8 February, 2004: Sunday

Harry awoke to the sound of someone rummaging about in the kitchen. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, noting that the clock on the cable box said it was 10:00.

“Fucking shit, fuck it all,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry stood and stretched, peering around the corner into the kitchen. “Draco?”

Malfoy appeared, looking pale in dark green pyjama bottoms. “I feel like shit,” he announced. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and sniffled.

“I'm not surprised,” Harry replied. He pointed to the sofa. “Sit. Whatever it was you were looking for, I'll get it.”

Malfoy groaned and walked to the sofa. “No, don't bother. I was just hoping I'd left some hangover potion somewhere.” He shrugged and sat, head in hands.

Harry went to fetch him a glass of water. “You'll just have to recover the Muggle way, I suppose.”

“How long does that take?”

“Sometimes days,” Harry said, unable to resist grinning. He handed Malfoy the water glass. Malfoy took a sip and made a face. “Oh god. I can't possibly spend the day like this.”

“Got any aspirin?” Harry asked. “That'll help. And you need to eat.”

“Not hungry,” Malfoy responded, closing his eyes. He opened them again. “Ack. Room spinning. Not good.”

“Preferably something greasy,” Harry continued.

“No,” Malfoy whined. “I don't want to eat. I want to curl up into a little ball and sleep.”

Malfoy didn't have any aspirin, it turned out, so Harry decided to go buy some for him. He returned half an hour later with eggs and sausage as well. Malfoy was tucked under a blanket on the sofa, asleep. He hadn't even bothered to take his glasses off.

Harry made some coffee and cooked them breakfast. Malfoy wasn't on the sofa when Harry set the table, but he returned shortly, looking even more pale than before.

“I just threw up,” he whimpered. “Is that normal?”

“You've never had a hangover?” Harry asked, incredulous.

Malfoy shook his head. “I always keep the potion on hand. And believe it or not, last night was atypical. I don't usually drink that much.”

“I don't think it was just the alcohol,” Harry muttered, steering Malfoy to the table.

“Well, no,” Malfoy said, wincing. “I usually avoid drugs. I have no idea what got into me last night.”

“At least two blokes did,” Harry snorted, pouring coffee.

Malfoy looked up, but said nothing. Harry bit his tongue after that.

“I should probably call in sick today,” Malfoy said when they were finished eating. “Where's my wand?” He stumbled to his feet and looked in its usual place in the cupboard above the microwave, but came up empty-handed. He thought for a moment, and then headed unsteadily for the hall toilet. He re-emerged a few seconds later, wand in hand. “This could last for days ?” he whined. Harry nodded. “And you feel fine?”

“Not exactly,” Harry replied, thinking it best not to mention the sobering spell. “I'll survive, though.”

“I don't think I will. The food did help a bit.” Malfoy sat heavily on the sofa and attempted to cast his housecleaning spells from there. A plate wobbled on the table, but nothing else happened. “I can't fucking concentrate,” he whimpered.

“I'll take care of it,” Harry said, retrieving his own wand from his jacket and casting the spells himself. He turned back to Malfoy. “Now that you've eaten, take some aspirin.” Malfoy nodded, and fell back into the sofa cushions. Harry brought him two pills and some water, and then badgered him into taking them.

They sat quietly for a moment before Malfoy had Harry hand him the phone so he could call the café where he worked. He made up a story about waking up with a sore throat, which they seemed to take in stride. Harry resisted the urge to crack a joke about why his throat might be so sore.

“There's nothing else for it,” Malfoy said after he hung up the phone. He turned to Harry. “You have to go to Haight Fair and get me some hangover potion.”

Harry laughed. “Fuck, no!”

“I'll give you the money,” Malfoy replied.

“I am not going down there on an errand for you ,” Harry retorted, grinning when Malfoy started to pout. “If you want to go, I'd be happy to go with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Malfoy whined. “You're the one who wanted to go so badly anyway. You could do the tourist bit, pick me up some potion, and come right back.”

Harry shook his head. “Sorry, but no. You'll just have to suffer.” Malfoy whimpered and closed his eyes. “You deserve it, anyway.”

“No one deserves this,” Malfoy moaned, falling against Harry's shoulder. “Please?” His voice was muffled by Harry's shirt.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Malfoy sighed dramatically, and then they were both silent. It was all Harry could do not to laugh.

“Fine,” Malfoy grunted at last, sitting upright again. “We'll go.” He glanced at Harry.

“Really?” Harry was genuinely surprised.

Malfoy nodded. “I feel like shit, Harry. I can barely do magic. I may not survive the day.”

Harry grinned. “When should we leave?”

“After we shower,” Malfoy said, sniffing at himself.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Separately,” he continued, ignoring Harry's smirk.

Harry wasn't allowed into the bedroom until Malfoy was completely dressed. He took a quick shower, and then realized he was going to have to wear his clothes from the night before. Malfoy certainly wasn't up to performing a cleaning spell for him. He opened the bedroom door and peeked into the main room to find it empty. “Draco?”

He heard a flush, and Malfoy appeared in the doorway of the hall toilet, quite pale. “Now I have to brush my teeth again,” he said, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Harry had to bite his lip to keep himself from grinning too broadly. “Could I borrow a shirt? Maybe some underwear?”

