were covered dishes sitting on the counter, and he paused long enough to lift lids, delighted to find pasta under a stasis charm in one dish, a chunky red sauce in another. The meal service Hermione had signed him up for was first rate, and he never went hungry.

He climbed the stairs to the main floor, his steps echoing in the silence. The house had a cold, uninhabited feel to it, and Harry paused at the wide entrance to his sitting room. The floors gleamed, and the chunky, masculine furniture looked like it had the day he bought it from the showroom, pillows plumped and upholstery brushed. He could smell beeswax and lemony furniture polishing spells, and the room was beautiful, the house was beautiful. The afternoon sun shone through the pristine floor to ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the area, but suddenly the house felt as empty and abandoned as it had the first time he walked into it after the war.

He stared, unseeing, for a long time. When he finally blinked back into the here and now, he turned and quickly climbed the stairs up to his rooms. He'd been so proud of them when they were finished, black and grey striped armchairs facing the fireplace in the small sitting room, black, grey and white patterned bedding on the black walnut four poster, the floor sanded and stained a subtle grey. It wasn't until he stood looking at it now that he realized what the little nagging feeling in the back of his mind had been about; the floors were the exact colour of the dark ring around the outside of the cornea of Draco's eyes.

He'd pulled his miniaturized rucksack from his pocket and tossed it toward the bed. It returned to its original lumpy size mid-air and landed with a thump. Harry ignored it, turning into the sitting room and dropping heavily into one of the striped armchairs, staring into the dark hearth. He was cold, the house was so cold. He used his wand to light the fire that was already laid there, courtesy of his unseen cleaning crew, even nudging it to a higher flame with another Incendio. After that, the heat reached out to him, warming his feet but not the spot in his chest where there was a lump, like a large chunk of ice where his lungs ought to be. He rubbed against the spot, but even though he sat there for more than two hours, staring at the flames, that mass of ice in his chest never melted. It ached. He'd had pneumonia once when he was in primary, and it reminded him of that; lying in his cupboard, curled up in a heavy down sleeping bag he found in the furthest reaches under the stairs, shivering. His chest had hurt, and it had been hard to breathe. That's how it felt now.

By Sunday morning, after a sleepless night where he'd tossed and turned and thought of Draco, he'd been able to identify precisely what was wrong with him. He was in love with the beautiful bloody bastard, and just what the fuck was he supposed to do with that? Draco didn't want him, not for what Harry wanted. He'd been very honest about that; he was up for fucking, period. So what happened now that Harry had changed his mind, and wanted more? He was pretty sure that basically, he was screwed.

Instead of recriminating him for starting up with Draco under those terms to begin with, Hermione gave him a sad look and rested her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head against hers, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she murmured.

"Thank you for not saying 'I told you so'," he muttered.

"I'm really not that big a bitch," she said, linking their fingers. "I'm much less in love with being right than I was when we were kids. It would only hurt you, and I won't hurt my best friend."

Harry smiled weakly. "I know."

Marta's voice drifted from a magically enhanced intercom on the heavy dark table. "Minister?"

Harry's wand was next to his right hand, and he pressed it to a button on the top of the receiver. "Yes, Marta."

"Head Auror Weasley to see you."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, full of communication without words. No idea, her eyes said. Yeah, me neither, his replied. "Send him back."

"Yes, sir."

They sat in silence for the thirty seconds it took Ron to get from Marta's desk to Harry's conference room. When the door swung open, Harry saw immediately that something was wrong.

"What is it?" Hermione said. Ron looked ashen, his freckles standing out starkly against his pallor.

"Mate, is everyone in the family okay?" Harry asked.

Ron looked down at the floor, his hands propped on his hips.

"Ron." Hermione's growing concern must've finally got through, and he looked up at her.

"The family is fine," he assured her, to her obvious relief. He turned to Harry. "But we have a problem."

Gooseflesh rose on his shoulders. "What kind of problem?"

"A big one." Ron reached into the inside pocket of his ankle length red robes and withdrew a large manilla envelope, laying it slowly on the table in front of Harry. Harry reached for it, but Ron put his hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing firmly. Harry looked up at him, but Ron was looking at his wife, who had leaned toward Harry in anticipation of his opening the envelope.

"Hermione, the Minister might prefer a bit of privacy for this," Ron said. Hermione's mouth dropped open; she was clearly planning to speak, but Ron just shook his head.

"It's okay, Ron," Harry said, frantically searching his mind for what this could possibly be. "She'll know about it anyway, won't she?"

Ron nodded slowly. "But you should have a few minutes to process it first. Trust me on this."

Harry blinked, then nodded. "Okay."

"Come on, love," Ron said softly to his wife, offering his hand. She frowned quizzically but took it and allowed Ron to lead her from the room.

Harry stared at the envelope in his hands, suddenly sure that what was in it was going to change his life, forever. Anything that could put that look on Ron's face; Ron, who wasn't afraid of anything other than making Hermione cross with him. Harry had a sudden urge to Incendio the bloody thing and leave the ashes on the table, but it was part of the deal he'd made with himself when he run for Minister; while he held the office, he'd deal with whatever crossed his desk. Or, in this case, conference table.

On the front of the envelope someone had hurriedly scrawled; For Minister Harry Potter's eyes only!!!

Nice try, Harry thought, but that wasn't how it worked. Part of Ron's duties as Head Auror was to go through Harry's mail and anything delivered to the Ministry for him. Not the political stuff; Harry had a team of eight ministerial aids for that, who did nothing but go through his legislative and ministerial stuff. Ron's job were the parcels and letters that were addressed to Harry, personally. As Ron said; "Lots of barmy people out there, Mate." Adding the element of magic into the mix could bring some very nasty curses, carried in innocent looking packages.

Taking a deep breath, Harry bent the brad open and tipped the contents onto the table.

There was a neat stack of eight by ten photos inside, a folded piece of parchment on the top. Harry moved the parchment aside and his stomach flipped. A chill moved over his skin, making his nerve endings shudder. Every bit of hair on his arms and legs and neck stood on end, and he groaned softly.

The photo was very clear, and Harry recognized where it had been taken instantly; it was a view of the Royal Suite at Dunleavy Castle, and it appeared to have been taken from outside the very window he'd stood and gazed out of. High up in those twelve-foot windows, if he was any judge of it, but the thought flitted through his mind like a butterfly and was gone, because the subject of the photo was so incomprehensible, he couldn't wrap his head around it.

The two men pictured were beautiful, even he could see it. One dark-haired, one blond, the blond slightly taller and lithe, the brunet broader through the shoulders, more muscular; his suit jacket pulled taut around the biceps. There was no mistaking who they were, at least not to Harry. He had still been wearing his black suit, white shirt and striped tie; Draco's wardrobe couldn't really be discerned in the photo but for his light leather jacket and the slacks that fit his exquisite arse like a glove. An exquisite arse that was being groped by one of Harry's strong hands; his other was gripping the knot of light hair on Draco's crown. He watched, transfixed as he pulled Draco's head back and to the side, biting his throat on the continuous loop of the magical photo, over and over again.

Horrified but unable to stop looking, and knowing what he would see, Harry spread the photos out like a deck of cards and groaned aloud. Looking at the moving photos was a bit like watching a movie. Basically, whoever was outside of that window sent enough photos to prove they'd documented the entire time he and Draco spent together in the suite. Harry felt his face heat when he saw one of Draco leaning over the back of the chair, he on his knees behind him, his face buried between Draco's arse cheeks. Looking at it like this was like watching porn. Except for when they kissed; there was one photo that he pulled from the stack, and he watched it for several seconds. They didn't kiss like people who were just fucking. He slipped it back between other photos, his mouth dry. Then another one caught his eye.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered, his heart pounding in his throat. He picked the picture up gingerly. In it, Harry had his arm around Draco's waist, stroking his elegant, slender cock as he moved into him from behind. What caught and held his attention was the look on Draco's face; transported and blissful as he leaned his head back onto Harry's shoulder. "Gods." His hands were shaking as he stacked the photos back into a pile, then looked at the parchment.

I want two hundred and fifty thousand Galleons. I'll give you until noon a week from Friday, or these photos, in addition to another five hundred, will be sent directly to Rita Skeeter. Details about where to send the money will be forthcoming.

Harry exhaled messily and leaned his head against the back of the chair. He felt numb. What the fuck did he do with this?

He heard the door open at his back. "Harry?"

He rolled his head, finding Hermione looking cautiously around the corner of the door, as if she was afraid he'd explode at her. He tried for a reassuring smile, but imagined it was more of a grimace.

"You both can come back in." His voice sounded raw, and he cleared his throat.

The door opened and his two best friends shuffled back into the room. Ron had mastered a complete lack of expression during his years as an Auror, but Hermione looked both embarrassed and concerned.

"Are you all right?" she asked, slipping back into the chair beside him. Her gaze flitted to the stack of photos, but then came back to his face.

He laughed weakly. It sounded as strained as it felt. "Not really, no."

Ron pulled out the chair on Hermione's other side, leaning forward onto the conference table. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Harry shook his head. "I've no bloody idea." A thought slipped into his mind, and he straightened slightly. "You did a reverse trace, yeah?"

Ron nodded, but his expression was not encouraging. "First thing, Mate. Whoever did this is scary smart. The reverse quit right at the mail room door."

Hermione was clearly horrified. "Surely, no one from our own mail room did this?"

"No, babe." He covered her hand on the tabletop. "They just managed to cut the trace off inside the mail room door downstairs. Whoever dropped it off somehow managed to scrub any other evidence clean. Both directional, and their magical signature."

Harry sighed. "I figured they were either very smart, or very stupid. I doubted there would be any middle ground."

Hermione covered his hand, and hers was cold. Even though she was clearly shaken, Hermione held both Ron and Harry's hands, the steady presence between them just as she always had been. Harry turned his, linking their fingers. She squeezed.

"I feel like this is my fault," she said smally.

Ron made a protesting sound and Harry frowned. "How do you figure that?"

"You've completely lost your private life because you're Minister, and you're Minister because I nagged you into it."

Harry shook his head. "That isn't true."

"Isn't it?" she said, looking crestfallen. "Do you think I don't know you didn't want to do this. And you admitted earlier that you hate it."

Ron didn't even look surprised.

"I'm a big boy, Hermione," Harry countered. "If I hadn't wanted the job, I wouldn't have taken it. And even if it were true, which it isn't," a little voice in the back of his mind that sounded very like Draco whispered 'liar', "nothing you did would justify this. This is…" He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I have no words for this."

"I do," she said, pugnacious jaw hard. "It's at the very least an invasion of your privacy. It's extortion. It's blackmail. It's… It's…" Her hand was trembling in his, and he knew Ron had to feel it.

"Easy, darlin'," he murmured, proving he had. "It's okay. We'll get whoever this low life is. I promise."

She nodded, dipping her head so her wavy hair masked her face, but Harry had seen the sheen of tears in her eyes, and they made him feel helpless, and complicit. After all, it wasn't someone else fucking Draco Malfoy in those photos. But the little voice that sounded so like Draco was no longer quiet; it bellowed. YOU'RE ALLOWED A PRIVATE LIFE, GODDAMN IT!! Harry straightened. He looked at Ron. "Where do we start?"

"Well," Ron said with resolve, "First of all, I need to know if you plan to entertain this proposition."

"No," Harry said emphatically. "I do not." He could afford it, but it was out of the question.

"I didn't figure you would, but I had to ask. Now, I think we need to take the angle of these photo's into consideration. Clearly, whoever did this either attached a camera to the outside of the building, was standing at the top of a two-story ladder, or was hovering on a broom. I hate to think there was a camera, because I doubt that could be accomplished without the Earl being involved."

"What if it was done in the middle of the night?" Harry said. "Couldn't someone have snuck onto the property and placed the camera?"

