Draco Apparated into his flat soundlessly. He stood stock still and surveyed his surroundings: a tiny flat in Southeast London that barely held his twin bed (that also doubled for a couch), a wooden breakfast table that was currently covered in paperwork and ink stains, and a ridiculously small kitchenette. Draco hated it, but consoled himself with the thought that soon he would have enough money to start a new life for himself and get out of this dreary place. In fact, the only thing extraordinary in the room was the ornate fireplace located directly opposite of Draco’s bed, which was currently giving off the only source of light from its dying embers, casting the room into a red glow.

Originally, the fireplace had been an old stovepipe heater that barely worked. After the first week of waking up with frost on the inside of the windows Draco set to transfiguring it. It had taken the better part of a day and every curse word in Draco’s vocabulary before he had managed to turn it into an exact replica of the grand fireplace located in the main sitting room of Malfoy Manor. As it stood, it took up nearly the entire wall and reached as high as Draco’s shoulder. The entire thing was carved out of green marble so dark it almost looked black, except for the gold filigree scrollwork along the mantle.

Draco continued to scan his surroundings, but sensed rather than saw in the dim room that his wards were still intact and the flat left untouched. With a sigh he let his shoulders drop and relax.

“Incendio,” he muttered, languidly flicking his wand towards the hearth. Instantly, flames rose up, licking and flickering along the marble sides, and bathing the room in a warm, orange light. Draco sighed and sat on the edge of his bed trying to work the tension out of his muscles.

It was always like this after a con - the paranoia, the tension - he could never shake the feeling that someday he would con the wrong person and the glass palace he had built so carefully around himself would come crashing down. The feeling would wear off in a few days, but he wondered if he’d ever be able to enter his home without obsessively checking all the wards first.

He felt something poking into his side, and pulled the mysterious envelope out of his pocket. He inspected it, turning it idly over in hands. It was made of thick, cream parchment - definitely wizard stock - and was sealed with a red wax imprint too fine for him to decipher.

He wondered what could possibly be worth a half a million Galleons. A rare jewel or painting? But surely if someone could afford to pay him that much then they could afford to buy anything. One thing was for sure, though, he needed a drink first before doing anything else.

Draco stripped down to his undergarments in the already warm room and padded barefoot over to the cabinet above the sink before taking down a half-empty bottle of cognac. Brandy, he decided long ago, was one of the finer Muggle things that Pierre had shown him, and he had been drinking it religiously ever since. He drained his first glass in two long, smooth swallows while standing there at the counter and poured himself a second before sitting back down on the bed and picking up the envelope.

“Here goes nothing,” Draco said aloud and slid the thumb of his free hand under the seal. A lone piece of parchment fluttered out and, in slow motion, Draco watched as it landed on his lap. The familiar pull that started behind his navel was immediate.



A whirl of colors passed before his eyes and just as he thought to himself, “Fuck. Portkey,” he landed unceremoniously on the floor at the feet of…

“Potter,” Draco growled, recognizing the other man immediately. Harry Potter, his schoolboy nemesis and eternal thorn in his side, had not changed one iota since the last time Draco had seen him. Except, of course, this time Potter was not chasing after him hurling curses. His unruly black hair stuck out in every direction like he had a mad hedgehog perched atop his head. Draco could’ve even sworn that Potter was wearing the same round pair of eyeglasses sitting, as usual, too low on his sharp nose and obscuring those brilliant green eyes. Draco hated those eyes.

“Malfoy,” Harry responded evenly, tilting his head down slightly to look at Draco. “Have a seat.”

Draco scowled and scrambled to his feet, sloshing brandy out of the glass he still miraculously clutched in his left hand. He also realized that he left his wand back at his flat, along with most of his clothes. Great, Draco, he thought to himself. Good showing. It’s always a smart idea to be transported to your enemy’s flat half-naked and unarmed. He took a sip of cognac to hide his discomfort and looked around the room.

It was, if anything, a simple place, although the rent must have been outrageous. It seemed that for whatever reason Harry, unlike Draco, was satisfied living with only the bare essentials. The flat looked enormous - the living area he currently stood in was certainly spacious enough - complete with a ridiculously high ceiling, but was only sparsely furnished.

“Leave it to you, Potter,” Draco said sullenly, “to use something as melodramatic as a Portkey.” He licked a drop of spilled brandy from the back of his hand. No sense in wasting any.

“So says the most histrionic drama queen Hogwarts ever produced,” Harry retorted. “Besides, I think it turned out all right, all things considered,” he said, giving Draco a pointed look.

Draco flushed, suddenly very aware that he was wearing only a t-shirt and shorts. Nevertheless, he gathered his composure quickly - he was not one to relinquish the upper hand for long.

“Why Potter,” he said dryly. “I never knew you flew that way. Now, can we get on with business?” he snarled. “Or did you bring me here just so you could ogle? If so, I must decline your generous offer.” Draco let his gaze drift below Harry’s waist.

This time it was Harry’s turn to blush, but he smiled thinly anyway and said, “You wish, Malfoy. I’ve better things to do with my time than ruined Death Eaters.”

Draco’s left arm twitched involuntarily, causing Harry’s smile to widen into almost a grimace. Harry gestured for Draco to join him in sitting on the plain couch just behind him. Draco complied, but sat as far away as possible, and quickly drained the remainder of his brandy before Harry continued.

“No, Draco, I’m afraid what I need from you is a bit more tedious. I simply need you to retrieve an item for me.”

“An ‘item’?” Draco snorted, feeling somewhat let down. “What, are your arms broken? I thought this was a con-job. Why bother paying me; surely the Chosen One should have no trouble… retrieving.”

Harry gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I told Pierre that it was a con so that you would be sure to accept. However, I hired you because I can and because of who you are. ”

“And who am I, pray tell.” Draco countered, growing more irritated by the moment. Honestly, it’s not like he needed the money, exactly. Certainly it sped up his plan, but he could have been in Greece by now - sharing drinks with a lovely lady (or gentleman, Draco wasn’t exactly selective) - lying in the sun… Well, except Malfoys never sunbathed. It was a freckle thing. He shook his head to clear this vision, and realized that Potter had been talking all this time.

“…your father,” Harry finished, looking at Draco expectantly.

“I - what?” Draco jerked back to the present.

“Your. Father.” Harry repeated slowly, as if talking to someone a few butterbeers short of a stocked bar. “Took a family heirloom of mine - my mother’s locket.”

Draco’s mind worked furiously to process this information. He wasn’t sure what to ask first, but finally settled on, “Why on Merlin’s beard would my father want a mangy old Mudblood’s locket? It probably has germ-”

Before Draco could blink, before he could even react, Harry had him by the throat and up against the back of the couch, wand pressed tightly against his throat. Draco silently cursed himself again for leaving his own wand back at the flat. Some con artist he was turning out to be tonight. He had spent too much time in the Muggle world - it was making him careless.

“Potter,” he grunted. “If you kill me, the Ministry will throw you into Azkaban.” This was a lie, Draco doubted the Ministry gave two pisses about whether he lived or not, but at least it was something to say.

“Fuck the Ministry,” Harry replied coldly, but he let his hand drop anyway.

Draco raised his eyebrows at this, but said instead, “Potter, you know good and well that my father disappeared shortly after the War was over. Hell, the Ministry itself has ransacked and taken over Malfoy Manor. You’d have more luck getting in there than I would.”

“Of course I know that,” Harry hissed. “Who do you think ordered the raid on your precious Manor in the first place?”

“YOU?” Draco shouted, feeling all control sliding swiftly from him. “That was my home, my - my- all of my things. How dare you?” The vein in his forehead throbbed angrily, and Draco had to momentarily squeeze his eyes shut to block Potter’s face from his view. It took all Draco had not to beat the other man to a bloody pulp, but in the end the call of the money was too strong and he made himself relax.

Harry had flinched at his outburst, but still shrugged nonchalantly as if he had not just poured salt on all of Draco’s wounds and then rubbed it in with a razor blade dipped in acid.

“I needed it. I still need it. Besides, with the money you’ll make off of this, you’ll be able to buy ten mansions.”

Draco rubbed at his throat, which was still aching from where Potter had grabbed him, to buy some time to think. On one hand, he hated Harry Potter and all that he stood for, but on the other… Well, even he had to admit that he was desperately curious to see what made this locket so special. Plus, only a fool would turn down that kind money. Of course, Draco may be shown as several kinds of fools by the time this was all over.

“I said I would do it, and I will,” Draco sighed. “I’m assuming you have some kind of lead for me. Surely you don’t expect me to go groping about in the dark. I’m good, Potter, but I’m not that good.”

As a response, Harry turned and marched over to the built-in cabinets located across from the couch and threw open the doors. Every square inch from floor to ceiling was crammed top to bottom with sheets of old parchment.

Draco immediately felt his head start throbbing, and he wished desperately for more brandy. “I’ll tell you what, Potter. I’m going home. I’m going to put on actual clothes, and go to sleep. In the morning I’ll come back and then you can show me the relevant information out of all that… garbage.”


~*~


Draco Apparated back to Potter’s flat promptly at 7:30 am. He was secretly hoping that Potter was still asleep, so that he could catch him unawares - serve the bastard right - but, much to his chagrin, Harry was already up and drinking what looked to be his tenth cup of coffee judging by how much his hands were shaking.

“Potter… You look like shit,” he said bluntly. Draco would have never thought it possible, but Harry’s hair looked even worse than usual - rather like a puffskein had sat on his head… and died. Besides that, he had deep, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, which also had the unfortunate side effect of making his eyes even greener. “But no worries, I hear the zombie look is in for the fall.”

Harry glared at him and handed over a thin folder. “Whereas the Muggle look is so dashing on you.”

Draco took the folder and eyed it warily. “Naturally,” he murmured, flipping through the contents of the folder. It had been Pierre’s idea for him to start dressing in Muggle clothing. “In order to con a person, Draco, you must know the person, be the person!” Draco had laughed at the time, but more than once his new understanding of the Muggle world had come to his rescue during an assignment.