At the word “underwear” Malfoy's eyes darted straight to Harry's groin – he'd conveniently left his towel in the bathroom, of course. Malfoy looked away again just as quickly. “Yeah, underwear's in the top drawer. Just pick a shirt from the closet.” He seemed uncomfortable.

Harry grabbed the first shirt that caught his eye – a long-sleeved grey t-shirt emblazoned with the logo for Queens College in New York . When he emerged fully dressed, Malfoy didn't seem to notice what Harry was wearing. He looked completely miserable in his fluffy green jumper, hair in disarray.

“Poor baby,” Harry said, starting to feel a tiny bit sorry for him. Malfoy smiled. “I like you in glasses,” Harry continued, reaching out to push the frames up Malfoy's nose a bit.

Malfoy pulled a black stocking cap over his head, nearly covering his hair completely. “I have no other option at the moment.” He reached for his coat and nodded towards the door. “Vamonos.”

The brief taxi ride to Haight-Ashbury was interrupted twice by Malfoy's stomach, though one stop was a false alarm. The taxi driver looked more than happy to let them off at the infamous street corner. Harry gave him a big tip and apologized profusely.

Malfoy looked around, squinting in the sunlight. “This is certainly a good place for the wizarding district to hide,” he quipped, glancing around at the city's counterculture mecca. A small grassy park was dotted with people relaxing, and the sound of buskers filled the air. Tourists walked about, snapping photos of people who looked suspiciously like magical folk to Harry's eye.

“So where do we go?” Malfoy asked, leaning against him and burying his face in Harry's shoulder.

“We're looking for a shop called The Magic Mushroom,” Harry replied. He'd left the guidebook in his room at the Inn , and that was all he could remember.

“So ask somebody,” Malfoy groaned. “I'm gonna be sick again.”

“All right, hang on,” Harry said, scanning the crowd. There was an amazing variety of people walking around. He stopped a middle-aged man with a large number of facial piercings and asked, “Sorry, but do you know where The Magic Mushroom is?”

The man gave him a funny look. “Is that supposed to be code, or something?”

Harry shook his head. “No, it's a shop.”

The man shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

Harry asked a few more people, with the same results. Malfoy threw up in a trash can, then wrapped his sherpa coat tightly around himself.

Harry pulled him into a hug. “‘I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I thought it would be easier than this.” Malfoy whimpered against his throat, and Harry began to feel horribly selfish for forcing him to come along.

“Looking for the Magic Mushroom, are you?”

Harry looked up to see a woman any Muggle would have described as a bag lady standing before him. He grinned, relieved. “Yes, can you tell us where it is?”

The woman smiled. “It's down Haight, that way, next to the Crescent City Café. Where you boys from?”

“London ,” Harry replied. “And thank you.”

“Anytime,” the woman said. “I went to London once, years ago. Met a handsome English wizard by the name of Ralph Cornwall. Would you know him, by any chance?”

“Erm... no,” Harry replied. “Sorry.” The witch shrugged and moved on.

They headed down the street in the direction she'd pointed. Sure enough, there it was – The Magic Mushroom. Muggles passed by without giving it a second glance, though Harry saw a pair of wizards look both ways before stepping inside. Harry and Malfoy followed to find themselves inside a sort of co-op bustling with witches and wizards shopping for organic produce. They glanced at each other. It wasn't at all apparent how to get to the wizarding district from here.

“Let's just ask,” Malfoy grumbled when Harry suggested following someone around until they went to the entrance. “You really must be straight if you can't even ask for fucking directions.”

Harry took him by the hand and dragged him to the cashier. “Excuse me, ma'am, but we're looking to go to the Haight Fair.”

The woman glanced up from her novel and smiled. “Oh, tourists! Welcome!” She looked to be in her sixties and had bleached blonde hair, and her name tag said “Sam” on it. She switched on a microphone by the cash register. “Tabitha, to the front, please.” She turned the microphone off and beamed at them. “You boys from England ?” They nodded. “I went to London about twenty-five years ago,” she gushed. “Diagon Alley was so quaint! I just love that sort of old world charm.”

Another woman apparated next to Sam, startling Harry. She looked to be in her late thirties. Her long brown dreadlocks were tied back by a scarf and she had a large silver ring through her nose. She eyed Harry and Malfoy. “They want to know how to get to the Fair, I suppose?”

Sam nodded. “They're visiting from London ! Remember the time we went when you were a little girl? You were so fascinated by all of the people dressed in robes!”

Tabitha looked mildly embarrassed. “I remember. This way.” She motioned for Harry and Malfoy to follow her.

“Now have fun, and be sure to visit the Rainbow Café!” Sam called as they wound through an aisle of gigantic heads of lettuce.

“You'll have to excuse my mother,” Tabitha said as she walked through an archway decorated with the words, ‘To the Fair.' Malfoy elbowed Harry and pointed to the sign. Harry winced. How could he have missed that?

“She's a little enthusiastic about tourists,” Tabitha continued, stopping before a cinderblock wall painted with a mural. “So, the way to get in is to tickle the Rastafarian with your wand.”

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“You heard me,” she smirked. “I think it used to be a mermaid or something. Somebody repainted the mural back in the sixties.” She rolled her eyes. “Probably my mother, on one of her acid trips.”