Ron shook his head. "Even for a primarily Muggle establishment, the castle has professionally set wards, and they were extremely well done. They go from the ground, up to the four-foot mark. Any higher and the birds in the surrounding trees set them off, which would just be a pain in the arse for everyone. If someone mucked around on the outside of that castle, the alarms ringing in their security office would have waked the dead."

"Then someone on a broom?" Harry mused, looked at the stack of photos again.

"Had to be," Ron said. "They had to come in above the wards. Dunleavy didn't ward the family rooms, which are on the second floor."

"If it is, they've dead steady control. I doubt I could hover and take photos that clear."

"I'd be willing to bet a pro quidditch player could," Ron offered.

Harry and Ron stared at one another. "Come on, Harry. You think Malfoy didn't brag about where he was headed Friday night, and who he planned to spend it with?"

Harry felt irritation stir at the words, and he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from losing it on his best friend.

"He wouldn't," Hermione said firmly, and both men stared at her in surprise.

"Not to sound an arse, but how would you know that?" Ron asked. "You haven't seen the man more than a handful of times in what? Ten years?"

A soft blush spread across her cheeks. "I just don't believe he'd do that. He promised in the very beginning of their… arrangement not to talk about it. Didn't he?" She turned to Harry.

"He did," he agreed. "And I don't believe he'd have said anything to a teammate. To anyone other than…" He frowned. What was the name of the bloke who had taken the night off so Harry could meet with him? Donnie… something.

"Other than who?" Ron asked, picking up on his hesitation.

Suddenly Harry didn't want to say anything that might implicate Draco in this. He hadn't given any thought to the fact the man Draco glamoured himself into was on staff at Dunleavy Castle, and no doubt knew just exactly who Draco was spending the night with. He felt his face heat and knew he was blushing. His tendency to do that had always been a dead giveaway, and Ron knew him far too well.

"Harry," Ron pressed. "Who?"

"The glamour," he said tightly. Ron's eyes narrowed. "The waiter."

"Ah." Ron nodded pensively. "I wondered."

Harry nodded, and Hermione made a sound of frustration. The men looked at her. "I hate it when you two speak in code. What glamour? What waiter?"

Ron shrugged when Harry sent him a quick look. "Draco used a glamour to get into my suite," he said when he interpreted Ron's shrug for what it was; this one's your call, Mate. "The man he copied is a friend of his who works on the wait staff of the castle."

"Is he a Muggle?" she asked.

"No idea," Harry admitted, and she made a sound of exasperation.

"You didn't think finding out might be a good idea?"

"I had other things on my mind at that precise moment, to be honest."

Annoyance made its way into his voice, and pink flowed across her cheekbones. Harry couldn't bring himself to feel too badly about his annoyed tone.

"I imagine you did," Hermione said faintly.

He pushed his chair away from the table. "I need to call Draco."

Ron stood as Harry did.

"Harry."

"Ron."

They stared at one another and as he'd known he would, Harry broke first. "Look," he said finally, looking away, "I'm not the only one involved, here. And he at least deserves the opportunity to defend himself if you plan to accuse him of something."

"I'm not going to accuse him of anything," Ron growled. "I'm trying to look out for you. You are the one with the most to lose in this, Harry."

Harry glared at him. "How do you figure that? I can't imagine it would do Draco's professional reputation much good if those pictures hit the Prophet."

"Why? Everyone in England knows he's a bloody poof. He's been advertising he spends time on his knees for as long as he's been playing."

"Ronald," Hermione scolded. He turned to her.

"What?"

"I believe she's trying to save you from sticking your other foot in your mouth," Harry said bitterly. "It's not like wizarding England doesn't know I spend time on my knees, too." In those pictures, he thought, another wave of heat moving over his face.

Ron winced. "I don't care about that, and you know it. I only meant, well – they might know you're a poof, but they don't know who you're a poof with. That's what might be a problem." He looked at the stack of photos. "In living colour."

Harry stared at him in exasperation. "You've gone round the twist, Ron. Draco is the superstar Seeker for the English. It was you going on and on about him this last weekend, wasn't it?" Ron's freckled face bloomed with colour. It seemed this conversation couldn't be conducted without someone blushing in embarrassment. "Why would anyone think something other than well done, me."

"Not everyone wants in his pants," Ron muttered, lip curling. "And you have to admit he has a bit of a colourful history."

Harry stilled; his eyes narrowed. "Surely we aren't talking about what went on over a decade ago, when we were all kids and mostly either lucky, or had parents that hung us out to dry."

"Harry, Ron is just pointing out how some people in England are going to think, and you know it's true." She turned to Ron. "And it would help ever so much if you didn't actually try to be offensive."

"I'm not," Ron argued. "I'm simply reminding his illustriousness, here, that I've been against him and Malfoy from the beginning but I've bit my tongue because you're my friend, Harry, and I do believe you're entitled to fuck who you want. But the name Malfoy still gets a rise out of people, and those pictures being splashed across the front of the Prophet won't help you get that legislation you've all been toiling over passed."

Harry's hands curled into fists.

"Ronald, stop. Harry knows all of this. And Harry; I believe Draco cares more about you than either of you will admit. I can't think he would ever do anything to compromise you." She flipped her fingers at the photos. "Not like that."

The thought warmed him. He wanted to believe it so much, more than he'd allowed himself to hope. After a moment, he pushed the thought aside.

Without looking at Ron, Harry reached into the pocket of his briefcase, which still sat open on the table. "I need to talk to Draco," he said stiffly.

"See if you can get him to come to London," Ron said. Hermione smacked him on the shoulder, hard. He grimaced. "What?"

"Please." She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "Saying please will not kill you." She glared at him meaningfully.

Ron sighed, but met Harry's eyes. "Please."

Harry didn't answer, but he nodded, letting the door slam behind him when he left the room. He didn't even feel like an arse for doing it. He paced down the hall to his private loo, then opened the door and stalked into the outer sitting room, where one of the most charming of the ridiculous excesses in the Ministry that Harry had inherited spent his days. Jean Claude, a little man with a French accent straightened when Harry came through the door.

It had been Fudge who'd installed Jean Claude in the Minister's loo, insisting he needed an attendant to brush and iron his robes if he had any formal appointments or had to change during the day. Which, to be fair, he sometimes did. Harry couldn't imagine how the little man had lasted through Scrimgeour, let alone the war, but now he was at least a hundred and five. Harry hadn't the heart to sack him, and he couldn't get anyone else to do it. He felt guilty when the old man's faded blue eyes lit.

"Monsieur Minister," Jean said. "It is a pleasure to see you!"

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Jean," Harry lied graciously. "Uhm, I have a personal phone call to make, but if you could take these and run an iron over them while I do it," he unbuttoned the hip length black robes he wore most often and shrugged out of them, "I'd appreciate it."

Harry felt guilty at how pleased Jean looked to be of service. He took the robes and with a slight bow, left the nicely appointed sitting room. There were two hideously ugly purple armchairs facing the fire burning on the hearth, and Harry collapsed in one of them. He closed his eyes for a minute, then turned on his mobile and placed his thumb over the fingerprint prompt on the screen. Once it was open, he punched in the number for Draco's phone. It rang four times and he was about to hang up when Draco answered, sounding out of breath.

"Well, well," Draco said. "To what do I owe the pleasure, considering I just saw you Saturday? And by the way, my arse did give me fits during drills today, you bastard. I'm sure you're quite pleased with yourself." He sounded amused, and Harry wished he felt the same.

"Draco," he said. His voice broke in the middle of his name, and Harry cleared his throat. "I – need for you to do me a favour, if you could, please."

There was a pause.

"Hold on for a second." Harry heard what he thought was Draco walking somewhere, then a door closed quietly on the other end of the line. "What's wrong?" Draco's entire tone had changed. Now he sounded concerned. "You sound awful."

"It's been a bit of a long day." Harry ran his hand over his forehead.

"Harry, it's only one o'clock. What's going on?"

"I need you to come to London, if you could."

The line hummed as the silence deepened over the next few seconds. "Why?" he asked finally.

"Can I explain when you get here? I just – really need for you to come, please, if you can."

He heard Draco take a deep breath. "Of course, I'll come. I'm just done with sprints, so I'll need to shower, but I can be there in half an hour via Floo. Do you want to meet at the townhouse?"

Draco had never been to Grimmauld Place. When they met in London, they either went to a hotel, or to Draco's lovely townhouse on Eton Square. Harry swallowed. "No. Can you come to the Ministry, please?"

It was as if Draco's shock was audible. After several seconds, Harry heard him swallow.

"Harry, I—" Draco lowered is voice. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, at least, I think so." He rubbed his jaw, and it was already rough.

"You think so?" Draco said in disbelief. "You aren't sure?"

"I just really need for you to come." He laid his head back and closed his eyes. "I need you."

He heard Draco draw in a deep breath. "Then I'll come. Where?"

"Floo into the Atrium. My assistant Marta will meet you and bring you upstairs, all right?"

"That's fine. I'll—" Harry could hear the confusion in his voice, but he managed not to question. Harry had never been so grateful. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

There were several more seconds of silence before Harry broke the impasse by hanging up.

He hoped Draco would still be speaking to him when this was all over.

When Jean Claude returned his outer robes, they'd been pressed and brushed and smelled of Harry's cologne, and he gave Jean a generous tip, thinking how much more Draco would appreciate his services than Harry did. He made his way back to the conference room, taking a deep breath before entering. He didn't make eye contact with either Ron or Hermione as he reclaimed his seat.

Cursing under his breath for not merely taking the short detour to speak to Marta when he could have, he drew his wand and touched the button on top of the intercom.

"Yes, Minister?" Marta's voice came through the small box.

"I have a visitor coming through the Floo downstairs. If you could meet him and bring him to the conference room, please?"

"Of course, sir. How will I know him?"

"Uhm, it's Draco Malfoy. Do you know him?"

Marta was so professional that her surprise lasted less than a moment. "I know of him, Mr Potter. Most of wizarding England does. When are you expecting him?"

"About half an hour."

"I'll be waiting." Marta signed off and Harry sat back in the chair, running his hand through his hair.

"Harry," Hermione began. He held up his hand, then turned to look at Ron, who sat on the other side of his wife, watching him.

"I'm sorry, Ron," he said wearily. "I have no idea what to do with this, and I took it out on you."

Ron grimaced. "I could have worded the whole thing better." He held out his hand to Harry. "Mates?"

Harry nodded. "Always." They shook firmly.

Hermione smiled brightly. "Shall I order up some tea from the canteen?"

Ron snorted. "Sure, love. Because what can't be solved by a cup of tea."

Harry smiled weakly. "Surely nothing of importance."

"Both of you kindly piss off," Hermione said primly, then used the intercom to have Marta place the order for a tea tray.

By the time a knock sounded on the conference room door, Harry was a nervous wreck. He jumped out of his seat and was standing, rubbing his palms on the black trousers he wore beneath his business robes, when the door opened and Marta appeared.

"Mr Malfoy," she said calmly. Harry could see Draco looking at him over the top of Marta's head. Their eyes met and held. "Do you need more tea?"

"Please, Marta," Hermione answered when Harry didn't.

Marta stepped back with a slight smile, and Draco rushed through the door, coming to Harry without acknowledging there was anyone else in the room. He curled his hands around Harry's upper arms, looking directly into his eyes.

"Talk to me," he said softly.

Harry didn't know what to say. What he wanted, more than anything, was to step into Draco's body and let himself be held. He couldn't do it, though, not with Ron and Hermione standing right there.

Draco, apparently, didn't feel the same compunction. He pulled Harry into his chest and wrapped his long arms around him. "Harry," he said against his ear. His warm breath sent a chill down Harry's spine. "What's wrong?"