Draco’s head snapped up. “That entire cabinet and this is all you have for me?” he said irritably, holding up the few sheets of parchment. “Potter, you should really consider a different filing system.”

Harry just muttered something that sounded like, “not sleeping well” or possibly, “you can go to hell”, but Draco preferred to think it was the former.

Draco helped himself to a cup of coffee without asking and plopped carelessly down on the couch, leafing through the sheets of parchment.

…locket was last seen with Mundungus Fletcher on May 3rd, 1998… same day that he was tortured and killed by Lucius Malfoy for information pertaining to the Order…

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, and squinted his eyes together hoping that when he opened them the parchment would say something different. “Potter, are you telling me that no one has seen that bloody locket in ten years? Ten years!”

Harry looked up from where he was slumped in a squashy armchair and flicked his wand, causing one report to fly out and land back on top of the stack. Draco glanced down, and read:

… although some eyewitnesses in Wadhurst claim to have seen Lucius Malfoy, now presumed dead, wearing a gold necklace shortly before he disappeared in October of 2000…

“Well that must be it then,” Draco said, feeling slightly surprised.

“How do you figure?” Harry asked, all traces of weariness sliding off of his face.

“Malfoys never wear gold without good reason,” Draco retorted. “It clashes with our coloring. But…where are you going?” He asked as Harry got up suddenly and headed towards the door.

“Out,” Harry replied brusquely. “I’ll expect a report on your current findings by tomorrow.” And then he was gone.

~*~

Draco’s first memory of Severus Snape was at Malfoy Manor when Draco was six years old and playing hide and seek with one of the house elves. His version of hide and seek was a wildly rampant game that usually ended up with Draco throwing things in frustration either because the house elf was too clever and could not be caught, or because the house elf let him win, which was even worse.

On this particular occasion, Draco was pelting down the right wing corridor towards the drawing room – having seen a glimpse of a bulbous nose poking around the doorway - when suddenly a large, black wall blocked his path.

Draco attempted to skid to a halt but was going far too fast, and the hardwood floor was slick under his socks. He slid into the black wall, knocking it to the ground and landing on its… chest? In a flash, Draco found himself face to face with a black-haired, hook-nosed man who looked none too pleased to have a sweaty, grimy six-year-old boy perched on his stomach. The man glared at him, and opened his mouth to speak.

But Draco was used to this sort of thing. His father was never one with patience for childish behavior, and Draco had perfected the art of disarmament via cuteness - a skill that would take him far in his adult years.

Draco looked at the man and gave his most brilliant, almost coy, smile and said in a preternaturally adult voice, “Why my dear sir, welcome to Malfoy Manor. I trust you’ll enjoy your stay, but please, watch your step.” Here, Draco dropped his voice to a whisper, “There are evil things lurking about. You never know when one might trip you up.” Draco then finished off the performance by giving a comically large conspiratorial wink.

The man who was, of course, Severus Snape, blinked. His eyebrows rose so high that Draco thought they might get lost in that greasy hair and his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. Draco would later think that it was the closest he had ever seen the man come to true laughter.



On the other hand, Draco’s last memory of Snape was not as pleasant. It was the end of his sixth - and final - year at Hogwarts, the night that Dumbledore died.

To this day (whether subconscious or not Draco himself could not have said), his mind glossed over the most horrifying events of the tower that night. The first thing that he can clearly remember in his mind was running. Running from Hogwarts, running from expectations, running from the body of Dumbledore that kept flying up and over- and over- and over the rampart.

Then there was Snape, leading him not to the meeting point set up by the other Death Eaters, but south and away. Snape never said it aloud, as many of their most important conversations never took place in words, but he was giving Draco a chance - a way out. When they were alone, when Draco could no longer see the castle or hear the shouts of panic, Severus grabbed him roughly, and swiftly brought down a knife upon Draco’s forearm. With the deftness borne of many years spent cutting up potion ingredients, Severus sliced off the section of skin emblazoned by the Dark Mark. Draco screamed and clutched at his arm, blood running between his fingers and puddling on the ground. He would have collapsed but Snape jerked him upright by his hair until their faces were almost touching.

“This was not meant for you, foolish boy,” Snape hissed, his black eyes flashing. He held up his macabre prize. “They will accept this as a death token, do you understand?” Draco nodded weakly, feeling bile rise up in the back of his throat, and Snape shoved him away angrily.

Draco fell to his knees. “But, sir,” he managed to rasp. “My mother…?”

“Will be taken care of,” Snape said grimly. “Never let me see you again.” And with that Severus Disapparated, leaving Draco to collapse in a pool of his own blood.

Twelve years later, Draco had to break that unspoken vow. He was going to pay a visit to Severus Snape.



Draco Disapparated from Harry’s flat and reappeared on a dusty lane outside of Hogsmeade, where he had last heard Snape was living. He had discreetly looked into Severus’s whereabouts many years ago, and it did not occur to him until now on this completely deserted road that Snape might have relocated. There was no sign of habitation anywhere near this address. Frustrated, he picked up a stone and hurled it at the nearest tree.

“Some things never change,” a dry voice said. “Even as a child you threw things when you didn’t get your way. Just as disobedient too, I see, and I’ll ask you not to throw stones at my house.”

Draco whirled around to see none other than Severus Snape standing beside him. “Wha- where did you come from?”

Snape snorted. “Just a variation of the Disillusionment Charm I’ve been working on.” He flicked his wand brusquely, and immediately a small house shimmered into view. He eyed Draco warily. “Well, come on in then. Might as well stay since you’re here.”

He led Draco in through the front door. The main living area was neat and well-kept, although mostly bare besides bookcases with shelves sagging from the weight of several dusty tomes, and a large cauldron for potion making resting on a low table. Snape sat and gestured for Draco to do the same. Draco obeyed obligingly, and took one of the straight-backed chairs surrounding the potion table, sitting directly across from his old professor.

“Well?” Snape demanded, once he had settled himself. “I trust you are here with good reason and not just to pay a house call.”

Draco stared at him. He had rehearsed in his head everything he planned to say to Severus about his silly quest for the damned locket. However, now, facing him for the first time in over a decade his mind was flooded with old memories - a tide of thought so strong that it refused to be stemmed.

“You were working for the Order the whole time, weren’t you?” he blurted out, his mouth forming the words before mind had completely wrapped around them.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Yesss. I was, not that it matters now, I suppose. Why else do you think I helped you that night?”

“Helped me? You left me to bleed to death!”

Snape gave a dry, raspy laugh as if his throat had forgotten how to make such a noise. “Always so dramatic, Draco.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Draco muttered sullenly under his breath.

Snape leaned forward, his eyes piercing through Draco’s. “You survived, did you not? I dare say your fate that night was much better than if you had returned to the Dark Lord unsuccessful.”

“Unsuccessful? Voldemort got his wish, didn’t he? Dumbledore died, you killed him!”

“That’s right, Draco, I did. I have not forgotten. But the Dark Lord was testing you to see if were truly loyal, and at that you failed. You should be grateful that a few years on the run from the Ministry was all that you had to suffer through.”

Draco saw from the look on Severus’s face that his patience was running thin with this line of questioning and bit back a retort. Instead, he moved on to why he was there in the first place.

“Potter is paying me a half million Galleons to find some stupid locket of his mother’s, and I need your help in finding it.”

Snape face went carefully blank as he regarded Draco in silence. Finally, he said, “That’s a lot of money for a mere trinket. I was not aware that you were in the lost and found business. What good does he expect you to do?”

“I’m not. It’s just that, well, my father was the last person seen with it and I suppose Potter thought I’d have better luck.”

Snape sat very still. “I see. You are aware, Draco, that most of the wizarding world believes that Potter has gone off the deep end? ‘Post traumatic stress’ they’re calling it. They think he has not gotten over the War, and still believes there are enemies lurking around every corner conspiring nefarious plots.”

Draco leaned forward, “And you, sir? What do you believe?”

Snape snorted. “I think Potter’s an idiot, but that doesn’t necessarily make him crazy. Let me see that piece of parchment you’re wadding up.”

Draco started and looked down; he didn’t even remember pulling it from his pocket, but there it was - the evidence that Lucius was wearing the locket. Wordlessly he handed it to Snape, who scanned the paper quickly.

“Wadhurst? Do you know why your father was there, Draco?”

Draco swallowed; even now it was hard for him to talk about Lucius. “No, sir. That’s the part I was hoping you could fill in.”

“A brothel was located there that catered especially to the Death Eaters. Immensely popular, although I never went there myself. Your father, however, was very fond of it.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly and tried hard not to think of his mother and her undying devotion to Lucius.

“I can give you directions, if you wish,” Snape continued, ignoring Draco’s reaction to this news. “However, I must issue a word of caution, Draco. With pasts like ours, it is never a good thing to go digging up things better left buried. Be prepared for anything; you might not like what you find.”

Draco stood up, prepared to leave. “My father would have never done anything to hurt me,” he said confidently.


~*~


Shortly thereafter, Draco found himself standing once again on the dusty lane leading to Snape’s house with the directions to the brothel clutched in his hand, when he felt the wards in his flat go off.

He immediately Apparated to the outside of his building, took a leaf out of Snape’s book and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. Creeping as softly as possible he made his way up the stairwell, wand held ready. As he reached the top he realized that his door was wide open and several lights were turned on.

“Bugger,” he muttered under his breath, and stepped inside, bracing himself for the worst. He wasn’t sure who he expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t the ditzy Muggle he had just conned out of £25,000.

“Carolyn?” he gasped, before he could stop himself, and he hurriedly removed the Disillusionment Charm.

She gave a little shriek and jumped. Draco inhaled sharply - as she turned to face him he saw that she had been beaten – badly. Both eyes had been blackened, and judging by the swelling under her right eye that cheekbone had been shattered as well. Her bottom lip was split all the way through, and blood had dried and caked there in maroon flakes.

“Oh, Brian,” she cried, making him wince slightly. “My husband he- he found out about the money I gave you and…” She stopped abruptly, looking around. “But… where is your son?”