She left at that, and Harry stared at the mural. It was a scene of the park they'd walked past earlier, full of people who could best be described as hippies. They were milling about, chatting with each other, playing Crosby , Stills, and Nash songs on out-of-tune guitars, and smoking questionable-looking substances. A few people appeared to be having sex.

“Wow,” Malfoy said, leaning closer. “There's a threesome going on over here.” The figures involved heard him and paused long enough to wave.

“There he is,” Harry said, and drew his wand out. “I wonder where he's ticklish.”

“Unda the arms, mon,” the Rastafarian replied, moving closer to Harry.

“Oh, thanks.” Harry poked him a bit with the tip of his wand. The man laughed, and a doorway appeared in the center of the mural. Harry opened it.

“You'd think he'd be tired of that by now,” Malfoy said as they stepped through.

Harry wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this . They were standing on the edge of a very large open square lined by buildings like the ones they'd seen out on the Muggle street. Except there were three decks of walkways rising up above them, with the square forming a courtyard in the center. People were milling about on all three levels.

A group of kids on levitating skateboards whooshed by, calling out, “Coming through, dudes!” as they did. There were carnival rides on the square, and children ran about, eating caramel apples and squealing at each other. Food booths were all around, and people sat at tables, eating, drinking, and laughing.

“It's huge,” Malfoy said, still staring up at the top level. “Look at all of those corridors going off to the sides. There must be hundreds of shops.” He looked pale again, as if he were going to be sick.

“Are we looking for a place to buy potions ingredients?” Harry asked.

“Not ingredients,” Malfoy replied, shaking his head. “There's an American chain called Clark 's that carries most of the big brands of potions. They probably have one here.”

“Snape would be horrified to know you don't even make your own potions,” Harry teased. He hadn't made a potion himself since he was in school.

“I suppose he would.” Malfoy shrugged and took a deep breath; he looked extremely uncomfortable. “But then, he knows how lazy I am.”

“Where should we start?” Harry asked, looking both directions. He walked forward and realized Malfoy hadn't followed. He turned to see him still standing by the doorway.

“Are you going to be sick again?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head. “No, I–” He swallowed.

He was nervous, Harry realized, even frightened. Malfoy had been adamant about not going to Haight Fair until that morning. Harry wasn't sure if it was the hangover that had driven him to change his mind, or if it was something else. Malfoy seemed to have taken care to make himself as unrecognizeable as possible; wrapped in his sherpa coat and with his glasses on and hair covered, Harry would have had trouble identifying him in a crowd.

Harry smiled at him. “Do you need me to hold your hand, or something?”

Malfoy scowled, and then realized Harry had meant it earnestly. “Yeah,” he replied. He stepped forward and slid his hand into Harry's. Harry squeezed his fingers and smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring. The fingers of Harry's other hand reflexively tightened around his wand. Nothing would happen to Malfoy, not while Harry was there.

They found a kiosk displaying a map of the Fair and touched the name of the shop they were looking for. The map lit up – apparently there were four locations contained in the Fair alone. The closest one was a short walk away.

Malfoy glanced nervously behind them and kept his coat wrapped tightly around himself as they walked. He seemed more interested in his feet than in the vast square around them. Harry, on the other hand, was enthralled. He'd never been in a wizard shopping area outside of England before.

“I hear the City Galleria in Los Angeles is even bigger,” Harry said, looking up.

“The Village in New York City was more like Diagon Alley,” Malfoy said. “But it was old, too. Narrow windy streets and such.” He stopped then, and looked up at a sign above his head. “Here we are: Clarks 's Potions Warehouse.”

They walked into a brightly-lit shop, finding it stuffed with people. There were several aisles with signs hanging over them indicating what sorts of potions they contained. They passed hair potions, beauty potions, potions for colds and flu, and for sexually transmitted diseases before they finally found “headaches and hangover” on aisle seven. There were several labels to choose from, and none of them were familiar to Harry.

“What, they don't have Johnson's?” Harry asked, scanning the labels.

“No, but this one's good.” Malfoy held up a bright blue bottle. He picked up a smaller bottle as well. “And they make single doses, which is just what I need now.”

They were barely out of the shop before Malfoy heated the single-dose bottle with his wand and downed it. “Thank god,” he said, eyes closed. “That was the worst I've ever felt in my entire life.”

“You must be optimistic about not getting so drunk again,” Harry smirked, gesturing towards the bag Malfoy was carrying. “That's not a very big bottle.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Now that I know where to go, I can always get more.” He glanced around while he spoke, though, and Harry had the feeling Malfoy probably wouldn't come here by himself.

Harry paused then, wondering why Malfoy had only now run out of hangover potion. “Did you bring a six-month supply with you from New York or something?”

“I meant it when I said I usually don't drink that much,” Malfoy replied. “I haven't needed it.”

“So this recent behavior's just been for my benefit, then?”

Malfoy smirked: a sure sign the potion was starting to work. “Well, I wouldn't say benefit .”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more.

Malfoy relaxed as he began to feel better. They continued to stroll down the street, window shopping, talking quietly and pointing at interesting window displays. Harry drooled over the latest broom models in a sports shop display, until Malfoy pointed out that they were designed for Quodpot, not Quidditch.