Harry couldn't answer; his throat was too tight. He did allow himself to grab Draco's wool overcoat and fist his hands in the expensive fabric, pressing his face against Draco's neck. His fragrance swirled around Harry, and he felt the muscles in his shoulders relax for the first time since Ron had appeared with those damnable photos.

A softly cleared throat reminded Harry where he was, and more pointedly who, and he forced himself to take a step back. He lifted his head and looked into Draco's eyes, searching for something, anything to say. He landed on, "Would you like some tea?"

Draco looked incredulous. "Tea?" he managed calmly. "Why is it that everyone in this sodden country thinks their problems can be solved with bloody tea? You called me here, you wanker, and you look like twenty kilo's of shite warmed over."

"Thanks so much." Harry didn't laugh hysterically, but it was a near thing.

"Malfoy," Ron said, very politely Harry thought. "If you'd have a seat, we'll be more than happy to discuss the problem with you."

Draco seemed to become aware of Hermione and Ron for the first time.

"Ah, Weaslebee. Must be a Ministry problem, then." He looked back to Harry. "So why am I here?"

"Draco."

Hermione spoke softly, and Harry was certain only he was aware of the way Draco stiffened at the use of his surname.

"It does involve you, too. If we could just sit."

Draco stared into Harry's eyes, and when Harry reached out and pulled out the chair next to the one he'd been sitting in earlier, Draco laughed but lowered himself into the seat.

"Such a gentleman," he said tightly.

Harry sat beside him, ignoring his snide tone. Draco didn't do well when he didn't have the whole story, and Harry knew it.

"Now, why the bloody hell am I here?"

Hermione opened her mouth but Harry held up his hand. Instead of answering, he picked up the stack of photos and the parchment, and handed them over, watching Draco carefully.

He read the parchment first, a line deepening between his arched brows. After a moment, he set it aside, and he could see the top photo for the first time. Those same brows shot up under his fringe, which was waving over his forehead, and he caught his breath once as he began to flip through the stack. Harry watched the colour first drain from his face, then flood it again, but that was his only outward reaction.

It was probably five full minutes before he looked at the last few moving photos, then buried them at the bottom of the stack again.

"Well," he said finally, slouching in his chair but carefully not making eye contact with anyone. "Should you care to go into porn, Minister, you should be able to earn that kickback without any problem. I'd really never considered what to do after quidditch, but it's nice to know I have a viable option."

A stunned silence echoed in the strained room. Ron finally sputtered.

"Is that all you've got to say?" he said, his voice vibrating. "That you now have a viable post quidditch option, and it's porn!?"

"Oh, admit it, Weaslebee," he said lightly. "Even a straight guy had to notice that we did a good job. Get a bit of a stiffy did you? What about you, Granger? Bet those pics made your knickers wet. I understand straight women get off on this sort of thing, especially if their own sex life is, shall we say, somewhat lacking." He smirked wryly, and Harry wanted to smack him.

Ron roared and shoved his chair back, reaching for Draco across the table. He hadn't counted on both Hermione and Harry getting in his way.

"Ronald, stop it," Hermione said, easily grabbing the collar of his robes and stopping him. "He's just winding you up, like he always has. Sit down and be quiet."

She gave him a firm shake, and reluctantly he did as she'd asked.

Draco made an amused noise. "Impressive, Deputy Head Minister. Someone works out." He gave Ron a sardonic look, and he bared his teeth in a growl.

"You can stop, too," Harry said wearily. "Must you be such an arse?"

Draco shrugged one shoulder negligently. "It does give one something to do." He met Harry's gaze. "I find myself wondering why I'm here, though."

Harry frowned at him. "I insisted you be here, Draco. I'm not the only one in those photos."

"Well, no, but they won't hurt my reputation any."

"I told you," Ron said between clenched teeth.

"You want all of Britain waking up a week from Saturday to that splashed all over the front page, do you?" Hermione asked.

Harry noticed the muscle next to his mouth twitch, the way it did when he was clenching his teeth. He wasn't nearly as ambivalent as he wanted to appear.

"Well, not particularly," he answered calmly. "I'd rather have control of editorial content." He looked at Harry and gave him a slow smile. "I'd rather have one of the ones with your ankles by your ears; it would be good for the assumption some people have that I only bottom." He gave Ron a wry look.

"Okay," Harry said softly. "You've got your licks in, and you need to stop, now."

"But it's such fun," Draco countered. He must've seen the actual irritation in Harry's eyes, because he rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, crossing one long leg, ankle over knee. "All right," he said casually, "since we've established, at least to my satisfaction, that even Weasley can see this doesn't actually hurt me any, why am I here?"

Ron straightened and pinned him with a glare. "What is the name of the waiter who you replaced under a glamour Friday night?"

Draco stared back. "You think he did this?"

"The thought had crossed our minds," Ron retorted.

Draco laughed, and even as irritated as he was, Harry loved the sound of it.

"Trust me, the man we're referring to is very sweet, but I'd be more likely to believe the Muggle Prime Minister managed to hover on a broom and take those shots."

"You think it was done from a broom, too?" Hermione asked, unsurprised.

"I can't see how else," Draco answered, speaking much more politely to her than to Ron. Now, at least. "I assure you; the Earl would notice camera's above his windows, pointed in."

"Know the Earl well, do you?" Ron growled. Draco looked back to him casually and shrugged a shoulder.

"He's a quidditch fan. What can I say?" His smile was smarmy, all teeth and hard silver eyes.

"Draco," Harry said. He turned his cool eyes back to Harry. "Please."

It was only the second time, outside of the bedroom, that Harry had ever used the word with him, the first on the phone just half an hour before. Something about it must have got through to him, because he let the amused expression fade.

"The Earl and I have dinner once in a while, and I'm fond of his wife."

"She's Muggleborn," Ron said in disbelief.

"So is yours," Hermione reminded him under her breath, and Draco grinned at her.

"Point to Granger."

"Granger-Weasley," she reminded him, "and I'm glad to hear you've somewhat expanded your horizons."

"You'd be amazed," Draco said. "I believe you all bathe and everything now." He was clearly trying to wind her up, too, the crack no doubt a not very well veiled reference to the old insult, 'mud-blood'. It wouldn't work, Harry knew, but it might be interesting to watch them go at it now, if his head weren't pounding. And of course, Hermione would never lose sight of their goal.

"Twice a day," she retorted with a chilly smile.

"Oh, now that's just over-achieving," Draco shot back, clearly enjoying himself.

"Draco," Hermione said, and he held up his hand, stopping her.

"Really, I'd rather you called me Mr Malfoy."

"I know." Now her smile was all teeth. "Draco, we need to know the name of the man who allowed you to take his place so that you could keep your assignation with the Minister on Friday."

"You make it sound so sordid," he quipped. "Although, you do have photographic evidence I suppose."

"His first name was Donnie," Harry said, weary of the cat and mouse back and forth. "It shouldn't be hard to find out his last name from the Earl."

"Spoil sport," Draco said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Is he a Muggle?" Hermione asked Draco, her tone conversational.

"No," Draco said, apparently deciding he'd pushed Harry far enough. "He was several years ahead of us at Hogwarts, actually. Between us and our parents' time. Hufflepuff, but he does have his uses."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His pounding head was worse, and he wondered if bringing Draco to London had been one of his better ideas. After all, he didn't have to help Harry. Maybe he should just ask him to go back to Scotland…

The thought drifted through his head when he felt a touch on the back of his hand and jumped, startled.

"Easy," Draco murmured. Harry opened his eyes to find him watching him. "What is wrong?"

"He gets tension headaches," Hermione said, watching Draco. "Don't tell me you didn't know?"

It was bitchy, and so unlike her that Harry stared at her in surprise. She had the grace to grimace.

"I'm sorry; that wasn't…"

"I did know, as a matter of fact," Draco said archly. Harry had mentioned it to him once; he just hadn't realized Draco was listening to him. Draco's eyes moved carefully over his face, then he straightened, letting his crossed ankle slide down his shin until his foot thudded on the floor. "All right, enough small talk. His name is Donnie Holmes, and he does me occasional favours. He, too, is a quidditch fan, and no, it doesn't bother me in the slightest to take advantage of it. I pay him well."

"He must have known who you were going to be seeing," Hermione said, jotting some notes onto a parchment.

"He knew the Minister was going to be staying at the castle," Draco responded. "He was actually sort of disappointed that I wanted his shift." He glanced sideways at Harry. "I think he has a crush on you, the little shit."

Harry closed his eyes again, shaking his head.

"However, he may have thought I was meeting up with the Head Auror."

Ron looked horrified. So horrified it took him a moment to find his tongue. "Why the bloody hell would he think that?"

"I might've told him we were having a thing. Well, you didn't want me to tell him I was sleeping with Harry, did you?"

It would have been hilarious if Harry hadn't felt so lousy. Ron was the colour of a tomato, and Hermione was holding him back by digging her nails into the back of his hand.

"Ouch, Hermione. Let me bloody go!"

"No. And if you think about it, that's very smart. Everyone knows you're married, Ronald."

"He wouldn't be the first married bloke to forget that," Draco muttered, but fortunately, Ron was blustering so much he didn't hear it.

"Do you believe the Earl of Dunleavy would have had anything to do with spying on the Minister?" Hermione asked over him.

"I don't," Draco said. "He's actually not a monarchist, believe it or not. He's a liberal, God help him."

"So are you," Harry said.

"Trust me; if I were an Earl, I wouldn't be."

The smile that curled the corner of Harry's mouth apparently pleased him, and Draco reached under the table, out of sight, and squeezed just above Harry's knee.

"Did anyone on your team know you planned to see Harry Friday night?"

Hermione asked the question seemingly out of the blue, but Harry felt Draco stiffen beside him.

"In other words, have I been blabbing all over the place that I'm fucking the Minister for Magic?"

Draco didn't really sound angry, but Harry could hear it threaded through his voice regardless.

"Hermione," he said in quiet warning.

"Mate, if she hadn't asked it, I would have," Ron said.

"I told you," Harry started.

"No." Draco squeezed his leg again, long fingers biting in. Harry glanced over at him, and Draco merely shook his head. "No. Had your friends not asked, I'd have wondered why in hell they hadn't." He looked past Harry, meeting Ron's eyes, all attempts to goad him gone. "No, no one on my team knew I had, what did you call it?" He glanced at Hermione. "Ah, yes, an assignation planned with the Minister Friday night. Harry asked me not to discuss it, and even I knew the information he was fucking me wouldn't go over well with a fair bit of wizarding society. Believe it or not, I don't want to cause trouble for him."

"I believe that," Hermione said. She laid down her quill, linking her fingers on the tabletop and staring at Draco coolly. "Is there anyone else you can think of who might've done this?" She pointed to the photos.

Draco stared at the stack, his brow furrowed. "Anyone who can fly like that must be doing it for a living. Perhaps you should check with the Scottish squad. They weren't happy Friday night. "Their Seeker even took a swing at me outside the locker rooms." Draco shrugged one shoulder. "I gather they thought I wasn't particularly gracious in victory."

"You didn't tell me that," Harry said, frowning.

"Why would I? He only took a swing; he didn't connect. Fell on his arse in front of everyone, actually. If any of them had a reason to want to embarrass me, it would be him. Seamus MacIntosh." Draco grimaced. "He's a prick."

Ron looked as if he wanted to brush off the suggestion, but knew he couldn't. He took his tablet and a pencil from his inner pocket.

"Spelled M C –"

"M A C," Draco corrected politely. "M A C capital I N T O S H."

"All right." Ron closed the tablet on the tabletop. "Harry believed you had a right to be informed of the situation, given you're involved and that he has no intention of paying the extortion."

"Ah, but extortion can be so useful," Draco teased, bumping his knee against Harry's. "My father was an expert."