Draco glanced about the room, wishing to find evidence that there was a young boy living here as well, but of course, there wasn’t. Nor was there room for more than one person in the tiny flat.

Fresh tears welled up in her already red and swollen eyes. “Oh, god. It was all a sham, wasn’t it? I am a fool.” She sat down abruptly on the edge of his bed and held her face in her hands.

He snorted. “Just think of it this way: You gave me money for a good cause, and I made you feel special for a while. Consider it money well spent.”

She lifted her head and glared at him. “A good cause? I suspect you used it to pay for that ghastly fireplace.”

A smile flickered onto his face at that, but was quickly smothered by Carolyn’s look of despair. She got up to stand in front of him, one hand reaching up to smooth down his hair.

“It’s gone, Carolyn,” he said truthfully, avoiding her gaze. “It’s already been spent.”

“God damn you,” she said bitterly, now threading her fingers through his white-blonde hair. “I’ve nowhere to go. He left me, Brian. All have now are the clothes on my back, he took everything. Can you possibly understand that?”

Draco did understand, of course; he was no stranger to loss. He let his eyes close as her fingers worked their way down the back of his head to his neck, massaging the tense muscles there and drawing him closer. He could smell the coppery blood on her, but underneath was something warm and rich, like the spices his house elves used to cook with at the Yule. Draco took a deep breath and opened his eyes, meeting her stare.

“Stay with me here.” Her eyes widened in shock, and he took a step back so that she was forced to let her hand drop. “I mean, until you can find a place, and some- some clothes,” he amended hastily. He pretended not to notice the disappointment that flashed across her features.

Draco shook his head as if to clear it; his brain was beginning to feel all muzzy and …unnatural. “C’mon, then,” he said hastily, backing away and putting more space between them. “Let’s find you some clothes that aren’t, er, bloodstained. I think I have something you can wear for now.”

“Won’t you at least heal me?” She asked, looking dolefully up at him.

“What?” He said sharply, causing her step back in alarm.

“I- I just meant, do you have any antibiotic cream… for my face?”

“Any… cream?” He thought for a minute. “Um, yeah, hold on a moment.” He went into his bathroom and rummaged around in the cabinet until he found what he was looking for - an old tub of hair gel that he bought but never used more than once because someone told him it made his hair feel sticky. He transfigured it quickly into what he thought looked like a jar of women’s face cream, and put a Healing Charm on it.

He stepped back into the main area and found Carolyn standing in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself, looking small and lost.

She glanced up at him. “You have a very odd book collection here, Brian.”

He noticed her looking at “Talking to Snakes and Taming Dragons: A Wizard’s Guide”, and groaned inwardly. He cast his mind around to what he knew about Muggles.

“Right. It’s er, guides. Guides for video games.” He handed her a pair of black silk pajamas and the tub of cold cream. “Just dab this on the sore spots.”

She took it from him wordlessly, still staring wide-eyed. Finally she nodded obligingly and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind her with a click. Draco waited until he could hear water running before collapsing on the bed with a groan. He noted the lengthening shadows across the room, and knew he’d never have time to make it to the brothel today. He was wasting time that he didn’t have.

And just what the fuck was wrong with him? If Pierre could see him now Draco would never hear the end of it. Only a few days ago he had control over all aspects of his life. He was the essence of cool; he was suave, dammit. And he was well on his way to buying back the Manor from the Ministry. Now things were falling apart. He actually felt guilty for taking that money from Carolyn. And asking her to stay? Like he needed that right now. He should’ve sent her on her way with a Memory Charm and a wad of money in her pocket.

He laughed bitterly to himself. Pierre had always told Draco that he had a weakness for pretty things that would some day be his downfall. Of course, at that time Pierre himself had been the pretty thing, and the circumstances were very different.

Draco would have to be blind not to see that Carolyn was an attractive woman - even with all the bleeding and contusions and crying everywhere. However, if he was honest with himself he had to admit that he’d been off foot since touching that Portkey of Potter’s. Damn Potter.



It was well after midnight before Draco’s breath slowed and fell into the cadence of sleep. Carolyn sat silently up in the bed, letting the sheets slip off her legs and puddle on the floor next to Draco. Slowly, practically imperceptibly, a smile spread across her face. In the moonlight it looked almost feral.

~*~

Draco woke the next morning with an unexplained feeling of panic welling up from deep inside his belly. Well, and with a murderous crick in his neck, but that was most likely due to the unnatural way he had been sleeping on the floor.

He rolled over and stared irritably at the prone figure of Carolyn, still sound asleep on the bed. His bed. Imagine a Malfoy giving up his bed for a Muggle. It was unheard of. It was unacceptable. It was… way too late in the day to still be dawdling about - he was never usually one to sleep in.

Draco scrambled to his feet and the room tilted and pitched before him. Midday sun poured in through the windows, blinding him. He felt like he’d been on the bad end of a spell gone wrong. Draco clutched the mantle, steadying himself and cursing softly. He’d better not be getting sick; he couldn’t afford the downtime at this point in the game.

He dressed as quickly and quietly as he could, attempting to shake off the last traces of dizziness and hopefully not waking Carolyn up in the process. Just as he was shutting the door, he though he saw her stir and open her eyes, but he didn’t stop to find out for sure. Soon he had left London completely and Apparated a short distance away from Wadhurst.

It didn’t take too long for Draco to spot the brothel. Nestled among a row of Muggle shops at first glance the building appeared to house tax collectors, thereby ensuring that Muggles never came anywhere close to its doors.

Draco hung back and watched the comings and goings. He wondered briefly if the Ministry was aware of the brothel’s existence until he saw one prominent Wizengamot member scurry out looking shifty in a house coat and ballerina shoes.

Steeling himself, Draco crossed the cobblestone road and entered the large wooden doors leading inside the building. He stopped dead in his tracks, and looked around bemusedly. It appeared nothing like he expected. He was vaguely disappointed that there were no blood-red velvet divans, or yards of brocade strewn around for good effect, or even any scantily clad women. Instead, he had walked into what looked like an everyday office complete with pallid color scheme, stacks of paper, and bored-looking secretaries sitting behind desks.

“Do you have an appointment?” A crisp voice said next to him.

Draco turned to see an older tall, severe looking woman holding a clipboard and a pen and looking at him expectantly, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled tightly into a bun.

Snape had warned him about this part, and he tried to remember exactly what he was supposed to say. “If all else fails,” Snape said, “Invoke the Malfoy name. That will get you in the doors.”

“No appointment necessary. I’m here to see my sister, you can show me to her room,” he recited dutifully, and he noted with grim pleasure that she was unable to keep her eyes from flickering to his forearm and back at these words.

“I see,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Well, we haven’t had any brothers here in a long time. Can you prove yourself?”

Of course Draco couldn’t. The Dark Mark was long gone, and now all there was nothing left but a massive, grotesque scar. One that slightly resembled Scotland, truth be told.

Draco decided to take Snape’s advice. Turning on his most impressive sneer, Draco pulled himself up to his full height and glared. “Surely you are aware of who I am or at least which family I come from.” He crossed his arms across his chest, at the same time flashing the Malfoy signet ring he wore just for this occasion.

“Yes, well, I -” she stammered, losing a bit of her icy cool for the first time. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen your kind, I assumed…”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming,” Draco said haughtily. “Besides, who would want to come here and have to use such a ridiculous password? Why not just say, ‘Look, I follow Voldemort and I’m here for a shag’?”

She gasped and looked around, making sure no one had overheard. She gripped her clipboard so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Mr. Malfoy if you please, can I show you to the room… NOW?”

He smirked behind her back as she led him down a dimly lit hallway. Some people were just too easy. And here he was thinking that she was going to stand around yapping all day.



The inside of the room was just as campy as the lobby was dull and more than met Draco’s imaginings of a proper brothel. A large mahogany four-poster bed stood against one wall. Serpentine figures had been carved into the posts, their mouths open wide in silent screams -- but in horror or pleasure, Draco couldn’t tell. The bedding was made from rich velvet comprised of dark greens, and a candlelit chandelier hung low from the ceiling. A long dresser with various bottles of wine and liquors sat in front of the only window, and the wall opposite was mirrored floor to ceiling. To the naked eye nothing appeared out of the ordinary, for a brothel at least.

Draco began to search the room. He ran his fingers over the wall behind the bed looking for… anything, really: Trap doors, hidden compartments, a sign saying, ‘Locket Here.' Whatever. He crossed the room and opened the drawers to the dresser, but only found a pair of rusty handcuffs.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, after casting all of the revealing spells he knew. It looked like this was a complete waste of time. He turned to leave but something in the mirror caught his eye. For a second there, Draco thought he saw shapes moving behind it. He frowned, and took a few steps forward to get a better look.

A creak in the floorboards was the only warning he had. He spun around, but saw nothing until green sparks from a wand shot out at him, and he barely had time to hit the floor before the curse sailed over his head, ruffling his hair as it passed.

Invisibility cloak, he thought to himself and then shouted, “Petrificus totalus!” in the general direction from where the curse had originated. He missed, but from the scurry of footsteps he was not too far off. He shoved the dresser forward, quickly ducking and wedging himself between it and the wall, and not a moment too soon before another curse came hurtling after him, shattering all of the bottles of liquor and spraying him with a geyser of brown liquid and glass shards. His nostrils were immediately filled with the sweet, musky scent from the alcohol, making his eyes water.

“Stupefy!” He shouted, aiming blindly and waving his wand wildly about the room. He heard a swish over by the bed. “Reducto!” He shouted again, this time hitting the bedpost, which exploded in a shower of splinters.

“Incendio!” A voice countered, but it was lost in the sudden roar of fire as the dresser burst into fire. Flames, fueled by the pints of alcohol spilled and dripping on the floor, were making their way quickly towards Draco. Panicking for the first time, he looked around wildly and spotted the small window above his head. Taking a deep breath he stood and hurled himself backward.

Glass crashed and tinkled in his ears and he was falling, falling three stories down to the street below where he landed with a sickening crunch. Draco distantly heard people screaming around him and excited voices, and someone was trying to talk to him. He tried to answer that he was ‘fine thank you very much and please stop touching my jacket it’s expensive,' but all that would come out was a groan.