“See how short they are? They're built for power, not speed.” Malfoy pointed at a particularly expensive model. “In Quodpot, it's more important to be able to plow through the defensive line than to out-fly or out-manouver your opponent. You'd get slaughtered on a Quidditch pitch riding that.”

Harry squinted at the broom. “So do you follow Quodpot, then?”

Malfoy opened his mouth as if to speak, and then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “Used to. Missed the last season though. Oh, look at that !”

Malfoy grabbed Harry's hand and tugged him across the street toward another shop window display. The mannequins in the window were dressed in a variety of fashionable items, most of which struck Harry as far too flashy for his own taste. The mannequins waved at them, turning and posing, and beckoning them into the shop.

Malfoy turned to Harry and grinned.

Harry's face fell. “Malfoy, whatever you're about to suggest, the answer is ‘no'.”

Five minutes later, Harry was staring at his reflection in a dressing room mirror, uncertain what Malfoy could possibly see in this particular combination of a sparkly shirt and black leather trousers.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, leaning against the wall of the dressing room. “You have to buy them.”

“No,” Harry said, pulling the shirt off and handing it to Malfoy. “I can't afford 500 dollars for trousers .”

“But you look really hot in them,” Malfoy replied.

Harry snorted. “Oh, that's a good reason to blow half a week's pay.”

“Even if they get you blown?” Malfoy's grin was beyond suggestive.

Harry unfastened the fly, smirking. “I don't think I need leather trousers for that. Colby was fairly enthusiastic when I was wearing jeans.”

“Well, if you're only concerned with impressing Colby–”

Harry pushed the trousers down to his knees and Malfoy broke off, looking away.

“I would've bought them for you,” Malfoy simpered twenty minutes later when they were window shopping again. He seemed more confident now, though he still avoided the gazes of passersby and stayed close to Harry.

“If you really want to spend that much money on me, by all means,” Harry replied, tired of arguing. “I'm surprised they use dollars here, and not a separate currency.”

Malfoy nodded. “There used to be a separate currency. They pegged it to the dollar when the US went off the gold standard, and people gradually started using dollars instead. I suppose it was easier that way.”

“Five hundred dollars for trousers – two hundred and eighty quid!” Harry shook his head. “You must be doing fairly well for yourself if you can even think of spending money like that.”

Malfoy only shrugged. Harry watched him for a moment. Malfoy turned his head away as a witch passed close by, and pretended to examine a street sign.

“Do you mind if I ask how you managed that?” Harry asked, when it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to volunteer the information. “The money, I mean?”

Malfoy smiled and stopped in front of a book shop, peering at the titles in the window. “I converted my trust fund into pounds when I first left home. I was afraid my father would be able to take it from me if I left it at Gringott's.” Harry frowned – he'd always thought Gringott's was completely safe. Malfoy tucked a strand of auburn-streaked hair behind his ear, and Harry noticed he was still wearing the jade stud he'd given him the day before. “When I moved to the US , I invested very wisely – dot-coms and such – and then got out in 2000, right before it all crashed. I was very lucky.” His eyes drifted for a moment. “Of course, these days, I'm wishing I'd kept my money in pounds, the way the dollar's been sinking.” He smiled at Harry and shrugged.

He sounded so positively normal, Harry thought. What could he possibly be running from? Malfoy smiled a little wider then, in that way that always seemed to make Harry's breath catch in his throat. On an impulse, Harry leaned forward and kissed him.

Malfoy stiffened, but allowed it until Harry opened his mouth. “You're scruffy today,” he said, stepping away and wrinkling his nose. “I'm hungry. Want some lunch?”

Harry sighed and rubbed absently at his unshaven chin. It was only after they'd started walking again that he realized he hadn't hesitated to kiss another man in a public place. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They passed three different Starbucks shops before they found the Rainbow Café Sam had recommended. “I can't believe they have Starbucks here,” Harry muttered after they'd sat down.

“Don't they have one in Diagon Alley yet?” Malfoy asked.

“No, but Hermione heard Malkin wants to put in a Caffè Nero franchise next year.”

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy grinned. “ Europe 's feeble attempt to compete against a cutthroat American chain.”

“They have good espresso,” Harry retorted.

“True, but one of the owners of the Starbucks chain is a wizard, so I don't know how they can compete in the long run.”

“Really?” Harry asked.

“Muggles always joke that Starbucks cafes seem to pop up overnight. That's because they actually do.” He winked at Harry and studied his menu. “Ooo, cheeseburger.”

They chattered on about the differences between the American and British wizarding communities until their food arrived, and then Malfoy tried again to convince Harry that the leather trousers were a good idea. He was in the middle of telling a story about how his own leather trousers had once helped him pull a Muggle celebrity, when a group of men entering the café caught Harry's attention.

There were three of them, all dressed in smart suits and talking amongst themselves, laughing and smiling. Harry stared at them over Malfoy's shoulder, unable to breathe.

One of them was Manny Padilla.

Manny looked up and saw Harry at that moment. He looked surprised and a little panicked, but not shocked – not as shocked as Harry felt. They stared at each other from across the café, both uncertain what to do. Manny's glance shifted to the back of Malfoy's head, and his expression hardened.