"I have no doubt." Harry glanced over at him and intercepted Draco's slight wink and sly smirk.

"My reason for wanting you to come to London is somewhat different than Harry's," Hermione went on steadily. "I do believe you have a right to know about this plot. It would have been unconscionable not to tell you. But I won't lie to you, either."

"I appreciate that," Draco murmured, eyeing her. "About what?"

"We have three very sensitive pieces of legislation in the pipeline right now…"

"Hermione, no," Harry said darkly. "No. I won't approve of this."

"Harry," she countered. "He might be able to help. But if we say nothing, and do nothing, and those pictures hit the media, it's going to make you look, well…"

"What? Like I fuck around?"

"At the very least, it will make it look like you aren't a person seriously engaged in changing wizarding law!"

"I don't care," he said through clenched teeth. "This isn't his problem."

"If those pictures are the reason the bills get killed in committee, he'll at least be complicit."

"Oh, for fuck's sakes," Harry growled. "Bullshit."

"Harry," she tried again.

"NO, goddamnit. I said no."

"Whoa, whoa," Draco said, holding up his hands. "Not that your 'aren't I a badarse Minister' doesn't give me a boner, but perhaps you could tell me what the two of you are going on about, and I can decide if it's my business."

Harry and Hermione continued to glare at one another, until the tension in the room was so high you could have cut it.

"Fine," Ron said. "Bill Number 794 E; Equal pay for equal work for witches. Bill Number 2047C, a bill making using children under the age of seventeen as magical apprentice's illegal, and Bill Number1297D; making it legal for a witch to sue for divorce."

"Damnit, Ron," Harry growled, but he glanced over at Draco and saw the look of interest on his face. Harry doubted Draco gave a rodent's rear end about equal pay for equal work, and Draco had begun to apprentice for Severus Snape when he'd been thirteen, but the one giving witches the right to sue for divorce… He'd told Harry himself, one long lazy Sunday morning beneath the sheets, that his mother would have left his father when he went back to Voldemort for the second war if it had been legal for a witch to do that. As it was, if she'd left Lucius and taken Draco with her, Lucius would have legally had the right to go after her, take Draco, and Avada Kedavra her on the spot. It was the only time the law had looked the other way when the Unforgivable was used, particularly in pure blood circles. Ron wouldn't, but unless a crime was reported, the Aurors would never know. Wives had no rights their husbands didn't give them, including the right to sue for divorce.

Draco stared at Ron. "What made you think I could help with that?"

"No idea," Ron shrugged. "Ask her; she's the brains of the outfit."

"We thought," she said after giving her husband a stern look, "that if we let it leak now through the Ministry that you and Harry are actually in a long-term relationship, not just…"

"Friends with benefits," Harry and Draco said in unison. Draco grinned and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Well, yes, that, and do it before the blackmailer has a chance to get the photos to Skeeter, then we can take away their impetus for sending them to her at all."

"You really believe it would stop them from sending the pictures?" Draco sounded sceptical. "Because if I had them, it wouldn't stop me. Oh, come on," he looked at the three of them, one after the other. "Even if I thought the holy one here was in a relationship with someone, I'd want to see those pics in the paper. I'm in them, and I want to see them in the paper."

Hermione sighed and Harry rubbed his face.

"He has a point, you know," Ron said.

Draco grinned at him, and Ron blanched. "Not that I want to."

"Sure Weasley," Draco said. "You keep telling yourself that."

"At the very least," Hermione said, giving Draco a hard look, "it would take away any incentive for Harry to pay blackmail."

"He wasn't going to, anyway," Draco argued.

"And if you go to a few events and allow yourself to be identified as Harry's significant other," she went on as if he hadn't spoken, "and be photographed as such, it might just be enough to save this legislation from the shitstorm that they are no doubt going to cause."

Draco gave Harry a cheeky look. "Shitstorm," he mouthed. Harry was torn between wanting to smack him, and wanted to laugh. Hermione went on.

"We have some very traditional wizards in the Wizengamot; most of them don't particularly care If he's gay. They do care if he's indiscriminate and reckless. The idea that our unmarried Minister is off for the weekend screwing a national quidditch star won't look good."

"I'd think it would make him look wonderful," Draco said with a grin. He pointed at the stack of photos. "In point of fact…"

She sighed before going on. "If we sell that he's been in a relationship for months, but neither of you wanted to advertise it, then someone lingering around outside of windows and taking nasty pictures of Harry and his boyfriend becomes an invasion of their privacy. It also sounds a whole lot better than someone doing a public service by sending the Prophet pictures of the Minister and his illicit fuck toy."

Draco looked delighted to hear the words coming out of her mouth. "Illicit fuck toy," he said with a wicked grin. "I like the sound of that."

"Draco," Harry groaned, letting his aching head thump onto the top of the table.

"Don't do that," Draco reached over and ran his fingers tenderly up the back of Harry's head. Harry was certain it was the first time he'd ever even touched him in front of anyone else, and he rolled his head, looking into Draco's eyes. He found Draco watching him, just the hint of a smile lingering on his lips.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked as the pain in his head began to ease under Draco's fingers.

"Trying to encourage my long-term boyfriend not to bang this, the most delicate and easily damaged part of his anatomy, on a solid wooden table."

There was a startled silence.

"You'll do it?" Hermione said, clearly shocked.

Draco didn't look away from Harry's eyes. "How many ministry functions are there between now and the deadline on this blackmail?"

"Three, this coming weekend," she answered, her eyes beginning to shine. "Friday night is the gala for the Survivors of the Second War against Voldemort, Saturday night is the Wizengamot's Annual Ball, and Sunday is the brunch fundraiser for Widows and Orphans."

Harry lifted his head, catching Draco's hand. He squeezed it. "You don't have to do this," he said softly. "It might not make any difference at all."

"Except is just might make Skeeter look like a great slag if she posts illicitly obtained, intimate photos of you and your boyfriend. It would be worth it if that's all it did. Besides," his smile would have looked right at home on a shark, "I've never been invited to that first one, and Merlin knows I'm a survivor if anyone is. My invitation must've got lost in the mail."

"Must have," Harry agreed, his chest easing for the first time since Ron came through the door with that envelope. "You're sure about this?"

"You act as if sleeping with you could hurt my reputation." Harry didn't look away. "Oy, you're such an idiot. You're beautiful, and you're powerful. Both things that can only enhance my street cred."

Draco had never told Harry he thought he was beautiful before, and Harry would die before he admitted how much the words affected him.

"Street cred?" Ron snorted.

"Shut it, you," Draco said without looking at him. He turned to Hermione. "I do have one condition."

"What is it?" she asked warily.

"I want the divorce law named after my mother."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up.

"I'll tell you why," Draco went on, "but if you can't agree to that, I'll be heading back to Scotland now."

Harry squeezed his hand.

"Relax, Draco," Hermione said. "I'm fairly certain I already know why, and I'll convince the committee working on it to agree. Do we have a deal?"

Draco studied her, then turned his head and smiled slowly at Harry, leaning in until he was a breath away. He angled his head slightly, staring into Harry's eyes. "Pucker up, lover," he said. "We're about to go public."

He closed the distance between them, reaching up to slide his fingers into Harry's hair and kissing him more thoroughly than he'd ever been kissed with an audience.

Ron had covered his face with his hands long before Draco, with Harry's eventual enthusiastic participation, was finished.

Harry glided through the rest of the meeting on Monday, where he remembered hearing things like, 'make the most of the time we have', and 'be seen together before Friday, to stoke the rumour mill and ratchet up the excitement'. Harry seemed to remember hearing Hermione talk like that during his first campaign, but it was still weird. She sat with her head together with Marta, and they rescheduled everything he had for the rest of the week. They then sent Harry home, with the order not to come into the office until the following week, and Draco to Scotland to talk to his management and pack his trunk.

It was pounding on his front door downstairs that woke Harry sometime later. He barely remembered stumbling out of his Floo and staggering up to bed, but he could tell by the light in his bedroom that he'd slept through the night and the next morning. He groaned and rolled over, staring at his alarm clock. The fact he could read the numbers, (it was twelve forty-five) was what clued him in that he was still wearing his glasses, so he hadn't even bothered to take them off the night before. Sitting up, he groaned and pushed to his feet. The pounding echoed up the staircase again.

"I'm coming," he growled. "Keep your kit on."

When he opened the front door, he found Draco, nattily turned out in black slacks, grey cashmere jumper and a thigh length woollen overcoat, hair neatly scraped back, a large leather trunk behind him. He looked at Harry, his expression incredulous.

"Did you sleep in your clothes? You did, didn't you? Honest to Merlin, Potter." He lifted the trunk onto his shoulder and pushed past Harry into the large, long entryway of the house. Harry looked behind him, out to the mostly deserted street.

"How did you get here?" Harry asked, closing the door. Draco stood in the centre of the entry, looking around with his hands on his hips.

"Granger brought me over to the Apparition point from the Ministry. Your Floo is locked." Draco took in the polished, light wood panelling and gleaming floors, an immaculate side table with its matching oriental vases and old-fashioned silver receiving tray, and the staircase that climbed three floors around an open, brass chandelier lit entrance hall. "I can't believe this is Aunt Walburga's house," he said, clearly awed.

"Oh, that's right; your mother was a Black."

"She was," Draco answered faintly, walking a circuit around the walls, looking at the paintings and the thick Aubusson rugs on the floors. "Did you do all of this?" Draco turned and looked at Harry.

"All of what?"

"The walls, the floors, everything." Draco shook his head. "This house gave me nightmares when I was little. Hey, what did you do with the portrait of Walburga?" He walked up to the short landing, staring at the wall where the portrait and the elves heads under glass domes had once hung. Now there was a portrait of his mother hanging there, commissioned after the war. She gave Draco a slow, warm smile and he stepped back slightly, startled.

Harry shoved his hands self-consciously into his back pockets. "I blew it up."

Draco looked down at him in horrified delight. "You did what?"

Harry shrugged. "Blew it up, blew her up. She was a horrid old bitch."

"You never met the real thing," Draco laughed. "If Mother was irritated at me, she threatened to send me to Auntie Walburga's."

Harry shuddered. "Cruel and unusual punishment."

"That's certainly what I thought. Is this your Mum?"

Harry nodded. Draco turned back to the portrait. "She was lovely," he said, his eyes solemn. "What were they? Twenty?"

"Twenty-one."

"What a bloody waste."

Harry looked down at the floor, hiding his reaction. His eyes stung and his chest hurt. "I've always thought so."

He heard Draco come back down and looked up when Draco touched his arm. He was looking around the house again, his hands on his hips. "Seriously, Harry. Did you do this, or did you have it done?" He turned to Harry, his eyes wide, waiting.

"I uhm," Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I did most of the cleaning and sanding myself, right after the war. It was the summer before classes started again at Hogwarts, and I couldn't start Auror training, so I just… bought some sandpaper and paint stripper and took my frustration out on it. Once we were back at Hogwarts for eighth year, I could only work on it during breaks. I hired some guys to paint then, bought furniture and stuff once I was through with school."

"Why didn't you just sell it?"

Harry looked startled.

"It was such an old horror, packed to the rafters with dark crap. Did you have curse breakers, or…"

Harry shook his head. "No. I did it."

"Gods, Potter." Draco looked flabbergasted. "And you don't even brag about it."

"I like it better when you call me Harry," he said, looking at the floor.

"What? Not His eminence? Your Grace?"

Harry grimaced. He crossed his arms, rubbing his biceps. "Christ, you're annoying."

Draco laughed. "So, where's your bedroom and we can drop this trunk off."

Harry looked up, blinking in surprise. "You don't want your own room?"

"Why would I want that?" Draco took out his wand and levitated his trunk. "Makes it just that much more difficult to fuck your brains out. I intend to take advantage of the next few days." He stopped, staring into Harry's eyes. "Don't you?"