His thoughts whorled crazily and he became dimly aware that he was going to pass out, which surely wouldn’t be a good thing. Unmindful of any Muggles that might be milling about; he pooled his remained strength and concentrated on the one place he could think of to go.

Harry’s hands slid over the smooth, firm skin of man lying prone beneath him -- all flat planes and muscle. He traced his tongue over the other man’s ear, nipping and licking his way down the neck, causing the other man to laugh softly. The warm baritone voice rumbled and vibrated through his body, and Harry placed his face against the other man’s back to hear it better.

“You taste good,” Harry murmured against the taut skin, and was rewarded again with the rich, golden laughter. Harry kissed his way down until he reached the small of the other man’s back. There he stopped and swirled his tongue around in tantalizing circles. The man tensed below him and moaned softly.

“Do you like that?” Harry asked, letting his hand wander down even further.

“Mmmm,” the man responded, wriggling delightfully under Harry’s touch.

Harry laughed. “Good, it’s your reward for waking me from that horrible nightmare.”

“You never sleep well anymore,” the other man said softly, concern laced through his voice.

Before Harry could respond, a crash resonated through the flat, and instantly the Apparition wards went off. Harry sat up straight, instantly tense and on alert.

“What the fuck was that?” Pierre asked, turning over while underneath Harry, looking pale and alarmed.


~*~


The jolt of Apparition managed to rouse Draco somewhat. He blinked a few times and the blurry outlines of Harry’s flat came into focus. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw a very naked Harry and -- and Pierre coming towards him.

“Pierre?” Draco gasped and tried to sit up but colors swam and bled before his eyes and he collapsed back down on the floor. He was suddenly struck by the hilarity of the situation. His ex-lover and his bitter rival were starkers in front of him and had just finished shagging by the look of it. All Draco could do was lie here and, and bleed on the floor. He let out a giggle.

“Did he just giggle?” He heard Harry say from a million miles away.

Draco tried to protest and say that Malfoys never giggled, it went against their Code of Conduct, but this too was funny and he couldn’t stifle the new wave of laughter that overtook him. It sounded harsh and maniacal to his ears and the idea that he might be hysterical occurred to him, but then someone Stupefied him and all was black.


~*~



“Maybe we should move him to the bathroom before he bleeds all over the floor,” Pierre suggested after a moment’s pause. Harry agreed, and without bothering to get dressed or use their wands, he and Pierre hoisted the limp figure of Draco up and carried him to the bathroom, placing him as gently as possible into the tub.

“Right,” Harry said finally, looking at Pierre. “Thanks for your help, but it’s probably best I handle this myself,” Harry continued, gesturing vaguely towards Draco.

Pierre nodded, his face unreadable. “I’ll just… get dressed then, shall I?” He said, his voice slightly harder than normal. “Owl if you -- if you need anything.”

Harry nodded distractedly, still watching Draco. He barely heard the front door shut as Pierre left.


~*~


Draco groaned. Every part of him hurt. He opened one eye and saw the anxious face of Harry Potter staring down at him.

“Oh god,” he moaned. “Is this hell? Eternal torment with the Boy Who Wouldn’t Die?”

“Shut up,” Harry said, but not unkindly. “You’ve got about a billion pieces of glass in you, did you know?”

“I was aware, yes,” Draco said dryly, waking up a little more and looking around, and then down at himself. “Potter… Am I in your loo? And naked? How decidedly odd.”

Harry ignored this. “Listen, Malfoy. I’m going to have to remove all of the glass shards from your body, okay?”

Draco eyed the wand Harry was holding with much trepidation. “You don’t have to, really,” he said, feeling unaccustomedly nervous. “I quite like the glass there.”

Harry glared at him. “Accio,” He said firmly, and the first piece of glass went flying from Draco’s body, landing neatly in the trash bin. Draco had to bite back a (very manly) shriek.



Several hours later all of the glass was removed and Draco’s skin and broken ribs were healed. Harry sat back to admire his handiwork. “I think that’s it,” he said cheerfully, peering into the bin. It was full of bloody slivers of glass. “What did you do? Piss off some barmaid? Your clothes reeked of alcohol.”

Draco glared at him sullenly. “First of all, Potter, you are far too pleased about having spent hours torturing me without my clothes on. Secondly, no, I did not piss off a barmaid. I was attacked while looking for your bloody locket, I’ll have you know.”

The smile slid off Harry’s face. “What do you mean, 'attacked'? Who attacked you?”

“I wish I knew,” Draco grumbled, putting on the clothes Harry had laid out for him. “It was someone wearing an invisibility cloak. I never saw them, and I barely heard their voice.”

He stood up straight and turned to meet Harry’s eyes. “And I don’t believe for one second that anyone would go to that much effort to stop me from finding your mother’s locket. Why don’t you tell me what the fuck is really going on? I believe I deserve to know what I almost got killed for.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged, and he looked defeated. “All right,” he said wearily. “But dinner first. Then we talk.”



Harry, much to Draco’s surprise, actually turned out to be a decent chef. Soon he was full of roasted chicken and potatoes, crusty bread, and beans. Too stuffed to move, Draco slumped down in his chair at the kitchen table, waiting for Harry to begin.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Draco said, eyeing the vodka and shot glasses Harry had set before them on the table.

Harry laughed, and then looked surprised at himself for doing so. He cleared his throat. “Well, Malfoy, what do you know about Horcruxes?”

Draco stiffened. “Enough,” he said, reaching for a shot glass.



“… After finally tracking down the locket that Mundungus Fletcher stole from Sirius, I thought I had found the last Horcrux and I destroyed Voldemort,” Harry finished hoarsely and took a swig of vodka. The shot glasses had been long abandoned.

“Thought, what do you mean, thought?” Draco said sharply.

Harry gestured towards him with the bottle. “Exactly,” he said, slurring his words a bit. “Don’t you see? It wasn’t the real locket. Ol’ Dung was cleverer than all of us. He switched lockets.”

“But why?” Draco asked, genuinely surprised.

“Money,” Harry grunted. “It was always about money for Mundungus. That’s where your father comes in the picture, Draco. He wanted the locket, and Dung wanted his Galleons.”

“But my father killed Fletcher instead…” Draco said slowly, remembering the file that Harry had given him. “He probably killed anyone who suspected what he was up to, as well. What was he up to, Potter?”

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. “At that, I can only make an educated guess. First you must understand that Voldemort forged a connection between the two of us when he tried to kill me as a baby. The older I got, the stronger it became and soon I saw and felt Voldemort in my dreams -- but they weren’t dreams, more like visions, because what I saw was true.”

He stared intently at Draco. “Earlier this year the dreams returned for the first time since Voldemort’s supposed death. Except this time my visions weren’t of Voldemort, Draco, they were of your father.”

Draco sat in stunned silence. Then he laughed. “That’s impossible, Potter. My father died almost a decade ago.”

“No, your father disappeared almost a decade ago,” Harry corrected him.

“My father would not pretend to be dead all these years and not contact me!” Draco said angrily, rising quickly from his seat. “My mother killed herself when she accepted that he was never coming back - he wouldn’t have done that to us!”

Harry sat in silence and watched him. “Fuck,” Draco said eventually and plopped back down in the chair and reached for the vodka, which was almost empty. “I’m not saying I believe it, Potter, but go on. I want to hear the rest.”

Harry shrugged. “There’s not that much more to tell, except the trickiest of guesswork. My theory is… That your father took that part of Voldemort’s soul and somehow infused it into himself to become more powerful. I think your father wants to become the next Dark Lord.”

Draco stared at him, then laughed harshly. “Now you’re really starting to piss me off, Potter. Maybe the wizarding community is right and you have gone round the bend.”

Harry sighed resignedly, but unwaveringly met Draco’s stare. “I can prove it to you, if you want.”


~*~


Harry led Draco into a darkened room only lit by the sconces on the walls and a few candles on the table. Harry waved his wand and the flames rose a bit higher, casting the room in a pale yellow glow.

Draco looked around feeling surprised and a bit impressed despite himself. He was standing in what looked like a real potions lab. Several cauldrons stood on low tables -- one was bubbling over low heat, and smelled faintly of fresh grass that reminded Draco of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Shelves covered all of the free wall space and were littered with jars marked with labels like, “dried Doxy droppings” or “salamander tails -- 10 ct.” But, Potter was rubbish at Potions, why would he need a workspace?

“But, Potter you were rubbish at Potions,” Draco said aloud, and to his surprise Harry gave him a quick grin.

“Well, I used to be, until sixth year. Then I had a little help,” Harry said, gesturing towards a tattered copy of Advanced Potion Making.

“I barely remember sixth year,” Draco said distractedly, flipping through the pages of the textbook. Half-Blood Prince. Leave it to Potter to make up some stupid title for himself, Draco mused. Like he needs more.

“No, I guess you had a lot on your plate then, didn’t you,” Harry said sharply, causing Draco to look up, startled.

Draco felt the heat start to rise up his neck. Dumbledore. “Potter--” he started, but trailed off when he realized he didn’t know what to say.

“Forget it,” Harry snapped. Then weariness passed over his face and he sighed. “Just… I was there, all right? I know how it happened, so just… Forget it, okay?”

Draco nodded mutely, and then said instead, “So what is it that you wanted to show me?”

Instantly, Harry was all business. “Right. Since my dreams started back I’ve been working on a potion that would allow others to see what I’ve seen – I’ve only just completed it.”

“You mean like a Pensieve?” Draco asked, somewhat puzzled.

“Yes, and no,” Harry said. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. It takes more concentration from both parties, because unlike a Pensieve, it will allow the viewer to sift through all of my dreams to find relevant threads and garner information. That way, it doesn’t rely strictly on my memory, which can be unreliable when it comes to dreams.”

“All right, whatever you say,” Draco said, his voice sounding shrill to his ears. “When do you want to start?”



Harry filled two flasks with the grass-smelling potion and handed one to Draco. “Now,” he said seriously. “Once we drink this we will both fall sound asleep. Then, you should be able to see my dreams as if watching a movie. Er, you do know what a movie is, right?”