“Hello?” Malfoy was saying. “Harry, are you all right?”

Harry nodded and turned his gaze to Malfoy. Did he know Manny was a wizard? If he did, why hadn't he said anything? Had Manny already known Harry was a wizard as well? How many secrets was Malfoy keeping, anyway?

Malfoy turned around to see where Harry had been looking, but the men had disappeared. He turned back to Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, looking down at his plate. “I– I just thought I saw someone I recognized.”

“You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Harry picked awkwardly at his salad. He needed to think about this. He needed to do a little research on Manny Padilla. If Malfoy didn't know Manny was a wizard, this wasn't the best time to tell him. And if he did know, this certainly wasn't the best place to have that particular conversation. Harry forced himself to look up at Malfoy. “It was nothing. What were you saying?”

Malfoy continued to talk, but Harry wasn't listening. His mind was whirling in a way it hadn't done in a long time.

Harry and Malfoy made plans for dinner later, and Harry went back to the Inn to shave and change clothes. The moment he walked in the door, the man behind the desk waved him over.

“You've had three of those faxes,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “and this phone message.” He held out a pink slip of paper. On it were printed the words “CALL YOUR MOTHER!!!” Harry winced. “She kinda freaked me out,” the man said.

“Yeah,” Harry said, embarrassed. “She does that. Sorry.”

He walked up the stairs and unlocked his room to find the three faxes just inside the door. He picked them up with a sigh and sat on the bed. It was after midnight in England , but he figured he should call anyway.

Hermione answered the phone immediately.

“It's me,” he said.

“Thank god! Harry, where have you been? I've been so worried! I've been calling for days–”

“I was only gone overnight,” he protested.

“Have you read the documents I faxed yet?”

“No, I just got back here and figured I should call first–”

“It turns out that the CIA's had an agent on Malfoy for months. The buzz we're getting is that you were recognized in San Francisco , and they're getting nervous that the Ministry is going to try to get him first and get him out of the country. They're looking for an opportunity to take him into custody, but they don't have a legal cause just yet.”

Harry swallowed, feeling the blood drain from his face. Manny. It had to be Manny, which meant that Malfoy probably didn't know his boyfriend wasn't a Muggle lawyer. And anytime Malfoy was alone with Manny outside the wards of his flat, he might be in danger. Manny might be able to apparate him away on a moment's notice, and there wouldn't be much Harry could do about it.

“I think I know who the agent is,” Harry said. “Can you do some research and see what you can dig up on a wizard named Manny Padilla?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Hermione?”

“Sorry... it's just that ... that name is familiar.”

Harry felt his heart rate increase. “Is it? Might you have seen it in the CIA Intell?”

“I don't think so. I'm not sure.” Hermione sighed. “I'll get on it in the morning.”

“What I still don't understand is why they want Malfoy so badly,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “I've seen no evidence that he's engaged in any sort of suspicious activity. Excepting the fact that he's pretending to be a Muggle, he seems to be going about his life as if he isn't hiding at all. What do they think he did?”

“It's not what they think he did, Harry. It's what they think he knows. He allegedly has contacts with most of the important Death Eaters in the US , as well as the Mafia. If he talked, the CIA could take them all down. Or if he changed sides, he could be very dangerous to the US Department of Magic, since he had such a high security clearance. They're not convinced he has any loyalty to either side.”

“So he's quite valuable to them, and a huge threat to boot.” Harry sighed. “I'm sure the Death Eaters know that too and would also like to get hold of him.”

“Director Bass wants that information, Harry, and he wants assurance Malfoy is on our side. You've got to get him back to London .”

“How?” Harry moaned, frustrated. “He doesn't trust us any more than them. I've spent a week trying to get him to open up to me, and he won't. He won't talk about New York , or why he's here. I've even tried to get information from his friends, and they know nothing.”

“I'll see what I can do in the morning. Maybe I can get you some help. ” Harry nodded, even though she couldn't see him. “ How have you been? Having a good time, even though it's Malfoy, and everything?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, smiling despite the serious conversation. “It's been amazing. He's so different than I remember.”

“Really? So... how hard were you trying to get to know him?”

“Hermione...”

“Well, he was always pretty hot.”

Harry paused. “And why would that matter to me?”

“Well, it might. You know, if you... well...”

She was fishing. Harry sighed. “We'll talk about that later, all right?”

“Fine. But I want details.”

Harry smiled. “Good night, Hermione.”

He hung up the phone and picked up the faxes. It would take him the rest of the afternoon to decode and read them.

Dinner was tense, despite Harry's attempts to relax. The information from the faxes was swimming through his mind, and he had trouble reconciling it all with the image of the party boy he'd come to know. What was he missing? None of the pieces fit.

Worse, Harry was becoming more and more aware of what a terrible job he was doing here, and it was starting to shake his confidence. He hadn't done any research. He hadn't taken the most basic of safety precautions. He hadn't made any attempt to contact local magical authorities to enlist their assistance. Worst of all, he was letting his emotions interfere with his work, and it was much too late to change that.

This was why he'd left the field – after the War, he'd become an incompetent auror. The only thing he'd ever been good at was fighting Voldemort, and once that was no longer an issue, he'd lost his confidence, his focus, and his purpose. The Ministry had offered him a quiet little office job, probably out of obligation. He'd accepted it because he hadn't known what else to do. And with a baby on the way...