"I hadn't thought about it." Harry bit back a grin at Draco's crestfallen look. "But I can see the merits." Draco grinned brightly, and Harry gestured up the stairs with his chin. "I'm the first door to the right on the second floor."

Draco started up, then stopped, patting his pockets down. "Wait, I have something…" He pulled a neatly folded piece of parchment from an interior pocket in his overcoat. "Granger said to give you this."

Harry took it from him. "It's Granger-Weasley, you know."

Draco grinned, an impish light in his eyes. "So she told me. Repeatedly." He wiggled his eyebrows, then started up the stairs, his trunk floating behind him.

Harry shook his head as he unfolded the note. A neat square of thick vellum fell into his hand and he studied it. It was the number for an unlimited line of credit through the Ministry, and he frowned.

Harry, Hermione had written. Take this line of credit and take Draco shopping. He says he needs new dress robes, which I doubt, but YOU DO. Plus, your wardrobe is a disaster even now, and he clearly knows what he's doing. Let him dress you, for all our sakes. I'll Floo over tonight. Hermione

Harry sighed. He hated shopping.

He followed Draco up the stairs.

Glad Rags was all but deserted in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Harry sat in an offered armchair, embarrassed by being offered coffee and biscuits, even wine, all of which he refused while Draco flitted from rack to rack like some sort of tall, animated fashion fairy. He pulled slacks and shirts and jumpers and jackets, dumping them into the arms of two attendants while Harry looked on in dismay. He'd have to try all of that crap on, which he hated. Draco was obviously having so much fun, though, that Harry decided he could live with it.

And even though this was one of his least favourite things to do, he tried on every single thing. Some of it he liked, some of it he didn't; he offered no opinion, just allowed Draco to do whatever he wanted.

He was in the dressing room, shimmying into a pair of jeans that felt two sizes too small when he heard the two attendants whispering together.

"Are they dating?" he heard one whisper.

"It certainly looks that way. They make a nice couple."

Harry smiled as he did up the fastenings on the jeans and turned sideways to look at himself. They did compliment his arse, he had to say that. Of course, he wouldn't be able to breathe while he wore them.

"But isn't Malfoy, well, you know."

Harry went still, waiting.

"What?"

"He was a… well, a Death Eater…"

Harry straightened slowly, pulling a blue t-shirt off over his head and reaching for a deep green one.

"That was ten years ago, Christine," the second woman said primly. "And if it doesn't bother the Minister, it shouldn't bother you. His money is as good as anyone's."

Harry smiled slowly. When he left the dressing room, and Draco complimented his own choices lavishly, particularly the fit of the jeans, Harry laughed and grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him in and kissing him briefly. The look on his face was worth whatever gossip it might create. And there would be gossip; they'd attracted quite a crowd while Harry tried on combination after combination. Finally, apparently realizing it was all a bit too much when he saw the cell phones come out to take pictures, Draco declared them done, stacked his choices in four piles on the checkout counter, and handed over the carte blanche card.

Harry leaned over and whispered, "Have the older one ring that up."

Draco frowned slightly.

"They're on commission."

"Ah." Draco turned back to the two saleswomen. "Harriet," he said, reading her name tag, "can you ring this up, please? We'll take it all."

The other woman, a pinched-faced specimen who reminded Harry a bit of his Aunt Petunia, gave them a tight smile and turned and walked away. Harry couldn't care less.

He was also amazed when Draco tucked the card back into the front pocket of Harry's probably unfashionable puffy black jacket, and turned back to their very happy saleswoman, indicating the line of bags on the counter. "Harriet, can you have these delivered to Under Secretary Granger-Weasley at the Ministry?"

"Of course, Mr Malfoy. And thank you for your custom."

"You're very welcome." His smile was brilliant, and he signed happily. "I do love shopping."

"So it would appear." Harriet patted his arm as they walked away toward the door.

The crowd had thickened enough that Harry was wondering if there was going to be problem getting through it when his Auror detail appeared out of nowhere and cleared a path.

"How did you know we were here?" Harry asked, relieved to be walking through the crowd unimpeded. He'd reached out reflexively and grabbed Draco's hand, and he didn't release it. Draco glanced over at him, giving him a slight smile.

"We've got these bracelets that change colour every time you're spotted in public." A tall, fit Auror named Cornish Matthias answered him with a wry smile. "Ms Granger-Weasley gave them to us months ago. She knew you'd never call for a detail, given the choice."

Harry remembered the Dumbledore's army coins and sighed. Of course, it was Hermione. Who else?

"That must be an enormous pain in the arse for you," Draco said, pacing his long legs so that he matched Harry's strides. The Auror smiled.

"It's not so bad. I'd rather wear it and turn up than get a strip torn off me by the Under Mrs. She scares me."

Draco laughed. "Smart man."

They exchanged amused looks.

"So where we headed now, Mr Malfoy?" Cornish asked.

"Madam Malkin's," Draco answered. Harry grimaced; of course they were. "I saw that," he whispered to Harry. "It will not help you. And Cornish, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Draco. Every time I hear 'Mr Malfoy' I'm afraid my father is behind me."

"Sure," the Auror said with an answering smile. "Draco it is."

"And Harry," Harry added. "Please." Cornish looked properly regretful as he shook his head.

"Sorry, Minister. Can't do that. It breaks protocol."

Harry sighed silently but nodded in understanding. He'd never been on Kingsley's detail, but he'd known men who were. They had never called him Kingsley.

When they arrived at Madam Malkin's, a small parade of people following along behind them, the four Aurors went into the store and walked through, checking dressing rooms and the sales floor. Again, it wasn't busy on a Tuesday afternoon, but considering she was about to wait on the Minister for Magic, she didn't look particularly thrilled.

"It would have been nice to have some prior notice," she said to Harry. "It's quite disruptive to have Aurors everywhere, harassing my clients." There weren't any clients in the store, but it seemed petty to point that out. Perhaps the fact she'd first met him when he was eleven gave her the audacity to speak to him that way when most people didn't. It wasn't that Harry cared, particularly, but Draco apparently did. Harry had opened his mouth to apologize when Draco stepped into the surprised gap in conversation.

"Madam," he said politely, but there was a thread of annoyance in his tone. "The Minister doesn't always have time to plan a shopping trip, given that he's often occupied by affairs of state. Still, he chose your shop to receive his business. If you'd rather we go elsewhere, I'm sure there's a shop in Paris that can fill our needs, admirably."

She blinked at him, clearly startled. "My apologies," she said stiffly, straightening. "I do understand that you're a busy man, Minister. How can I help you?"

Harry merely watched after that, knowing he'd have never pulled off Draco's combination of posh attitude and disdain. And it changed Madam Malkin's attitude completely. By the time they left the store, Harry had two new sets of dress robes, neither of them black, and Draco had been fitted for a grey silk set that made his eyes shine like Mercury, and his broad, lithe body look tall and lean and clung to every muscle. Harry approved whole heartedly.

They were walking through Diagon Alley, at least one known reporter behind them clicking away, an Auror at each of the four points around them. "You certainly gave Madam Malkin a dressing down," Harry said. He and Draco were walking shoulder to shoulder, but Harry missed the warmth of his hand.

"She's an old bitch," Draco said dismissively. "And that was my mother talking, not me. Every once in a while I find her popping out of my mouth."

"As long as it's not your father," Harry replied. Draco arched a brow ironically.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Draco said, doing a dead-on impersonation of Lucius Malfoy that made the hair stand up on Harry's neck, and he shuddered.

"Christ, don't do that again."

Draco gave him another of those shark-like grins.

That night, Draco simply joined Harry in his room. There was no embarrassment or tortured conversation; he simply walked into Harry's room, and then into his arms.

"This is so much more convenient than the mobile."

Harry smiled, wrapping his arms around Draco's slender body. "It really is," he agreed, pulling him in. He covered Draco's mouth with his and kissed him. It was perhaps the tenderest kiss they had ever shared and when it was done, Draco pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.

"I like being here with you."

Harry's heart jumped in response. "I like you being here," he replied. After that, they undressed in near silence, almost reverence, and even though they went through the same motions they always had, it felt different. Draco's hands were warm and stroked Harry's body with care, arousing him gently, and when he entered him it was slowly, even though at that point Harry was ready for something harder, faster. Draco was determined to take his own pace, and he stared tenderly into Harry's eyes when he fucked him. By the time he came, Harry had tears in his eyes.

They lay sweaty in the tangled bedding as the grandfather clock downstairs rang ten.

"Draco," Harry said tentatively.

"Don't," Draco replied, sounding strained. "Just for today, don't spoil it."

Harry shifted closer and lay his head on Draco's chest. "Okay."

They fell asleep in silence.

Harry looked at himself in the long mirror, frowning slightly at his reflection. The dark green robes fit him perfectly; Malkin had certainly done her job. He looked broad through the shoulders, broader than he actually was, and trim around the waist. The coat was cut like a morning jacket, short in front with longer tails in back, paired with fitted black trousers and a waistcoat that was embroidered in the same emerald, threads of teal and hunter green in a subtle pattern. They made his eyes look very green, and the new haircut Draco had insisted on was short in back and on the sides, slightly longer in the front and covered his scar. He liked it. In fact, he liked the way he looked in all of his new clothes, and Hermione was over the moon. It made him wonder how bad he must've looked before.

He heard a sound in the loo and turned in time to see Draco float out of the ensuite on a puff of scented air. The old-fashioned, floor length robes suited him, and he looked tall and stately and glamorous. Effortlessly beautiful, with his longish hair pulled back and up, his high cheekbones stark but his full lips soft. He looked Harry up and down, one arched brow lifting.

"My, my," he said, taking Harry's hands and holding them out to his sides. "You look-" he hesitated, and Harry saw something flit through his gaze. Something like sadness. "You look edible. Shall we do this?" His smile looked forced, and Harry felt melancholy fill his chest.

Something was wrong, had been since the first night when they'd made love. It had been three days, and he still couldn't put his finger on what the difference was, what the problem was. He only knew that the first night had been spectacular, and everything since – wasn't. Oh, they'd fucked, and they'd come, but it wasn't the same. And Draco seemed to know it, too.

"Are we meeting the Weasley's at the Ministry?" Draco asked, turning away to look at himself in the mirror. He should at least be happy with his own appearance, Harry thought. But he wasn't; the corners of his mouth pulled down. Harry stepped up behind him, sliding his hands slowly around Draco's waist, and settling his chin on Draco's shoulder. He felt so like stone under Harry's hands he might've been a statue.

"Yeah. No detail tonight. They'll be there, but they figure I'm safe with the entire Auror squad on the perimeter." He stared at Draco, his eyes going soft. "You look spectacular," Harry said softly, staring at their reflections in the mirror.

"Thank you," Draco replied, his voice subdued. "So do you. I'm sure we will take the room by storm. We'll get all of those old wizard's riled up and their wives green with envy."

"You will," Harry said, sliding one of his hands down over Draco's stomach to his groin. He was hard, but he might as well have been in another room for the amount of desire in his eyes. "Draco," he whispered, cupping his hardness. Draco's eyes drifted closed on a soft, open-mouthed sigh. "What did I do? Tell me, please."

Draco took a deep breath and caught Harry's wrist, pulling his hand back and stepping away. "You didn't do anything. We have to go, or we're going to be late."

"I don't care if we're late," Harry said a bit desperately. "We were so good, Draco. And then – it changed, and I want to know what I did to mess it up."

"Harry, stop," Draco said firmly. "I'm giving you what we agreed to. Companionship, affection, and sex without strings. Now stop; we have to go."

By the time he finished the sentence, his voice was trembling, and Harry knew he was lying. And he didn't know what to say, or what to do.