“Your job,” Harry continued after Draco’s impatient nod, “is to sift through the dreams to find the pertinent ones. You should be able to control this by concentrating--.”

“What’s all this “should” business?” Draco interrupted. “Haven’t you done this before?” Harry just looked at him blankly, and Draco groaned.

“Well, who would I practice with in the first place?” Harry snapped. “It’s not like I can just walk up to someone and say, ‘hey, wanna share my most intimate and private thoughts?'”

“What about your Wonder Friends: Granger and The Weasel? Why aren’t they running to your rescue?”

Harry stiffened and his face darkened. “They have politely, but firmly, made it clear that I’ve gone off my rocker and they will no longer be able to assist me in ‘my mad quest to save people who don’t need saving’.”

Draco registered this with surprise and looked thoughtfully at Potter. “What about Pierre?” Draco asked after a few minutes of silence. “It looks like you two are pretty intimate already.”

Harry reddened and fidgeted with his flask. “That’s different. I don’t trust him like that.”

“Just good for a shag, then? Nice, Potter. Very classy. At least I cared about Pierre when I was fucking him.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and Draco could tell by the look on his face that this was the first he had heard about Draco’s relationship with Pierre.

“I guess you’re not the only one to keep secrets, eh?” Draco said, feeling strangely awkward all of a sudden. “Look, let’s just get this over with, okay?”



By Draco’s insistence they took the flasks out to the living area and sat on the couch before drinking the potion. “I’ve been knocked around enough today, thanks. I don’t relish another fall to the floor when we pass out.”

Once settled, Harry raised his flask to Draco in a mock salute. “Cheers,” he said, and downed it. Seconds later, Draco followed suit.

The effect was immediate. Before Draco could really register what happened he was surrounded by a swirl of color and sound and texture and it was… Lovely. He floated aimlessly through a caramel colored patch of dreams and was inundated with visions of sun and sky and flying. Quidditch, Draco thought suddenly. I’m in a dream about Quidditch.

Then that dream faded and the air turned pink and pink turned into Ginny Weasley… Taking off her clothes. Draco stared in fascination and let himself be immersed into the dream. Suddenly, he was in the dream. Ginny was walking towards him, not Harry, and she was smiling a very secret smile and pulling him closer, touching him. Draco came, shuddering, a few minutes later and the dream faded back into pink mist. Who knew that Potter had it in him? Draco thought, now feeling relaxed and good-humored. He studiously ignored the fact that he had just gotten off to one of Potter’s wet dreams, and what that could possibly mean.

And what had Potter said about navigating in this world? He needed concentrate on what he wanted to see? Draco grinned mischievously to himself and thought hard about what other fantasies Potter might have had. He might as well have fun while he was here.

Dreams rushed past him on all sides in an array of color and sound. Draco stretched out his arms, and let his fingertips brush the passing dreams. Immediately visions and feelings -- oh, god, the feelings -- filled his head. Cho Chang. Pierre. Some guy he didn’t know, but damn, he was hot. Himself. …Himself? The parade of dreams came to a halt as Draco focused all of his thought on that particular dream. Before he could see much more than his dream-self smiling wantonly -- surely he had never looked like that before -- Harry’s voice shocked him out of it.

“I think you’ve played enough, don’t you?”

Draco jumped, well, as much as one can jump in a floaty dream reservoir. He spun around, but didn’t see Harry anywhere. “Where are you?” He called, feeling stupid for being caught.

“You’re in my head, you prat,” came Harry’s amused voice. “Or, at least part of it. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell what you were looking at?”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Draco said, irritated.

Harry didn’t answer, but said instead, quietly. “See that dark patch, over there?”

Draco bit back a sarcastic, ‘Over where?’ Because suddenly, marring the dancing, beautiful colors of good dreams, was a spot as dark as midnight.

“Yes,” Draco said hoarsely, feeling apprehensive.

“I want you to go there, and think about your father.”

Draco tried. He called up images of his father in his head, but they kept getting replaced by those of Voldemort. The black swirl rushed towards him, and then he could see nothing, not even his own body.

“Harry?” He called, but there was no reply. Then a dream floated towards him, it was of Voldemort punishing Rookwood and pain flooded Draco and he screamed, thinking that his throat would shred from the intensity of it. The dream was over, and the pain stopped as quickly as it started, leaving Draco sobbing.

My father. My father, he repeated over and over again like a sick mantra. Just let me see my father so I can get out of here and not have to live through another one of those dreams, no, nightmares. The images flew by faster and faster. Draco caught glimpses of faces here and there -- the one they call Wormtail, Nagini, and other Death Eaters. They sped past him until suddenly everything stopped, and there was his father and then, just as suddenly, Draco was sucked in against his will and became part of the vision.

Lucius was standing with his back to Draco, but Draco could have recognized him anywhere. Long, silver blonde hair like Draco’s, and swirling a glass of sherry absently in one hand while flipping through some pieces of parchment on the desk in front of him. Draco felt a wave of nostalgia so thick he could weep from it. How many times had he seen his father standing just like that in their study at home?

To distract himself Draco looked around the room as much as the confines of the dream would let him. They seemed to be in an apartment of some sort. There was a small table for two, and a bed, and clothes were strewn about. Draco smiled faintly. His father would never be capable of picking up his own clothes; he would forever be waiting for a House Elf to do it. Then his eyes fell on something that made his blood run cold. Black silk pajamas. His pajamas.

Then a voice started from behind him. “He’s here my love -- entering the building now -- just like I said he would be.” Draco whipped around but was not surprised to see Carolyn there, just a little disgusted at himself for being had. She walked forward and through Draco to embrace Lucius, but Draco was not paying attention. He was looking at the wall behind him, from where Carolyn had entered.

It shimmered with silver light and was transparent so that Draco could see into the room beyond. It was the room at the brothel. He was behind the mirror.

“Harry! HARRY!” He shouted, feeling panicked. “Harry, wake up, we need to get out of here! I know where the locket is!”



“Run it past me one more time,” Harry said stubbornly.

“It’s like I told you the first ten times! This woman, Carolyn -- who Pierre set me up with, by the way -- she pretended to be a Muggle and let me con her, but the whole time she was conning me! Me! Plus, I think she poisoned me,” he added, sulking slightly.

“Why would she con you in the first place?” Harry said pointedly.

“Because -- because-” Draco spluttered. “I have no idea, okay? Can we just go already? They won’t be expecting us to have figured it out so soon, so we have the jump on them, for a change.”

“Go where?” Harry said impatiently. “The brothel? Draco, we can’t just bust in there wands ablaze and hope to come back out in one piece. And I thought Gryffindors came up with bad plans.”

Draco fought back the urge to stick his tongue out. “Fine, we’ll just have to beat them at their own game. You have an invisibility cloak, do you not?”


~*~



Their Apparition into Wadhurst was none too graceful. Draco thought they were lucky not to splinch themselves as Harry had insisted on them wearing the invisibility cloak while Apparating, even though it was ridiculously small for both of them to hide under. Untangling limbs and picking themselves up off of the ground while remaining covered was quite another task, however.

“Ouch!” Draco yelped. “That’s my hand you’re stepping on, you oaf.”

“Well, give it here then, and let me help you up,” Harry retorted irritably.

“I don’t need your rubbishy help,” Draco said, managing to stand halfway before getting his foot caught in a root and tumbling over, taking Harry with him.

“Oof”, Harry grunted as Draco landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of his lungs. “You great lug, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to wrestle me to the ground to get it.”

“Prat,” Draco said, but he helped Harry up anyway and didn’t notice when Harry held on to his grasp a bit longer than necessary.

“Which way?” Harry said, shuffling around that he could see better, his cheeks unnaturally flushed.

Draco frowned. “I’ve no idea. You’ve landed us in the middle of the forest, haven’t you?”

“It’s not a forest, it’s like a park or something,” Harry snorted. “Look over to your right; I can see a church steeple sticking up above the trees.”

“Yeah?” Draco said, peering around him. “Yeah, okay. The brothel was just down the street, then.”

The trek through the park was uneventful, unless you count the fact that Draco had to keep shifting away from Harry lest his sudden, unexplained, and entirely unwanted arousal be made known. Well, not entirely unexplained. Especially when Draco happened to enjoy sex with men and happened to be rubbing up against another man underneath a too-small invisibility cloak. Draco was sure it happened to people all the time. Nothing to worry about.

“Are you coming?” Harry turned to ask softly, startling Draco out of his reverie.

“Am I -- what?” Draco stammered.

“You stopped. Dead still,” Harry explained as if speaking to a child.

“Oh, right,” Draco said feeling immensely relieved. “Walking. Yes, I am continuing to walk.”

Harry gave him an odd look but they continued on in silence as the entered the town, not wanting to give away their presence, and being busy trying to avoid people running into them.

As they neared the brothel, Draco took over the lead. He waited until he saw another man enter and he and Harry slipped through the door behind him. While Ms. Severe Bun was occupied by the customer, they walked right past to the hallway beyond.

Once safely out of eyesight, Draco paused and whispered to Harry, “That was almost too easy, wasn’t it?” Harry didn’t answer, but nodded in agreement, eyes wide and dilated and he was definitely looking flushed now.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked immediately.

Harry only shook his head and muttered, “Scar.”



When they reached the reached the door to the room, Draco halted and realized the first gaping flaw in their plan. “Harry,” he groaned. “We are idiots. How are we going to open the door without father and Carolyn noticing? What do you think the chances are that they’re out to lunch?”

“Slim to none,” Harry gasped. “But don’t worry, I think they’re too occupied to notice.”

“What do you mean-,” Draco started to say, turning to face him, but the look on Harry’s face stopped him.

“My scar,” Harry panted, now struggling to speak. “Used to let me … feel what Voldemort was feeling and … I guess that’s something that passed along to your father as well.”

Draco stared at him. “So… are you in pain?”

Harry glared, sweat beading on his forehead. “God, you really are thick sometimes.”