Perhaps they knew he'd fail here. Perhaps they were looking for a reason to get rid of him and that was why they'd sent him.

“What's wrong?” Malfoy asked.

Harry forced a smile and signaled for the check. “Nothing. Sorry.” He couldn't even think of a decent excuse for his morose behavior.

Malfoy studied him for a moment. “Want to go dancing tonight? The boys are meeting at The Café later.”

“Do you do this every night?” Harry asked, feeling tired already.

Malfoy shrugged. “Yes. It's fun.”

They walked to The Café from the restaurant, and Harry was surprised when Malfoy slid his hand into Harry's with a shy smile. Harry glanced down at their intertwined fingers as they walked, uncertain what to think. They met Colby and Jeremy outside the club and headed in together. Colby raised an eyebrow when he saw them holding hands, and Harry shrugged. Kisses were exchanged all around.

“You two don't look like you suffered much today,” Colby remarked.

“Oh, we did, though,” Malfoy moaned, and mimed throwing up.

“Good thing you had Harry to take care of you,” Colby grumbled, looking away.

Malfoy didn't reply, but Harry felt him tense at the words.

The moment they entered the club, Malfoy dropped the boyfriend act, ordered a round of fruity drinks for everyone, and hit the dance floor. Harry watched from the bar, stunned at the abrupt change.

“Here goes nothing,” Colby muttered beside him and took a few sips of his drink. He swallowed, then shuddered.

“They say it's the best cure for a hangover,” Harry said.

“Thought that was twenty-four hours,” Colby retorted, and took another sip. “I'll feel fine. I just need to take it easy tonight.” He glanced at Harry and smiled. “I... uh... had fun last night.”

Harry blushed. “So did I.”

“Wanna dance?” Colby tugged at his hand.

Harry started to protest, but then noticed Malfoy dancing with a bloke wearing leather trousers and little else. “Sure,” he said, and downed his drink.

It was more fun than he expected, and he didn't even mind when Colby ground against him occasionally. He saw Malfoy kissing Mr. Leather Trousers not far away. Malfoy's hand was cupping the man's groin rather blatantly. Harry gritted his teeth; it could have been him in those black leather trousers, if he'd just let Malfoy buy them for him.

“They should just get a room,” Colby grumbled, shaking his head. “He has to be so in-your-face about it.”

Harry didn't reply, watching them instead. Malfoy had got off with nearly half a dozen men in the week Harry'd known him. Why would he give himself so casually to strangers, but not to Harry ? Hary had made no secret of his interest, but Malfoy kept him at arm's length. He only flirted with Harry when he didn't have Harry's complete attention.

“Maybe we should take notes,” Harry said, pulling Colby closer.

The Blackeyed Peas's latest hit started playing as Harry slid his hands inside Colby's shirt and kissed him. It was a slow, sensual kiss, the kind he'd always employed as a signal to Cho that he was interested in sex. He felt Colby melt against him and moan.

“God, you're amazing,” he whispered against Harry's lips. “I'm hard already.”

Harry's hands drifted down to Colby's ass and squeezed, pulling their groins together. “Me too,” Harry mused. It was surprising, but true.

Colby grinned. “Do you wanna...?” He nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom.

Harry blinked at him for a moment before realizing what he meant. “Oh, uh...” Colby cut off his stammering with a kiss, one that left Harry panting.

Colby winked at him, then took his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom. Harry swallowed down his anxiety and followed. Nothing would happen that he didn't want. He'd just have to take charge of the situation.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed when they passed, and Harry felt a stab of irritation. What right did Malfoy have to judge him?

Harry sped up then, pulling Colby along behind him through the bathroom door. He pushed open a stall door and shoved Colby against the wall inside, kissing him blindly and pulling at his clothing. In some distant part of his brain, Harry was surprised at his own aggressiveness. He'd never been this way before, had never felt this sort of consuming lust for another person. It had nothing to do with how he felt about Colby. It was another sort of emotion altogether, one he couldn't quite place.

A few days ago, he'd been struggling to ignore his attraction to Malfoy, and dealing with being kissed by Manny. Now he was making out with a very willing boy in a toilet stall. Colby stroked Harry's cock though his jeans and Harry's brain shut off – he was completely, uncomfortably hard. He suddenly felt a near-overwhelming urge to bury himself in Colby, in any way possible.

That thought echoed around in his mind until it found its way out of his mouth and into Colby's. “I want to fuck you.”

“Mmmmph,” Colby replied, since Harry's tongue was immediately cutting off his speech again. He turned his head and Harry attacked his neck. “Gah, I'll bet you're an amazing top,” he whispered.

“Always have been,” Harry replied, figuring it wasn't really a lie.

Colby pushed on Harry's shoulders. “Down. That's a good boy.” He was unfastening his jeans before Harry realized what he wanted.

Harry swallowed. Well, if this wasn't a watershed moment, he didn't know what was. Colby's erection appeared in front of his face, and he looked up to see Colby grinning at him. It was only fair, he figured, if he could fuck Colby afterwards. He could do this. He'd had it done to him often enough, so he knew what to do – in theory, at least. Besides, it wasn't like Colby's dick was big enough to choke him. He took it in hand and stroked it once before licking the head experimentally.