They arrived at the Ministry and walked the phalanx of photographers for the first time that weekend, smiling smiles neither of them felt. Harry had his arm around Draco's waist, and he was pressed against Harry's side from beneath his shoulder to his thigh. He could feel the slight tremble that was moving though Draco's body, as if he was holding himself together by force of will. The rope line felt longer tonight as they moved along it, and they answered the questions thrown at them by rote; clothes by Malkin, new haircut by Marcel on the Alley. Yes, they are together, had been for months, actually, just hadn't wanted to deal with the media attention on a new relationship. It wasn't even a lie. Except, it was.

They had been screwing for months, had met each other every chance they could, when both of their busy schedules were clear, and fucked one another's brains out. It had been fun, easy, while they told themselves it meant nothing. Then the pictures happened, and they spent four days together, all day, and the reality of it hit Harry like a bull dozer. He liked Draco, as a person. Liked him so much, and he realized he'd done the last thing he should do, the one thing they'd agreed in the beginning they wouldn't do. He'd fallen in love with Draco Malfoy. And Draco's discomfort could only be attributed to the fact he didn't feel the same.

They made it through the press line and when they were done, Harry forced himself to step away.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked. He was proud of how emotionless his voice sounded.

Draco wouldn't even look at him. "I'll take a white wine."

He always drank the same thing at these events. White wine, two glasses until he just began to loosen up a bit. He was fabulous in bed after two glasses of wine, but Harry had the distinct impression that part of their arrangement just might be over. His heart sank, but he managed to nod.

"I'll meet you at the table," he managed. Draco nodded, smiling slightly. It was so polite, it made Harry's heart hurt. He turned and headed for the bar, lifting his chin in determination. He would not go to pieces in the middle of the Ministry ballroom. He would not.

"Harry!" He turned at the sound of the one voice that could shatter his resolve, and Hermione walked up to him, looking glorious in dusky rose satin robes, her hair up in an elegant chignon at the back of her head. "Oh, my goodness, Harry! Look at you!" She reached out her arms to hug him, then stopped, her gaze on his face "What's the matter? What's happened?"

He bit the inside of his lower lip and began to shake. "I've fucked it up, Hermione," he said, his voice raw. "I've fucked it up, and I don't know what to do."

One look at his face, and Hermione was grabbing his arm, smiling politely at everyone they passed as she pulled his toward the lifts against the back wall. "Oh, just something we need to check," she told people as they passed. "We'll be back in just a minute," she offered to one of the senior Wizengamot wizards in his lurid purple robes who tried to flag them down. "Matters of state. You know."

She pushed through a line of Aurors. "Don't let anyone follow us," she whispered to the nearest Auror. It happened to be Cornish Matthias, and he stepped into the gap they'd caused in the line. "Please tell Head Auror Weasley that we've gone up to the offices?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He glanced over at Harry. "Is the Minister all right, ma'am?" He'd lowered his voice, and leaned toward Hermione, concerned eyes on Harry.

"He's fine," Hermione assured him. "Just a tiny bit under the weather. But he'll be fine. Please go tell Head Auror Weasley where we're going? It's important."

"Yes, ma'am."

Hermione pushed Harry down the hall, steering him into the first lift they came to, and pushed the button for the fourth floor, where the offices were located.

"Now," she said, leaning against the lift wall. "Talk to me."

"Christ, Hermione. I'm such an idiot."

Then he talked. He even told her the parts he thought were embarrassing; how much fun they had the first day, even though it was shopping, of all bloody things. How they'd made love the first night, how different it had been from the other times, how things had got more and more awkward as the week went along. How lost he felt, and confused.

Hermione leaned against the wall, her expression growing more and more irritated.

"Why," she said, crossing her arms. "Why are men so stupid!"

Harry stared at her, his confusion only deepening. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, the two of you are intelligent men, for the most part. You should have been able to figure this out without anyone's help. If I thought you truly wouldn't get it, I'd have intervened sooner. But it looked like it was going so well…"

"Hermione, seriously. I have no idea what you're talking about."

She held up her hand. "Just…wait. We're almost there."

When the bell tone sounded on the fourth floor, and the doors opened. Hermione stalked out of the lift and down the hall, Harry on her heels. She took a key out of a hidden pocket in her robes and unlocked her office door, pushing it open, holding it and waiting for him to follow her. Once they were in the office she went to a file cabinet, unlocked a drawer with another key, yanked it open and took out a very familiar manilla envelope.

"Hermione," he said, exasperated. The last thing he wanted to do was to go through those pictures again.

She opened the envelope as Harry stood behind her. She took the photos out and began to go through them, finally laying them on her desk and shifting some aside. Harry felt his face heat, again. He'd blushed more since those damned photos were sent to him than he had in his whole bloody life. Looking at them was like watching an animated log of his mistakes.

"Hermione, please."

"Oh, just shut…aha! There."

Triumphantly she pulled out a photo and slapped it down on her desk in front of him. "Now, watch."

"Watch what? It's the same as the rest."

But it wasn't, he realized as he focused on it. This one wasn't fucking, or sucking, or anything else that showed his humiliation in moving colour. This one showed Draco standing next to the bed, dressed, looking down at him.

"What is he doing?" he asked faintly.

"I think he was getting ready to leave. Stop talking and watch."

Chastened, Harry leaned over slightly from the hips, focusing on the picture. He could see himself lying there, sound asleep, obviously naked even though a conveniently bent leg hid his cock and balls, his head pillowed on one arm. He was lit by the fire, tawny skin glowing, his black hair spilling over the white pillowcase. Draco was standing over him, fully dressed, and he leaned forward to tenderly push Harry's hair out of his face. His lips moved, and Harry frowned.

"What is he saying, " he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Just watch, Harry. Watch."

He did watch, over and over again, as Draco's lips moved, clearly telling his sleeping lover something as he tenderly pushed back Harry's hair. And then he saw it, and understood, and his heart felt both pained and full elated. He snatched the photo off of the desk, drew his wand and Apparated.

He knew you weren't, technically, supposed to Apparate inside the Ministry. There was a law, and regulations, and edicts and he broke them all, and he didn't care. He had only one destination in mind, and it was where Draco was. Right then, he thought Draco was still in the ballroom and he reappeared directly behind the chair he should be occupying on the dais. Only the chair was empty and Harry turned to look frantically up and down the table.

Someone grabbed his arm in a firm grip and turned him around.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Ron said near his face. "You're not supposed to Apparate in the Ministry. You know that."

"Where's Draco?" Harry said, grabbing Ron's wrist.

"What?"

"Where is Draco?" Harry repeated.

"He said he wasn't feeling well."

"Where did he go?" Harry was becoming frantic.

Ron frowned. "Harry – "

"Ron, please. Where did he go?"

"Back to Grimmauld, I imagine. Isn't that where he's been staying?"

Harry Apparated while Ron was still talking, landing at the bottom of the stairs in Grimmauld Place. He staggered, leaning against the newel post on the first stair, going perfectly still. One of the things he'd learned from Hermione during the war was how to Apparate without a sound. It had come in handy more than once over the years; he doubted anyone but Ron was aware he'd popped in and out of that ballroom. He stood at the bottom of his stairs, listening, and heard a noise from the second floor; the sound of a crash, and then fluid and creative cursing.

Flooded with relief, Harry ran up the stairs, down a short stretch of hall, skidding to a stop in the open doorway to his bedroom. Draco was still there, throwing things into his trunk, cursing vociferously. His hair had come down and hung loose around his face, brushing his shoulders. As Harry watched, he grabbed up a handful of hair in his fist and looked frantically around the room.

"What are you doing?"

Draco froze at the sound of Harry's voice, turning slowly to look at him. He let go of his hair and straightened his spine. "I'd think that's fairly obvious."

"You're leaving."

"I – think it would be best, Harry."

"Best for who?"

"For both of us." Draco turned back to the trunk, slamming the lid and locking it with a wave of his wand. "If I've forgot anything, you can send it along to Oliver and he'll see I get it."

"Why are you running?"

Draco turned to glare at him through hanging strands of his nearly white hair. "I'm not running from anything," he said, his voice tight.

"It sure looks that way to me," Harry said, moving closer, gripping one of the posts of the bed.

"I don't much care how it looks to you." Draco took a deep breath, clearly trying to control himself. "Harry, I have to go." He could see Draco was looking around for something, and he spotted his hawthorne wand on the nightstand nearest the door. Harry grabbed it up before Draco could move.

"What the hell are you doing?" Draco snarled. "Give that back."

"Not until you tell me why you're leaving," Harry said. "We had an agreement, and you have one more event to attend. Remember? Widows and orphans, tomorrow at one."

"So sue me." Draco made an explosive sound of frustration. "Dammit Harry. Just let me leave." He closed his eyes, turning his head away. "Please. Before one of us says something we-"

"Says something – what? That we can't take back?"

"That ruins everything. We've had a good time, haven't we? I don't want…" Draco stopped, his hands fisted.

"You don't want what, Draco?" Harry took a step closer. "Tell me."

Draco's eyes popped open and he glared at him. "I hate you so much right now."

Harry shook his head, unable to stop the softening of his expression. And he knew Draco saw it when he stiffened, his eyes going wide. "No, you don't." He tossed the photo onto the duvet, and he saw the moment Draco recognized it. He looked so horrified Harry nearly laughed.

"You arsehole. How dare you use something like that against me, you bastard."

"I love you, too."

Draco sputtered, then stopped, his whole demeanour very still.

"…what?" he managed finally.

"I said, I love you, too." Harry let go of the post and slowly took the few steps separating them. When he was close enough to touch, he held out Draco's wand. "Please don't Apparate."

Draco took the wand. He stared down at it, then lifted his head and looked into Harry's eyes. He looked so vulnerable that Harry just wanted to hold him, reassure him, something. He lifted his hand and cupped Draco's cheek, his thumb moving gently over his chin.

"Please," Draco whispered. "Please don't say something you don't mean, just because you…"

"Because I what?" Harry murmured.

"Because you don't want to hurt me. It'll be worse, trust me."

"Draco," Harry stepped right into Draco's personal space, crowding him back against his trunk. "I've never told another man I love them in my whole life. I love you."

Draco closed his eyes, releasing a shuddering sigh. "Merlin, I love you, too. How fucking stupid are we?"

Harry laughed in relief. "I'm so glad you weren't gone." He wrapped his arm around Draco's slender waist and pulled him in against his chest, lifting his chin to stare into his eyes. He leaned in slowly, knew the exact moment when Draco let his head drop to the side and closed his eyes. He closed the scant distance left between them and pressed his lips to Draco's. He caressed Draco's mouth with his lips and teeth, then slipped his tongue along the seam of Draco's lips until he finally parted them with a soft sound of acquiescence.

Harry groaned, changing the angle of his head, deepening the kiss and Draco finally lifted his hands and slid his fingers through the thickness of Harry's hair. After several long moments, Draco leaned back and stared into Harry's eyes.

"This is insane," he said breathlessly.

"Do you care?"

Draco studied him, then a grin pulled at his lips. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Me, neither." Harry tightened his arms around Draco, pulling him down on the bed on top of him.

He was hard; Harry could feel it against his hipbone, and he pressed up with his own growing hardness. Hands cupping Draco's head, he pulled him into a more desperate kiss, tongues tangling, bodies moving together in an increasingly frantic, rolling rhythm. Draco rose up onto one arm, pushing his hand between them to palm Harry's cock. Harry gasped against his mouth, rolling his hips up, begging Draco without words for more.

Draco pulled at the front of Harry's trousers, cursing the complicated fastening. Harry laughed a bit desperately.

"Your fault," he said. "You ordered them."