And then he grabbed Draco and kissed him on the mouth. Hard.

At first Draco froze, acutely aware of Harry's hot quick breaths against his cheek; until it occurred to him that he could kiss Harry back. He shoved the absurdity of it all out of his head and let his body take control, pinning Harry against the wall. It was too late to wonder if the cloak had slipped as Draco shoved his knee between Harry's legs, instinctively answering Harry's need for friction. He could feel the dampness creeping on Harry's skin as he pulled Harry's head forward to kiss him roughly.

"Oh, fuck," Harry breathed as his head rolled back from Draco. His scar stood out in sharp relief on his flushed skin and Draco decided to ignore the decided weirdness of it connecting Harry to his father… He pulled Harry closer to him, tracing the scar with his mouth as he reached his hand down to grasp Harry's cock through his trousers. Harry's breath hissed through his teeth as Draco artlessly stroked once, twice, and again. Harry jerked and shuddered, until finally sagging against the wall in release. Draco was propelled towards him, pressing his body fully against Harry, and kissed him slowly, savoring…something. Eventually Harry pulled away, looking dazed, sated and a bit awkward.

“We should probably get this over with,” he said, reluctantly pulling away from Draco. “Before they have a chance to recover.” Then he turned and opened the door to the room, leaving Draco no choice but to follow.

The stepped into the room and looked around. No one had bothered to repair it from when Draco and Carolyn -- for his gut instinct told Draco it was she -- dueled. The room was completely destroyed. The bed was mostly in pieces, the dresser and surrounding area was blackened and ashy, and pieces of glass -- either from the bottles or from the window -- crunched underfoot.

“Carolyn.” Harry said coldly, indicating the ruined room. It was not a question. Draco jerked his head towards the mirror. Harry nodded and together they walked towards the shining surface.

It was like walking through a waterfall, Draco thought, as they stepped through the mirror and into the room beyond.

And in the bed, looking drowsy and satiated, were Lucius and Carolyn.

“Talk about being caught with your pants down,” Draco said, walking out from underneath the Invisibility cloak. Carolyn gasped and clutched the blankets to her chest, but Lucius merely looked up at Draco and smiled, then it was Draco’s turn to gasp.

Instead of his father’s normal cool gray eyes, these eyes were red with catlike pupils. Voldemort’s eyes. He felt a reassuring touch on his back, and realized that Harry was still under the cloak, standing behind him.

“Draco, my son,” Lucius said, pulling a robe over his head and standing. “I was wondering when you’d join us.”

Draco stared at him in horror. Some part of him knew that Harry was right, that his father was alive, even when he was vehemently denying it. But seeing Lucius here, standing cockily in front of him as if his betrayal of Draco and Narcissa meant nothing to him… Draco felt white-hot heat bubbling up from inside and he drew his wand and pointed it directly at Lucius. “Accio wands.” Two wands flew from bedside table into his hand.

“See, I told you,” Carolyn whined. “It was pointless for me to follow him. He’ll never join us.”

“Join you?” Draco shouted, ignoring Carolyn altogether and keeping his eyes trained on Lucius. “Is that what you thought would happen? After you deserted Mother and me?”

“I deeply regret that I had to keep my existence hidden from you, Draco. I have spent the last many years finding a way to get stronger in order to keep Voldemort’s dreams alive – to keep myself alive. However, need I remind you that you were also on the run from loyal Death Eaters and the Ministry during many of those years? My presence would have only endangered you.”

“And Mother?” Draco questioned, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Ah, yes, your mother.” Lucius steepled his fingers together and looked thoughtful, as if they were having a conversation about something mundane, like cauldron thickness.

“Yes, that was unfortunate. I made the mistake revealing my whereabouts and plans to her, confident that she would be supportive. Dear, obedient, Narcissa. It is unfortunate that I was wrong.”

Draco saw red. “You killed her, didn’t you?” he growled, knowing it was true as he said it. He took a few steps closer.

Carolyn whimpered and in a heartbeat Draco Petrified her, so that she toppled over in the bed, eyes wide and staring. “You killed her,” he continued as nothing happened, “and made it look as if she had killed herself. You unimaginable bastard.”

Lucius watched him warily and Draco stepped closer, grip tightening on his wand. “And then,” Draco said, his voice rising higher, “you came back to this whore house that you loved so much, and took in the first idiot slut with decent Desirability Charms who would support you unconditionally.” He jerked his head toward Carolyn.

“Something like that, yes,” Lucius said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?” Draco said, taking another step forward.

“I don’t need my wand to kill you.” Lucius said, and as fast as lightning he reached out and encircled Draco’s neck with both hands. Draco’s spell slipped off Carolyn as he dropped his wand in surprise, and he saw her scrambling off the bed and away from them.

“Do you really think I would let you ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for?” Lucius shook Draco angrily, now looking as mad and power hungry as Voldemort. Something gold caught his eye though, and he saw that the elusive locket had fallen out of the neck of Lucius’s robes.

“You could have stood by my side, but now -- now you can lie with your mother in the ground,” Lucius continued, tightening his hold on Draco’s windpipe. Black spots danced before Draco’s eyes and he felt consciousness slipping away.

“Not if I can help it,” Harry’s voice said, and Draco saw a Seeker-quick hand dart out from under the cloak and jerked the locket, breaking the chain and yanking it away from Lucius’s neck.

Lucius let go of Draco, who fell to the ground spluttering and coughing, and lunged for Harry, but he was too late.

“Carolyn, catch,” Harry said and tossed it to her. She caught it with one hand, looking surprised.

Harry threw himself on top of Draco, casting a Shield Charm around them both, and then pointed his wand at the locket. Just as Lucius reached it, triumph written all over his face, Harry shouted, “Reducto,” and ducked.

The explosion that came next was deafening. Draco and Harry were thrown through the air and landed many yards away from where the brothel used to stand. Miraculously, Harry’s shield held, and they came away with bruises and bumps only.

“The building’s gone,” Draco said stupidly, looking around and standing.

“Yes,” Harry said, but he was pale and his eyes were shuttered. Draco knew he was thinking of all the other innocent people who had just perished.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Draco said, in what he hoped was a comforting voice and put his hand stiffly on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry didn’t answer, but leaned back against Draco all the same.


~*~


Somehow they made it back to Harry’s flat -- Draco couldn’t face going to his alone, not yet -- and collapsed wearily onto the couch.

“I feel like someone took a feather, strapped a boulder to it, and then beat me with it,” Draco groaned, trying to work the stiffness out of his neck.

Harry just looked at him.

“What?” Draco demanded after a moment. “Don’t just sit there and stare at me, it’s creepy.”

“I just,” Harry started to say, then flushed “I just wanted to say that you don’t have to, you know, feel obligated because of what -- of what happened in the er, hallway today,” he stammered. “I mean. Special circumstances and all that. Cursed scar. You know.”

It was Draco’s turn to stare, which Harry must have interpreted as anger because he continued babbling on. “I just mean, that I don’t, you know, expect anything from you. Or anything.” Harry trailed off, looking uncertain.

“Harry,” Draco said, fighting a smirk, deciding that it would be insensitive to enjoy Harry's obvious discomfort anymore than he already was. "Are you done?" He blinked innocently and watched uncertainty, fear, stubbornness and anger war on Harry's face as he tried to decide exactly what Draco meant. “God, you really are thick sometimes.”

Then, despite his protesting muscles, Draco pulled Harry off the couch before he could work out what Draco just said, and kissed him.

~fin~

The alarm went off and Draco cursed. This was not the way he had planned things, but it seemed that sometime between accepting the assignment and going to the party earlier that night, all of his plans had flown out the window. He hadn’t acted so foolishly since his days at Hogwarts. What was it that made him feel like a hot-headed teenager again, playing a game that he could never win?

* * *

Draco stared at the reflection in the mirror, trying in vain to fix his ghastly red hair. Freckles! Merlin, he hated them. They made him feel like a Weasley. There was no escape from it though; it was now or never. He gave one last glance at his alien self and headed out of the bathroom. Showtime.

* * *

Limousine after limousine pulled over at the main entrance. The mansion was huge, a palace really, and it was full of light and sound. The front doors were wide open and packed with glamour and glitter as people dressed in their finest filled the entrance. This was the party of the year; the guest list was straight from who’s who of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds alike. Draco adjusted his bowtie nervously. He knew he could do this. He took a deep breath, flashed one of his charming smiles at the doorman and stepped inside.

The assignment had been simple, as promised. The note in the envelope Pierre had given him had contained only two things: Richard Mahony, the name of the target, and the Jade Tiger, the desired object. Draco had done his research; he had discovered that Richard Mahony was an extremely wealthy American wizard, who visited his so-called modest country house in Britain a few times a year. He had made his fortune with Muggle business dealings, hence his extensive connections with members of the Muggle upper class. He also had some very good connections amongst the Wizarding world’s crème de la crème; he was one of the biggest investors in post-war rebuilding projects, as well as a welcoming host to some very important Ministry officials, who were often invited to enjoy the benefits of his many estates worldwide.

Richard Mahony was also a passionate collector. He collected historical treasures and artefacts, and objects of high magical value. To Muggles, his large collection seemed only a random, but clearly priceless, selection of oddities. To many wizards it was the cause for endless envy. The newest addition to his collections had been the Jade Tiger, a fairly small and ancient statuette. Its powers were not well known, but Draco was sure that it possessed powerful dark magic. The fact that he had been hired anonymously at such a huge price only supported his beliefs. It had to be a very valuable object indeed.

Draco felt slightly anxious about the whole thing. He wasn’t really worried about the con part; lying was second nature to him by now and he was well prepared for this case. The problem was that this wasn’t just another cunning sham: this time he was also supposed to play the part of a thief. He hadn’t expected this, but once he had accepted the envelope, there was no way out of it without tarnishing his reputation. The actual theft would raise the stakes, not to mention stealing something from a wizard.