“Just suck it,” Colby said.

Amused, Harry raised an eyebrow at him, but Colby's eyes were closed. Harry looked at the erect penis in front of him again, oddly fascinated by the lack of foreskin. He wasn't disgusted by the idea of doing this, he realized. It was intriguing, and even a little bit erotic.

He opened his mouth and took the head in, only to have Colby thrust his hips forward. Nose buried in pubic hair, Harry wondered if he was making a mistake. Colby's fingers were in his hair, and he started moving his hips, fucking Harry's mouth.

Harry had tried to do that to someone once, and she'd put a stop to it straight away; now he understood why. He pressed Colby's hips into the wall of the stall and managed to regain control.

Colby laughed. “Fine, have it your way, then. But I like it kinda rough.”

Harry set to work then, determined to do this as well as he possibly could. Colby didn't seem to mind the occasional bit of teeth grazing skin, and the harder Harry sucked, the more he seemed to like it. Just as Harry was starting to worry about the coming-in-the-mouth part, Colby pushed him away.

“Up,” he panted. “I want...” He turned around and pushed his jeans down to his ankles.

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling a stab of excitement. He stood, a bit wobbly, and fumbled with his jeans. He paused and absently stroked his own erection, which hadn't flagged much during the blow job. “Um... have you got...?”

“Yeah.” Colby bent over and fumbled through the pockets of his jeans. Harry was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of Colby's spread ass cheeks. Wow , he thought, I really do like this . Colby stood again, and handed him a condom and a small bottle of Astroglide.

He fumbled with the condom wrapper for a moment, but managed to get it on. It had been a while since he'd had to wear one.

“Taking all night?” Colby grumbled.

Harry slapped him lightly on the ass. “Maybe.” He put some lube on two fingers and pressed them between Colby's cheeks, probing gently.

“No, no,” Colby said, sounding impatient. “I like it rough. Just do it.”

“Okay,” Harry said, surprised. The few times he'd done this with Cho, she'd wanted a lot of foreplay. He'd never done it standing up either, but figured the anatomy of it was basically the same. He put a little more lube on himself and spread Colby's cheeks with his thumbs. He found Colby's hole with his finger, lined up his cock, and then pressed forward. There was a little resistance, but not much. Colby hissed, and Harry hesitated.

“No, just do it,” Colby whispered. “Oh god...”

Harry pushed all the way in, panting. It had been a while since he'd been inside anyone, and it was always amazing: hot, and slick, with pressure in interesting places, and it always felt like a privilege.

He finally started moving when Colby pushed back against him. He tried to keep up with Colby's cries of “harder” and “faster”, trying to hold off as best he could, but it just felt too good. He came, shuddering and trying not to say anything, lest he say the wrong name. He kissed Colby's shoulder and caught his breath.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn't wait. It was so–”

“Let me turn around,” Colby said, and Harry pulled out, holding onto the condom. He dropped it into the toilet and looked down at Colby's erection, which was fairly in need of attention.

He dropped to his knees again, this time letting Colby fuck his mouth roughly – anything, anything to make him come after that. His only warning that Colby was coming was fingers clenching in his hair to point of pain. He gagged as he felt fluid hit the back of his throat, and he tried to cover up the sound he was sure he'd made with a moan.

It was then he realized his mouth was full. Ugh , he thought, not sure what to do. He had two choices, obviously. He finally closed his eyes and swallowed, figuring it couldn't be any worse than what he'd seen on one of those reality TV shows Malfoy was so fond of watching. It wasn't so bad, really; the taste left in his mouth was salty and a little bitter, but not unpleasant.

Remembering the night before, he stood and kissed Colby. Colby whimpered against his lips, and grinned.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Sorry – I thought you were gonna snowball me there for a minute.”

“Snowball?” Harry asked.

Colby kissed him again. “Never mind. That was great.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “Thank you.” Colby looked a bit surprised, and smiled a little wider.

They dressed and headed out of the bathroom, grinning at each other like naughty children. There were several other couples having sex in the adjacent cubicles, as well as questionable activities going on along the walls. As they pulled the door open, Harry almost laughed. Had he really just had sex in a toilet ?

They headed back to the bar and ordered more drinks. Jeremy came bouncing over at some point, grinning happily because he'd just got the number of a hot man he'd been ogling for weeks.

There were all there, except for Malfoy. “Where's Derek?” Harry half-shouted above the music.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Oh, Manny showed up and they got into some sort of argument.”

“Manny?” Harry repeated, looking around.

“They went outside. Maybe they left,” Jeremy shrugged.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Had he just fucked up completely? What if Manny was waiting for Harry to look away so that he could–

“I'll be back,” Harry told Colby, and pressed through the crowd toward the door of the club. The street was empty, in both directions. Harry's heart started pounding. He felt a very clear sense of panic, more than he'd felt in a long, long time.

Malfoy couldn't be gone. They couldn't have gone far, unless they apparated, or Manny shoved him into a taxi, or something. Harry headed down the street, in the direction of Malfoy's flat, trying to regain control of his thoughts.