"Oh, shut it," Draco muttered. He finally got them open, reaching in to shove Harry's pants out of the way. His cock sprang free, slapping against the back of Draco's hand. He curled his fingers around it, stroking him firmly. His foreskin slid up and down over the swollen glans, and Harry let his head fall back onto the bed on a needy moan. He grabbed the back of Draco's robes and yanked them up, pulling until he thought he'd be grabbing silk boxers but instead encountered smooth, warm skin.

"Jesus. I guess it's true, then."

Draco collected a slick spill of precome onto his palm and worked it down Harry's shaft. "What's true," he asked absently.

"Real wizards – "

"Oh, do not finish that sentence. My father used to say that shit."

"How to kill my erection," Harry teased. "Talk about your bloody father."

Their lips met in a messy kiss that was at least part laugh, then Draco curled his long fingers around both of their straining cocks, and Harry groaned. "Fuck."

"Don't think I'm going to last long enough."

Harry kissed him. "I don't care. Like this, then?" he wrapped his hand around them just above Draco's fist.

"Oh, Gods, yes." He began to thrust through their fists, rubbing against Harry's prick.

"Draco," he murmured. "Yeah, that. Just… God, right there."

Harry wrapped his leg over Draco's hip and they rocked against one another, rhythm intensifying, the crackling of the photo beneath them doing nothing to discourage them. Harry fucked Draco's hand hard and fast, and far more quickly than he would have liked he was spilling into Draco's fist with a ragged cry. Draco came right after Harry did, his body shaking and his head thrown back. They gripped one another hard, aftershocks trembling through them until slowly, inevitably, Draco went boneless and collapsed against Harry's chest, his face pressed into Harry's neck. Harry lifted his arms around him, and their bare groins pressed together as their cocks slowly softened.

"I broke about ten laws to get here," Harry said finally.

Draco's moved slowly, languidly, pressing his mouth to Harry's cheek. "You did what?" he said against Harry's skin.

"I Apparated inside the Ministry."

"How much trouble are you going to be in?"

"That depends on my best friends. Oh, and by the way, Hermione is the one who figured out what you were saying in that photo."

Draco sighed. "Lovely. My humiliation knows no bounds." Draco shifted again, laying his cheek against Harry's shoulder. "Can you reach your wand? I've got spunk…places I don't want it."

"You don't like cleansing spells," Harry reminded him.

"Needs must." Draco pressed a kiss to Harry's jaw, then his neck above his collar. "I'd rather you do that than have to move. And these robes are a mess."

Harry snorted softly and cast the spell wandlessly. He felt it shiver over his skin, then felt the sticky cloying feeling dissolve from his groin.

"Oh, you bloody show off." Draco rolled to his side, pulling Harry with him. The lay close together, opening their eyes and staring into one another's faces.

"Can I tell you how happy I am that you pack slowly?" Harry said. Draco smiled.

"Can I tell you how happy I am that even though I was throwing things in my trunk, I still pack slowly?" He closed his eyes on a groan. "I'm going to have to use laundering and pressing spells on all of those clothes. Not to mention these robes. And silk is such a bitch to get wrinkles out of."

"You're such a bloody poof." Harry reached up and smoothed Draco's hair back from his face.

"Pot – kettle, Potter."

"Harry," he corrected. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Harry." Draco lifted up onto his elbow, looking down into Harry's face. He studied him for quite a while. "So," he said finally. "Now what?"

"Now," Harry said, going up onto his own elbow. Their legs tangled together. "I'd very much like it if you stayed with me here, at least until your season starts again."

"I have a townhouse."

"I know." Harry slid his fingers gently over Draco's throat. "I imagine you also have a flat in Scotland."

Draco propped his head on his hand. "Fortunately, the team pays for that." He kissed Harry's fingers when they skimmed over his mouth.

"Good. They should. You play like a fucking God."

Draco looked more than just a little pleased. "Well, thank you, kind sir."

"I mean it. You're amazing."

"So were you," Draco said. "If you'd decided to play professional quidditch, I'd have never got anywhere."

"Wow, first time you've ever said that."

"Don't get used to it."

Harry laughed. "Wouldn't think of it."

Draco studied him. "So, you want me to move in here. It actually is nicer than my townhouse."

"Your townhouse is very elegant."

"It is. Fortunately, I can lease it out. I own it." Harry arched a brow. "It, like this house, was part of the Black estate. The part that went to my mother as part of her dowry."

"Dowry? They still do that?"

"They did thirty-five years ago. You have to remember; pure blood wizards are about a century behind everyone else. My parent's marriage was arranged. I'm not sure they ever loved one another." His eyes looked distant. Harry cupped his jaw.

"Draco, your mum loved you enough to get between you and a Dark Lord."

"So did yours," Draco murmured. "Same bloody Dark Lord. I guess that's kind of a weird thing to have in common."

"I imagine there are other things. Maybe now that we're talking, rather than just fucking, we can find out what they are."

"As long as we don't stop fucking, I can get behind that."

Harry laughed and grabbed Draco, rolling him onto his back and settling between his thighs. Soft cocks moved together and didn't stay soft for long. Harry pressed forward with his hips and leaned down, kissing Draco gently, with lingering pleasure.

"Harry? Harry where are you?"

Harry stilled, lifting his head and looking toward the door.

"I thought your bloody Floo was locked," Draco said, scowling.

"Not to Ron," Harry replied, pushing up onto his hand. "He's Head Auror. He can break into any Floo, but he does know the password to mine."

Draco glared up at him. "Granger made me walk from the Apparition point with that bloody trunk on purpose, didn't she?"

Harry shrugged, but his lips fought a knowing smile. He'd bet money she had. He sighed, his head coming to rest on Draco's chest. He heard his friends start up his stairs.

"I will kill them," he muttered. He could almost feel Draco's snarky smile.

"If that's the outcome, it might be worth it getting caught with my prick out."

Harry lifted his face and looked down at him, loving the delight in Draco's beautiful grey eyes. He smiled and kissed him thoroughly, with all of the love in his heart, ignoring the footsteps moving along his upstairs hall.

If Draco didn't care, why should he?

Minister for Magic Harry Potter sat in what he'd always considered a ridiculously high, ostentatiously throne-like desk on the floor of the Wizengamot, legs crossed casually, drumming on the marble desktop with the point of his quill as the hum of conversation surged messily around him. Draco would have a fit if he could see him; he was an expert at cutting the nib and had more than once called Harry an uneducated Vulgarian when he destroyed the points of his quills, then cut them at an awkward angle.

Harry smiled faintly. Draco's quills really were a thing of beauty. But then, so was everything else about him from his clothes to every inch of smooth, pale skin beneath them. Harry shifted, slightly uncomfortable as longing shot through his balls, plumping his prick. Draco had been on tour for almost two months and aside from one stolen weekend spent at Dunleavy castle in the room where their lives had changed forever, they hadn't seen one another. There was more than one episode of phone sex Harry was surprised hadn't set the mobile on fire, and Draco was beginning to sound as desperate as Harry felt.

He heard the sound of steps climbing the marble stairs behind him, and looked over his shoulder to find his Under Secretary climbing up to him, a smile on her face.

"Okay, you're right," she said wryly. "This desk is stupid."

"Thank you!" he said triumphantly. "What have you got."

"Current count," she answered, her voice soft.

He leaned in until they were nearly forehead to forehead. "How're we doing?"

"So far so good," she whispered. She removed the quill from his fingers and took a petite, elegant item from a pocket in her purple robes, pulling off the tiny jewelled cap. It was a knife, no more than an inch long and wickedly sharp, specifically designed for trimming a quill. Draco had given it to her for Christmas. When he'd told her it had been his mother's, it was one of the few times Harry had seen Hermione utterly lost for words.

She expertly trimmed the tip, then set the quill on the ornate desktop beside him. "I still think you should just switch over to fountain pens."

"What, and let Draco say 'I told you so'?"

She shook her head as she dropped the knife back into the pocket hidden by the folds of her robe. "So you'll just continue to destroy quills instead?"

"I do love to listen to him bitch." Harry linked his fingers over his flat stomach and gave her beatific smile.

"You two have the oddest relationship," she said, leaning against the railing at her back.

Harry's smile didn't change. "It works for us."

"So it does." She looked around the huge room, at the aides working the floor, watching a few more carefully than others. Government at work. "When is he due in?"

Harry glanced toward the main doors of the large chamber. "Any time."

"You have a lot to tell him, don't you?"

"We do talk, you know," he said pointedly. She grinned.

"I know what kind of talking you do on those mobiles." She wiggled her eyebrows and Harry's mouth dropped open.

"Your husband has a very big mouth."

"My husband has a very low alcohol tolerance. Worse than yours although he'd never admit it. And I can't help if he gets chatty when he drinks."

There was the sound of raised voices from a corner of the chamber, and they looked over to see a couple of the black robed aides in animated, hissing conversation. Hermione sighed.

"Clearly, someone is in need of a scolding."

"Take care of them, Mum."

She gave him a withering look but turned and went down the stairs. She might act as if it bothered her, but Harry knew Hermione took her obligation to the young interns seriously. It was a very good thing she did, Harry thought. Most of them were so tongue-tied and nervous around him that if he didn't have Hermione to intercede with them, they'd never get anything done. Draco thought it was hilarious. He remembered on afternoon before Draco had gone back to training…

Draco stopped by the Ministry on his way to Quality Quidditch to pick up his new broom, and had asked one of Justin's aides if they could help him find Harry, only for them to lose all the colour in their face and begin stammering. When Draco found Harry in the conference room, the very one he'd been sent to the first night when he'd agreed to pose has Harry's long-term boyfriend, he'd sauntered up to him with a sly smile, glancing over his shoulder at the young female aid, who stared after him in awe.

"They're actually afraid of you, aren't they?"

"That wasn't about me," Harry said wryly. "She was over-awed in the presence of England's 'greatest living Seeker'." Draco had just been called that in an article of 'Quidditch Quarterly', and it amused Harry that it made Draco blush. Not much did.

"Trust me, it was about you, Minister." He wrapped his arms around Harry's neck, leaning in to kiss him. When he pulled back, his smile contained a world of sly comments.

"All right," Harry reached up, tucking Draco's long fringe behind his ear. "Just say it, whatever it is."

Draco's grin ripened. "Do you think anyone we went to school with could have imagined that you'd end up Minister and I'd have a cover story in Quidditch Quarterly?"

The cover was a thing of beauty, featuring Harry's favourite picture of Draco, ever. He'd been photographed leaning against the neat wooden fence around the practice pitch in Scotland, the craggy cliffs in the distance, wearing his England colours under his Quidditch leathers. His arm was wrapped around the expensive racing broom at his side and his hair was pulled up, a few strands of white blond hair brushing his cheeks. His smile was brilliant, straight white teeth flashing in the sun.

"England's not so secret weapon," the title of the article announced in large white font. "One of the top Seekers of all time, Draco Malfoy answers our questions about his work-out schedule, his classic Krum Elite broom, and his newly 'outed' boyfriend, the Minister for Magic."

Harry was entertained by the fact that he came last on that list, after a broom. Draco teased him about it endlessly.

"No." Ron came through the door, Harry's Auror detail on his heels. "No one could have imagined that you'd both make good. Not any more than they could have imagined you screwing. Now, it's time for your annual meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister. We need to be there in twenty minutes."

Draco's brows shot up in appreciation. "My, my. You are moving in rarefied air, aren't you?"

Harry grinned. "Wanna come?"

"Minister," Ron warned.

Draco looked momentarily interested, sent Ron a mischievous look just to wind him up, then shook his head.

"You go on ahead. I have some shopping to do. Try not to be late; we've got curry coming tonight."

"Excellent." They'd kissed good-bye, and as Ron and his team walked him to the Apparition point that would take them all to a waiting chamber within Number Ten, Downing, Ron had a sly smirk on his face.