Luckily for Draco, Richard Mahony had one weakness: redheads. Young red-haired men, to be precise. It was the perfect excuse to take care of two things at once: it would not only be easier to catch Mahony’s attention, but he could also go through with it unrecognized. Taking Polyjuice potion was always a nasty procedure, but this time it was twice as bad. He couldn’t afford for it to wear off as quickly as usual, so he had used one of his own concoctions – the aftereffects would last a week or longer. He decided to worry about that later while lying on a sunny beach with a fruity drink in his hand and half a million Galleons in his pocket.

When Draco entered the great hall, it was already full of guests. He moved to a table, grabbed a drink and stood there for a moment, scanning the crowd. He located his target easily. The man was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a large group of people who were laughing at something he had said. The man was in his late fifties, chubby, merry and loud. Draco didn’t take him for the jovial man he was trying to portray for a second; Richard Mahony was a sharp and hard man, and a wizard at that. There was no room for mistakes.

With a determined look on his face, Draco set the glass aside and walked through the crowd decisively, taking his time. He passed the group of people, and at the moment when Mahony lifted his gaze, Draco gave one of his most enigmatic smiles and walked on.

He came to stand next to a huge Muggle painting on the far side of the room and pretended to study the picture. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he didn’t dare to look back. The big irony in all this was that he had to be seductive, looking like somebody with a wildfire on his head, and he felt as insecure as ever. He had counted on his information that redheads were the way to go, so, insecure or not, the game was on.

"Hello there, young man. I don’t believe we’ve met."

Draco turned around to see Richard Mahony right behind him. He nearly licked his lips. So far so good. He offered his hand and gave another one of his charming smiles.

"Good evening, Mr. Mahony. My name is Ryan Scott. Thank you for the invitation; I’m really impressed with the lovely party you’ve organized. I was just admiring your painting – it never ceases to amaze me how these Muggle paintings manage to capture the moment so perfectly, even though they don’t move at all."

There was a knowing glint in Mahony’s eyes, as Draco confessed belonging to the Wizarding world, and he smiled broadly while shaking Draco’s hand but still observed the other man keenly.

"Quite true. You are most welcome, Mr. Scott. You must forgive me, but I seem to have forgotten our connection. Refresh my memory, will you; how do we know each other? I’m quite sure that we haven’t met before, because I wouldn’t forget a face like that."

Draco didn’t even blink. "That’s right, sir; we haven’t met. I’m here on behalf of my senior partner, Mr. Emerson. I’m from the main office."

"Oh, I see. What a pity he wasn’t able to come." Mahony sounded pleasant, but the sharp look in his eyes didn’t change. "I do know Mr. Emerson, Matthew, quite well, but isn’t it odd that not once in our dealings has he mentioned a younger associate?"

"Well, I’m hardly ever there. I’m mostly doing the fieldwork."

"What sort, Mr. Scott?"

"Research and negotiations. Usually searching for the lost artefacts."

"Oh, you are the treasure hunter then."

Draco gave a delighted laugh. "I guess you could put it that way. Although I can assure you, Mr. Mahony, it’s not even half as exciting as it sounds. It’s mostly dull paperwork done in dusty libraries and such."

"Oh please, call me Richard, dear boy. And quite the contrary. It does sound very intriguing. It seems that we share a mutual interest for objects of beauty, young man."

Draco winced slightly at the constant reminder of his age. The downplay made him feel uncomfortable, and he almost had second thoughts about choosing this twenty-something form for this occasion. Almost. So far it looked as if Mahony was buying his cover story, and things were going quite smoothly.

"So, Ryan, what are you currently after?"

"It’s supposed to be top secret, but I guess it won’t matter much if I give a little hint. It involves a certain Incan Mask, spotted in a European city with a seller who doesn’t want to part with it unless the price is high enough. There is no knowing the authenticity, though. It could be fake." It didn’t hurt that Mahony had a special interest in ancient Incan Masks.

"An Incan Mask, you say?" Mahony scratched his beard. "I might be able to offer some assistance, but I would need to know more about it, of course. Would you care to stop by at my town house tomorrow? We could discuss it some more and then see what to make of it."

Draco adopted his most genuine look of regret. "I wish I were able to come tomorrow, but my flight leaves early in the morning, and there’s no knowing when I’ll be back."

"What a shame. Couldn’t you — "

At that moment a brunet clapped Mahony’s shoulder.

"There you are, Richie. Isn’t it time for the much-awaited tour you promised us?"

Mahony looked a little annoyed at this interruption, but he gestured at his other guest. "Yes. I did promise to show you around a bit, but let me first introduce you to Ryan Scott from Emerson and Co. He was just explaining his opinion of the painting. He seems to share your interest in Muggle art."

"Oh, does he now?"

The young man turned to look directly at Draco, his clear blue eyes curious. He extended his hand and gave Draco a firm handshake. "Very nice to meet you, Ryan. I’m Remy Jareth Pastor, but you can call me Jay like all my friends do."

"Nice to meet you."

The man continued to hold Draco’s hand a bit longer than necessary. Draco was sure he had never seen the other man before in his life, but he couldn’t help feeling somehow familiar with him. He snatched his hand away and tried to shake the strange tingling sensation off.

"So, Ryan, like what you see?"

"Excuse me?"

Remy pointed at the painting on the wall, and Draco turned to look at the elaborate and colorful scene of angels and demons and tried not to show his irritation. Things had been advancing quite well before this clown had shown up.

"I — "

"If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to look after the other guests. Remy." Mahony gave a curt nod. "Ryan, I hope to see you again later this evening. I’m giving an exclusive tour of the house to a select few to show some artwork from my extensive collections. You are, naturally, invited, and it would give me great pleasure to see you there."

Draco forced a smile. "I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

Mahony turned and left them alone.

"So…"

"So."

"What was it that you do again? I didn’t quite catch it."

"That’s probably because I never said it."

Remy gave a short laugh that unnerved Draco. Something was out of place here, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. It was almost as if the other man knew him, but how could he? There was no way he could see through the Polyjuiced disguise. Unless, of course, something had gone astray and Draco was standing there in the hall full of guests, one half of his hair flaming red and the other half pale blond. But that was most unlikely. He didn’t made mistakes with potions.

"You must be an artist, if you caught Richie’s attention that quickly."

"You are quite wrong, I assure you. I couldn’t paint a decent picture even if my life depended on it."

"Okay, no artist then. But there are other forms of artistry. I bet you still have talented hands. I can tell."

"Really?"

"Really. Pray, what is it then that you do at Emerson and Co. Surely you aren’t just a common desk rat?"

Draco was starting to get angry. Maybe it was partly the nerves, maybe because he didn’t feel as confident as usual in his loan body. Normally, he knew how to control his feelings better than this.

"With all due respect, Jay, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but hands aside, I’m a junior partner at Emerson’s and it’s up to me to find and evaluate the precious historical or magical artefacts they sell."

Remy looked more interested at hearing this. "Oh, so you’re their treasure hunter then. You’re going to love the tour of the house. Richie’s collection is one of the biggest in Western Europe. And the jewel of it is the Jade Tiger, but you must know all about it, don’t you?"

Draco’s heart leaped up in his throat, and he didn’t quite know how to respond. "Yes, I do. Why?"

It must have sounded a bit defensive, but Remy only shrugged nonchalantly. "No reason. I’m a bit of a collector myself. I might need your services sometime."

Draco had to suppress a snort. What a jerk.

Remy continued, undaunted. "I’m serious. I own a gallery and I’m constantly searching for things to sell there. Like this one here," he said pointing at a painting next to the demons. "I lost it to Richie for not using the right sources. If you — "

This night was his only chance to get the Jade Tiger, and Draco’s patience had worn out. He cut the other man short. "Pardon me, I have little interest in things that lack substance," Draco said, referring to the painting but looking the other man straight in the eye. "If you catch my meaning."

Remy flashed a wide, teeth-baring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A strange expression passed fleetingly over his face, but was quickly gone. "Some things require a second look."

"I doubt it."

Draco was about to leave, when Remy shoved something into his hands. "Look, here’s my card. If you change your mind, please give me a call. Any friend of Richard’s is a friend of mine."

Draco didn’t bother to answer. He merely took the card and walked away. He glanced at the business card briefly. It had the name Remy Jareth Pastor written on it in delicate, curved letters. What kind of a name was Jareth anyway? he thought. He turned the card around, and on the other side he saw the contact details for the man’s gallery and home. Draco shoved the card in his pocket and forgot about it almost instantly. His mission was all he could think about and there was no more time to waste.

The rest of the evening was extremely frustrating. Whenever Draco tried to get close to Mahony again, Remy was always there. He didn’t get a second chance to talk to Mahony alone. He was almost starting to get ready for plan B, which meant giving the area a thorough look in order to break in later. He really wasn’t looking forward to it, since it would either put him at great personal risk or make him go through another extra hard Polyjuice treatment. He didn’t know if his stomach could take it.

When he was about to give up hope, he saw a small group gathering at the far side of the room. He made his way there just in time to see Mahony opening the door and showing the guests into the next room. The man stayed at the door to keep it open, and when Draco walked by, he whispered in his ear.

"I was thinking that perhaps we might meet later in my private quarters after the tour…for a talk. I have some old books about South American Indian Masks that you might find useful. To get there you need to climb up the stairs. The password is Cornucopia."

Draco was having a hard time answering, his heart was pounding so excitedly in his chest. He had little doubt what the man was after in his private quarters, but he sure wasn’t going to stay there long enough to find out. There was little he wouldn’t do for half a million Galleons, but he wanted to try and avoid spending any more time than necessary with the old perv. With effort he composed himself, showing his most innocent face.

"You are far too kind. I’d appreciate it very much."

Once in the next room, Draco saw Remy, who was nearby, putting something long and stringy back into his pocket. Draco looked at him suspiciously, but the man only winked at him and moved on.

In other circumstances the tour of the house might have been interesting, but Draco followed it only until he found the stairs leading to the next level. He slowed down his pace and waited until the last guests were out of sight. Then he sprinted up two stairs at a time and found his way quickly to the most guarded room of the house, the bedroom. If he had done his homework well, the Jade Tiger would be waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Draco whispered Cornucopia, and the doors opened before him. And the Jade Tiger was right there on a pedestal, just twenty feet away. Draco smirked; it was like robbing a candy from a child. Mahony was obviously very confident in his warding spells. How stupid of him. Draco was not Malfoy for nothing, and he knew quite a few spells more than the average Hogwarts graduate, spells that would be particularly handy in a situation like this. Resolutely, he set to work.