He passed an alley and heard voices, both of them familiar. He dug through his jacket for his wand and cast a quick concealment spell on himself, intending to get as close as he could to them before revealing himself.

He paused then, wondering if this was the best course of action. After all, both of these men were wizards. For all Harry knew, Manny could also be an auror – or whatever the American equivalent was called. He could probably see through a concealment spell as easily as Malfoy could.

And then Harry's cover would be blown entirely. “ Finite incantatum ,” he whispered, and felt his skin tingle as the spell faded.

There was nothing for it but to step into the alley and make his presence known, so he did. Manny and Malfoy were glaring at each other in the dim light coming from an apartment above. Malfoy was smoking a cigarette, a defiant set to his features. Manny's arms were crossed over his chest.

“You're making a big mistake,” Manny said.

“I know what I'm doing,” Malfoy replied.

“That's what you said last time,” Manny retorted. “I do actually care about you, despite what you think.”

Harry stepped on a piece of rubbish then, and both men heard the crunch. They turned to look at him. Harry felt strangely guilty for eavesdropping.

“Hiya,” he said to Malfoy. “Jeremy said you'd gone and... I was worried.” He shrugged and glanced at Manny.

Manny stared back at him coolly. “Harry, could you give us a minute? In private, if you don't mind.”

“No,” Malfoy interjected, before Harry could reply. “I don't want to do this now.” Manny started to protest, but Malfoy held up one hand. “Please? Just call me tomorrow, okay?”

Manny looked away for a long moment, and then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “But don't blame me if–”

“Enough,” Malfoy said, tone sharp. He sounded exhausted. He put out the cigarette and looked at Harry. “Take me home?”

“Of course.” Harry held out his hand, and Malfoy took it. Harry cast one more glance at Manny before they left the alley. Manny's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, as if in disgust. Harry didn't look back as they walked away.

He finally managed to hail a taxi after several minutes of trying. Malfoy settled against his shoulder in the back seat. He hadn't said a word since they left the alley.

“So what was that about?” Harry asked. He didn't expect a straight answer, of course, but sometimes the lies people told provided clues.

“I'm fucking up my life,” Malfoy replied. “That's what it's about. I'm tired, and I'm lonely, and I hate this...” He dropped off and looked out the window of the taxi.

Harry pressed a kiss to the top of Malfoy's head. “You asked me last night if you could trust me.”

Malfoy made a sound like a laugh. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Harry continued. “You can, you know.”

“Can I?”

It seemed to be a rhetorical question. Harry watched Malfoy's profile glow and darken as the taxi passed under streetlights. He looked so sad, Harry thought – so lost. Harry couldn't believe this was the same person described in the CIA's intelligence reports. It simply couldn't be true. Harry needed to learn the truth, desperately – he needed to hear the story from Malfoy himself. It was the only way Harry could save him from a fate Malfoy may not even know was coming.

Of course, he was supposed to turn that story over to the authorities, and he was less and less certain that would be in Malfoy's best interest, either. Harry sighed.

“What was that for?” Malfoy asked, turning toward him again.

Harry smiled sadly, and stroked his finger down Malfoy's cheek. “I could help you, you know. Whatever it is you're running from–”

“I'm not running,” Malfoy replied.

Harry started to argue with him, but was stopped by the expression on Malfoy's face. He was looking at Harry longingly, almost sadly. Harry was afraid to move, afraid to break the spell. And then Malfoy leaned forward and kissed him.

It caught him by surprise – every real kiss they'd shared so far had been initiated by Harry, and he hadn't expected that to change anytime soon. But Malfoy's lips were moving gently against his, tongue teasing his lips apart before retreating again, drawing Harry into him. Harry felt his heart pounding in his ears. He was sure Malfoy could hear it, and maybe the taxi driver could as well. When Malfoy sucked lightly on his lower lip, Harry heard himself whimper. He pulled Malfoy close then, deepening the kiss. He was excited and terrified at the same time – this incredible feeling could end at any moment, and he couldn't do anything about it. He could only kiss Malfoy with everything he had.

The taxi driver cleared his throat, and Malfoy gently pushed Harry away. The taxi had stopped in front of Malfoy's building. Harry stared at him in the darkness – his lips were flushed and his eyes wide, and Harry wanted him terribly. He couldn't imagine Malfoy didn't feel the same way.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Malfoy whispered, sliding away from him on the seat.

Harry groaned. “Draco–”

“I'm sorry,” Malfoy sighed, pressing a palm to his forehead. “I shouldn't have kissed you, and I don't mean to be a tease. But this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” Harry asked, taking his hand.

“I like us as friends, and I don't want to fuck that up.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, and Malfoy continued, “It always does, Harry. I should know.” He squeezed Harry's hand and opened the door of the taxi. “I'll be at work tomorrow afternoon. Come by, if you want. I'll buy you a coffee.” He smiled and got out of the car.

Harry watched him walk away, watched him until the door of the building closed behind him. He sank down into the seat of the taxi, feeling as if he'd been flattened by a large animal. His stomach hurt, and his head hurt, and he wanted to curl up and sleep, maybe for days.

“Tough break,” the driver said. “Where to?”

“The Inn on Castro,” Harry said. “Just a few streets up.” The taxi pulled away from the curb, and Harry didn't open his eyes until it stopped again.