"What!" Harry finally asked, unable to ignore Ron's delighted look.

"You. All domesticated. I think it's hilarious."

Harry just smiled at him. "Fuck off."

Draco's smug, secretly delighted expression as he left Harry's office had lingered in Harry's mind as he was directed to the Apparition point, popping into his thoughts during his meeting with Boris Johnson, and for weeks after. Draco was so bloody pleased with himself. Most people thought it was ego, and Harry supposed it was, at least partly. He also knew that it was also his delight in the idea of Lucius Malfoy's bratty son, managing to make good. That was no small thing to Draco, and Harry was proud of him.

Harry glanced toward the doorway again, disappointed when Draco didn't appear. He sighed, checking his watch. It was after five p.m., and Harry had thought he'd be here by now. When Hermione said they had a lot to talk about, it was true.

They'd spent more than hour on the phone the night before, but Harry had news he wanted to give Draco in person. Ron and his team had finally found Seamus MacIntosh, and he'd been in possession of the evidence they needed to charge him, at the very least, with invasion of privacy. Whether they would or not remained to be seen…

Even though Harry refused to pay the blackmail, the photos, heavily redacted, did finally appear in the Prophet. By the time they did, though, the story was old news and what did hit the paper was covered with black bars that basically hid all the pertinent details.

Head Auror Ron Weasley held a press conference announcing their existence well before the actual photos appeared. He firmly denounced anyone who would spy on the Minister and take pictures of private moments, and mentioned MacIntosh and Skeeter, specifically. MacIntosh for being under suspicion of taking the intimate photos, and Skeeter for being willing to publicize them. She'd been all but incoherent with rage at being called out while sitting in the middle of the press corps no less, and it had been a beautiful thing to see. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen anyone's face turn quite that interesting shade of purple.

Harry made a brief statement, first calling for Draco to join him, reaching down and taking his hand and linking their fingers. No one was surprised by then; they'd been seen together in Diagon Alley and at the Ministry events, but murmurs had moved through the crowded room as they stood shoulder to shoulder. Flashbulbs popped wildly and voices raised, questions shouted. Harry held up his hand and waited, expression stony, until the room was silenced again. It didn't take long.

"Yes," he said firmly, "as I've said before, Draco Malfoy and I are in a long-term relationship. We've been seeing one another for months. We haven't made that information public until this week because, honestly, we didn't think it was anyone else's business, and we knew what some members of the press corps," he looked straight at Skeeter, "would do with the information. Unfortunately, someone chose to follow us, and take photographs of us in a tender and private moment. We firmly denounce this behaviour, and sincerely hope you will accept our desire to put this episode behind us. Head Auror Weasley will take any further questions."

He'd taken Draco's hand and pulled him through a door at the back of the room, his Auror detail all around them, Ron's deep, steady voice behind them, listing the charges against MacIntosh and the proof the Ministry already had against him. MacIntosh had apparently been in such a hurry to go underground once he realized the Ministry was onto him, he'd left behind a small mountain of evidence in his flat. Since then, he'd been fired from the Scottish squad and denounced by the International Organization for Magical Games and Sports. Draco even felt a bit sorry for him.

"He's an arse, but this…" Draco looked down at his plate. They were sharing a dinner of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and string beans at one end of the long, scarred table in Grimmauld's basement kitchen. Draco had been frankly delighted to find out about the meal delivery service. Harry was amazed anyone as svelte as Draco was could eat as much as he did.

"He should've thought of the repercussions before he climbed on his broom and spied on us." Harry popped at bite of chicken into his mouth. Draco gave him a side-eye.

"Listen to the Minister, passing judgement."

"Hey." Harry frowned at him. "You're the one who gave Ron the bloke's name, and they found all of that proof when they searched his flat. You weren't feeling bad for him then."

"No. I know." Draco laid down his fork and propped his elbows on the table. He rested his head on one hand. "I don't feel bad for him, not really. It's just… I know him. I don't like him, but…Oh, it was such an abysmally idiotic thing to do, but I did bait him during and after the match – "

"Don't tell me Draco Malfoy is growing compassion?" Harry teased. Draco glared at him and flipped him his middle finger.

"Arsehole."

Harry reached across the distance between them and caught Draco's hand, holding it gently.

"It was stupid," Harry agreed. "But what happens to him now isn't your fault, it's his."

"I know," Draco said. He shook his head, releasing Harry's hand to pick up his fork. "He deserves what he gets, the pillock. I was an arse, but what he did was criminal. He should have thicker skin and not let a few insults send him 'round the twist."

"Exactly."

Harry still wasn't sure Draco actually felt that way.

Harry reached into his pocket and retrieved the note Ron had slipped him during a break in the Wizengamot proceedings.

"MacIntosh now in custody in Edinburgh. He'll be transferred to London tomorrow."

He read it several times, then shoved it back into his pocket. He'd show it to Draco tonight, and they'd decide what to do. They could, in theory, choose not to press charges. Harry doubted it would go that way, but Draco had surprised him before.

Hermione waved at him from across the room, looking toward the seating area where the members of the Wizengamot were beginning to gather. Harry straightened in his seat, pulling the copy of the final legislation in front of him on the desk, waiting until everyone was seated. Restive stirring faded as the major domo, a little round man in the typical purple robes and hat, took his place in the centre of the chamber.

"Now offered for your consideration," he intoned with the Sonorously emphasized voice and the room settled into silence. "Bill Number1297D, also known as Narcissa's Bill, wherein the law is changed to allow Witch's to sue for divorce under circumstances that make the institution of marriage no longer tolerable…"

He went on, but Harry didn't pay much attention. He'd read the language a thousand time; he could recite it by rote. Instead, he studied the faces of the members of the Wizengamot, tried to read their expressions. Hermione told him they had the votes; it was a good thing she knew. He couldn't tell a bloody thing by looking at them. It reminded him of the day they'd voted whether or not to censure him for Apparating within the Ministry. He felt the same nausea slip into his stomach now that had then. He hadn't thought the job of Minister mattered to him until it seemed possible he might lose it. He hoped the outcome was the same. He hadn't been censured; he'd been warned, but nothing official. He had Hermione's powers of persuasion to thank for that. If the Divorce Bill passed, her influence would be the same.

As the vote for the bill was called, Harry felt a distinct touch between his shoulder blades. He turned to look at the doorway to the chamber, which was packed with people watching the vote. Aides, assistants, the press and hangers on. Even with the crowd of people Harry immediately spotted the tall, slender man in smart slacks, high-necked blue jumper and Harry's black leather jacket. His grey eyes were firmly fixed on Harry's face, and when he saw Harry looking, he smiled. Harry had recognized the spell as Draco's when it touched him, and he nodded, delight filling his chest. He had so wanted Draco to be here for this.

"All in favour, vote aye."

The major domo's voice brought Harry's attention back to the vote, and he quickly turned to look at the Wizengamot. He didn't count, but it certainly looked to him as if they carried the day. Hermione's most trusted aides stood off to the side counting while the deep magic of the chamber recorded the vote. He searched for his best friend and found her standing near the recorders table. He saw the quiet delight on her face.

"Those opposed, vote nay…"

A small, polite celebration began in the corner of the room where most of the aides stood, but even that was quickly silenced by a stern look from the Under Secretary. There would be time for that, but not here. The counts were finalized at the desk where the recorder of the Wizengamot sat, then the document was handed to the major domo, who turned, using a simple Wingardium Leviosa to lift it to Harry.

It landed in front of him, and Harry felt the weight of the anticipation in the room as he read it. It was an unpretentious document. Across the top was written:

That was it. Harry stared at the numbers for several moments. Finally, he cleared his throat, then lifted his wand to press against the spot just above his collar.

"In regards to the proposal to change Wizarding law," he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "By a vote of two hundred and ninety-seven in favour, to one hundred and three against, the motion is carried. Wizengamot Bill Number 1297D, also known as 'Narcissa's Law'," he had to stop for a moment, his throat thick. He swallowed. "Narcissa's Law is now law." He picked up his quill and dipped it in his pot of black ink.

There was a moment of startled silence, so complete that the sound of his quill moving on the parchment was loud. Harry had to blink quickly as his signature blurred, but the quick drying ink was dry by the time he carefully laid his quill aside. Then as opposed to raucous cheers, polite applause began. And it began by the recorders table, where Hermione and her trusted aids stood, smiling. It didn't spread to the whole of the chamber, but it was a beginning.

Harry looked over to find Draco's eyes still on him, very wide, and what he could see in them pulled at his heart. They were damp, and Harry had to blink quickly to dispel the moisture in his own.

Someone declared the session closed, and Harry quickly rolled the parchment into a cylinder and headed down the stairs at a trot. He met Hermione at the bottom.

"Hermione, I have to get to Draco," he told her. She caught his arm when he would have passed, and offered him another rolled parchment. He stared at it, then looked into her face, confused. She smiled gently.

"I have to take that one," she said. "You can give him this one. They're virtually the same, but for the signature." She lowered her voice. "You can sign that one, if you want."

They traded, and he bent to kiss her cheek. "Thank you, Hermione. I know this didn't get done without you."

She looked surprised, but pleased. "Honestly, this doesn't get done without him." She glanced over her shoulder toward the door. "And unless I miss my guess, he isn't waiting for you."

Shocked, his heart jumping into his throat, Harry looked over her head. She was right. Draco wasn't waiting. He was headed directly toward them.

"We'll talk later," she said, amused, and basically got out of the way as Draco sped up and rushed into Harry's open arms.

The arms around his neck were tight, but then the one Harry wrapped around Draco's strong body were just as tight.

"You did it," Draco said against his ear.

"Hermione did it," Harry countered. "But it's done."

Draco was trembling, and it tore at Harry's heart.

"Draco, don't," he whispered. "It's okay."

Draco leaned back, and he was smiling. "It really is," he said. "It's more than okay. It's brilliant."

Harry handed him the parchment. "This is it; the vote."

Draco looked down at it in awe. "The actual thing."

"But for my signature, and I can sign it for you." And then Harry's mouth was rushing on, as if independent of his head. He just wanted everything that might come between them out. "They caught MacIntosh today. He's in Edinburgh."

Draco went still, then shook his head. "I don't care. I've decided he made his own bed. Harry, love," Harry startled, surprised Draco had said it, "you just changed centuries of law."

"Hermione…" Harry began.

"You're Minister. It's your name on the bottom. And I don't know if my mother would have tried to leave her train wreck of a marriage, but this," he held up the parchment, and his hand was shaking, "this says she could have. That's – I have no words for what this is." He sank his hands into the hair on either side of Harry's head above his ears, and kissed him, hard.

It went on for quite a while. Long enough that Harry could hear laughter through the roaring in his ears when he pulled back, and was aware of the flashbulbs that were still flashing nearby. He looked over to see one of the staff photogs from the Prophet snapping away. He found it didn't matter. Draco was blushing, which was amusing on its own, and he reached up and tried to flatten Harry's hair.

"Oh," he said finally, shaking his head. "This is pointless. Listen," he looked into Harry's eyes again. "I've thought about it, and no matter what happens, you need to stay Minister."

Harry frowned. They'd talked about his resigning, following Draco around on the quidditch circuit, sitting with the 'team wives'. They'd laughed about it, but Harry hadn't really been serious. Except – that first night, after he'd been censured, he'd been so angry that – maybe he had been. Just a little. Standing there right now, with the euphoria of a win all around him, he couldn't imagine this being any other way.

"I won't," he promised. "There's too much to do."

Draco caressed his cheek. "There is. And you can do it all. Besides," Draco's smile took on the snarky quality that Harry loved, "I make a much better First Lady than you do."

Harry heard the laughter around them but wasn't bothered by it. He pulled Draco into a passionate kiss, lifting him off his feet, feeling with Draco in his arms, he could do anything.