In twenty minutes Draco had passed the warding spell, retrieved the object and Disapparated as far from the house as possible. He clenched the surprisingly small green object in his hand and felt the Galleons starting to fill his pockets. It had been child’s play, really. All he had had to do was to dismantle the warding spell for a second and switch the statuette on the pedestal with the one he had brought with him to the party. It was an exact replica; nobody could tell the difference without a proper investigation.

He studied the small tiger in his hand carefully, now that the immediate danger was over. It didn’t really look all that special, but surely there had to be something to it. The mysterious wizard who had hired him would hardly want it just for its beauty. It took him a moment to realize that something was missing. The magic that he had felt vibrating from the tiger back in the house was gone. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t feel anything, no magic whatsoever pulsating inside the object. He frowned. This wasn’t right.

Draco leaned closer, and suddenly the tiger roared. He yelled at the unexpected outburst and dropped the thing. The minute it hit the ground, it shattered into a million pieces. It gave Draco the shock of his life. This couldn’t be true. This couldn’t be happening to him. Carefully he bent down and picked up the biggest piece that was left of it. There was some tiny writing on it that he hadn’t noticed before. He squinted hard and to his utmost horror he realized what the writing said: Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

At that moment a small sheet of parchment dropped to his hand from the inside, and he just stared at the curved blue text, stunned. Better luck next time.

Draco gave a frustrated cry and hurled the tiger’s head to the nearest bush. This was…this was unacceptable! He had been used like bait to get the needed information and then tossed aside. This was humiliation. He had been bested in his own game! And he knew exactly who to blame, even without the short note. It had been that Remy-call-me-Jay guy all along. He had listened at the doorway to get the right spell and gone in just before Draco.

He was simmering with rage as he felt his golden future slip away. No harm done, surely. He could just return home, tail between his legs, explain to Pierre that he had made a fool of himself and that was that. No tiger, no money. He would just have to resume the life he was living and hope for another opportunity to come by. An opportunity that might never present itself. Or.

Or he could go after the statue and finish this. It would be stupid and reckless, since he hadn’t planned it at all, but he was too close to give up now. Besides, he was positively sure where to go look for it.

Draco reached for the business card in his pocket and checked the address. Two could play this game. It was time for that second look.

* * *

And so, there he was, one moment creeping along the walls in a dark and silent mansion that seemed all but deserted, looking for any sign of the tiger or the man himself and the next moment triggering the Muggle burglar alarm just by stepping on the only wrong tile on the whole floor. Damn it. He should have known better. When he had arrived, he had been careful enough to check the mansion for spells, all kinds of them, hexes even, and found nothing. It should have been obvious that something was wrong. This was a trap, and he had walked straight into it.

Suddenly the lights went on, and Remy appeared at the end of the hallway.

"Lost something, did we?"

Draco snarled. He was one second away from hexing the man right on the spot, when the room was suddenly filled with men. And not just any men, Aurors. Shit! There were at least ten wands directed at him, and it didn’t look as if they were going to cast a harmless Jelly-Legs Jinx or a Leg-Locker Curse. Then one of the men noticed Remy in the corner.

"Sir. The alarm went off and we thought that there was an intruder in the house."

"It’s okay, Harris, the situation is under control. I will carry on from here."

"As you wish, sir."

With that the men were gone. Dissapparated, each and every one of them. Only Draco and Remy remained in the room that had suddenly dimmed. Remy came closer, smiling at Draco in a way that was not completely unpleasant. It was the look of a man who knew he was in charge of the situation. Draco felt a weird twitch in his stomach and he mistook the feeling for disappointment. There was no way he could get the Jade Tiger now. Silently he kissed the fortune goodbye.

Remy came very close. Very, very close, so that Draco had to take a few steps back. And then a couple more. Except that there was nowhere to go. Draco was pressed between the wall and this man, who held sway over his future, and Draco didn’t like it one bit.

"So. Breaking in, not once but twice, stealing other people’s property. Looks like someone is having a busy night."

"Cleaning out the trash you left behind can hardly be called stealing," Draco spat.

Remy tutted. "It’s your personal trace they have all over the place, since you were there last person in the room. That’s what counts."

For a moment Draco froze until he remembered that he hadn’t used his own body. It gave him a little hope. If only he could make it out of here in time before the Polyjuice wore off, he might be able to escape. He licked his lips, not nervously.

"What do you want?"

"No, Ryan, the question is, what do you want?"

Remy caressed Draco’s cheek lightly. It shocked Draco to no end that his body was starting to respond to the caress. Remy was only a few inches away. His blue eyes were piercing, but there really wasn’t anything special about him, and normally, Draco wouldn’t have looked twice in his direction. When exactly had he lowered his standards to include average-looking nobodies on his fuck list? He needed to keep his wits now, if he was to come out clean from this mess.

"I — I’m not sure what you’re getting at."

Draco bit his lip. That hadn’t come out the way he wanted. Where was his famous Malfoy charm, when he needed it? Probably buried under the countless freckles.

Remy grinned at him, and there was nothing average about that grin. The man leaned closer still, and his breath ghosted Draco’s ear.

"Tell me, when will your Polyjuice wear off?" A shiver ran down Draco’s spine, a mixture of fear and something else. I’m lost.

Draco looked at the man in front of him and gasped. Not only had the other man blown his cover but he realized too late that the brunet had also drunk his share of Polyjuice. As if on cue, when his own red hair started to morph back into the usual pale blond locks, an all too familiar lightning bolt shaped scar that had haunted his dreams in more ways than one for so many years manifested itself in Remy’s forehead.

"You?!"

Draco grunted. Remy Jareth Pastor was none other than the insufferable git, Harry James Potter. He wanted to kick himself. Hard.

"Hullo, Draco, long time no see."

The blue was rapidly fading and giving way to a pair of startlingly green eyes that sparkled with amusement.

"Potter, just cut the crap. What is it that you want from me?"

"I thought I made myself pretty clear."

The man’s hand came to rest heavily on Draco’s belt, and suddenly it was considerably more difficult to focus on the words spoken.

"No matter what you might think, I’m not that easy." The word ‘anymore’ was left unspoken, but it didn’t sound convincing to even his own ears.

When he spoke, Potter’s voice came from somewhere between Draco’s ear and neck. The words tickled Draco inexplicably; they were light, but there was something almost tender in their tone.

"And why would I think that?"

Potter’s hand softly squeezed the bulge in Draco’s crotch, and Draco hissed. He refused to give in to the memories, but he was fighting a losing battle, as was often the case when dealing with the man in front of him.

Potter turned his head slightly to look into Draco’s half-closed eyes.

"Tonight was only a test. I wanted to see how good you are, whether your performance can still satisfy me."

Draco’s eyes shot wide open with indignation, but he managed to control himself just enough not to push too wantonly into the other man’s touch.

"Oh? And did you find my performance…satisfying?"

"I don’t know, it’s hard to tell. Yet. There is a gig, but it’s highly demanding. It involves a lot of sunbathing and fruity drinks and it’s extremely dangerous."

"Like what? Mowing your lawn?" Funny how little weight sarcasm held when it was delivered as a mewl.

"There’s this Galleonaire who’s currently spending time on his yacht in the Adriatic Sea. Fancy working with a partner with brains for a change?"

"What are you? An Auror or a thief?"

Potter’s laugh was alarmingly pleasant. It made Draco itch in all the right places.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Draco knew he was being childish, but he almost pouted; he had nothing else left.

"I want my half a million Galleons."

Potter’s good spirits were almost contagious, and the money wasn’t the foremost thought in Draco’s mind. "Oh, but there is so much more to be had than your half a million. Leave now and you get nothing. Join me and you get to share the profits."

"Join you?" Instead of a challenge with slightly flirty undertone, as intended, it came out as a breathless yelp.

"Yes, Draco, join me. What do you say?" For better emphasis Harry Potter licked Draco’s earlobe. That was the last straw for Draco’s undoing. He simply melted. He lifted his hand, first a bit shyly but then with more conviction, to trace that very familiar jawline. It had been a long time indeed, and he wasn’t just thinking about their school years.

Despite the irritation and humiliation of the events of the evening, Draco felt something warm inside him. It was infinitely small but it resembled hope. His body decided it for him, and he thought that maybe, maybe, there could be something to this after all.

"The Adriatic Sea, you said?" He felt a bit light-headed, especially since Potter’s hand was still down there, teasing. Could they really make it the second time around? "Why, Scarhead, you must be reading my mind, you Legilimens, you. I’ve always wanted to visit Greece."

Potter’s smile was bright and inviting. "I thought you might say so."

He pulled his hand away, and Draco grunted in disappointment. The sentiment was soon forgotten, however, when Potter grasped his hips and pressed him firmly against himself, their erections brushing each other almost accidentally. The next words were spoken against Draco’s lips.

"We need to get out of here before the real owner of the house returns."

Draco managed a weak nod. Their breaths mingled for the briefest of moments, and then their lips met a split second before Harry Apparated them away.

* * *

The sky was gloomy and cloudy, and it threatened to rain at any given moment. Pierre was standing by the window without really seeing the view, still pondering the postcard he had received that very morning. He didn’t really know that many people in Greece, but the elegant handwriting didn’t leave much room for guessing. In the card, Draco had told him that he would be extending his unexpected stay under the sunny skies for an unknown period of time. He couldn’t say when he would be returning, but obviously not any time soon, since he was rather busy learning things from his new partner. Of his new partner. However, he sent his heartfelt greetings to his old mentor and encouraged him to pay a visit to the south whenever the grey of England became too much.

Pierre turned away from the window and saw the card lying on his desk, depicting a sunny beach and an impossibly blue ocean. He chuckled and shook his head. The sneaky little bastard. Some people were just born lucky.

Fin.