Subtle Nuances, Part 1 of 2
"No. Absolutely not. I won't do it."
Harry bit back a laugh at the sight of Draco Malfoy, his normally pale skin flushed scarlet and elegant hands clenched into fists by his sides, glaring up...and up...and up...at the very imposing, and currently very stern-looking, Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Listen, Malfoy," Kingsley said in that tone reserved for delinquent prisoners and out-of-line employees, "I had to convince a lot of people to let you two have this case. And these are the terms. If you don't like it, well then you can just kiss my arse. But you're still doing it."
Malfoy growled, looking to Harry for some sort of backup, but Harry merely shrugged in assumed helplessness, leaning back in his chair and regarding the other man calmly. "Sorry, Malfoy," he said, though he was anything but. "You pushed for this case, remember? Nothing I can do about it."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed and he eyed the case file like it was a particularly foul Blast-Ended Skrewt...or more appropriately, Harry amended with a roll of his eyes, a particularly ebullient Muggle.
"I understand," Malfoy said through gritted teeth, "that this gentleman is both high-profile and very proper, and that it would be...inappropriate to seem out of place in the setting, but...why do I have to--"
"Because it's the only way he would agree to meet," Kingsley interrupted him, and Harry snorted to himself, noting the change from Disciplinary Auror Voice to Matter-Of-Fact Auror Voice. Malfoy wasn't getting out of this one, no matter what he did. Even if he refused to do it, which Harry knew he wouldn't, since this case was the whole reason Malfoy'd become an Auror in the first place, they wouldn't let him back out. Harry'd read the file from front to back -- hell, had practically memorised the whole thing -- and while he knew that he was the best Auror the department had, Malfoy wasn't far behind, and was by far the most competent to handle this sort of thing. There was nobody else with the background to make him a natural for a rendezvous at an extremely elegant and exclusive restaurant, and as their contact was insisting on it (hardly surprising, considering the subject of the case), they had to have the best.
Even so, they'd come across a lot of resistance from the higher-ups. After all, they were both young, and had only been Aurors for about three years, not to mention the fact that while they worked extremely well together, and had never given the department problems, they also had a seven-year reputation of being utterly volatile. And in the Ministry's eyes, that took precedence over the year and a half spent fighting side by side in the war, their respective Orders of Merlin (Harry's a first class, of course, and with distinction, and Malfoy's a third), and their impeccable record of success.
"But why do I have to be the girl?"
Harry's attention snapped back to the argument still going on, unable to repress a sound of amusement at the utterly ridiculous question. Malfoy's eyes were instantly on him, flashing steel.
"What's so funny, Potter?" he snapped, stalking forward in what was probably supposed to be a menacing fashion.
Harry stifled a yawn.
"Come on, Malfoy," he drawled, stretching his hands behind his head and crossing his feet atop the desk in a way he knew showed off his shoulders and torso to very good effect. He also knew it pissed Malfoy the fuck off. "Me? Pose as a girl? You've got to be joking. That wouldn't even fool Voldemort."
To his credit, Malfoy didn't even flinch the way he usually did at the mention of the former Dark Lord, once powerful, but now an utterly decimated and magicless lunatic who was locked up in a maximum-security Muggle asylum for the duration of his remaining life span. Instead, he scowled, but remained silent.
"Malfoy," and now Kingsley sounded almost exasperated, "look. This is the case you've been waiting for for three years. I'm handing it to you on a fucking silver platter. So just suck it up and put on the goddamn dress."
And with that, he shoved the folder into Malfoy's hands, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.
Malfoy stood there for a long time, just staring at the folder. Harry watched him, watched defiant anger and refusal give way for resignation and acceptance, and was still watching him when Malfoy looked up again, instantly spotting Harry's gaze. Harry made no move to hide it; while Malfoy might have continued to be haughty and cold and generally as unpleasant as possible over the years, Harry didn't have the energy to return the animosity. Besides, he'd worked with Malfoy for so long, first in the war, then in a shortened training program, modified to account for war-induced field experience, and now as partners, that he didn't have the inclination to hate him either.
Of course, that didn't stop him from teasing.
"I'm sure you'll make a simply stunning woman, Malfoy," Harry said mildly, although he was sure his eyes were sparkling at the image of Malfoy looking like a drowned rat, hair hanging loosely around his face like Luna wore hers, thin shoulders poking out the top of the sort of strapless dress Cho favoured, toddling around in pumps (and complaining loudly) the way Ginny did on the rare occasion when she deigned to go out in something other than jeans and flannel shirts. In fact, the conglomeration of those three images was enough to make him snort, although he managed to get his hand over his mouth first, turning the sound into a cough.
Malfoy continued to glare, narrowed eyes not leaving Harry's face once as he stalked across the room and slammed the file down onto his desk before flinging himself elegantly (Malfoy did everything elegantly) into his chair. "I hate you, Potter," he grumbled, just loud enough so Harry could hear.
"I know, Malfoy," Harry returned soothingly, flashing him a sunny smile before lowering his feet from the desk and starting to peruse some of his paperwork. There were a lot of things to take care of before their meeting that evening -- he wanted to go over Lucius' case files again, making sure he was completely up to date on all the facts so he didn't end up getting redundant information from the contact, even though he knew Malfoy knew those files almost as well as he knew his own name. He also had to check over what information they had on this contact that wasn't included in this specific file, such as the other cases he'd figured into in the past, the string of associations that had led the Ministry to him... Oh, and he should probably go scout the area where they were meeting, just because he liked to be especially sure he knew what they were getting into before they went, after that Incident about a year ago with the fanatic assassin--
"So what are you wearing tonight, dear?"
Harry blinked owlishly, looking up from his desk to see Malfoy regarding him with barely concealed hostility.
"What?" Wearing? He was an Auror, not a fashion plate, although his partner often seemed to think the exact opposite.
"I asked," Malfoy returned with poisonous sweetness, "what you're wearing tonight. As I don't happen to have evening gowns coming out my ears, I shall have to purchase something appropriate, that preferably matches your attire. Therefore, I need to know what said attire will be."
Harry shrugged, looking down at his chinos and slightly rumpled button-down shirt. "This?"
At the horrified look Malfoy gave him, he studied himself more closely, noting the faint spaghetti sauce stain on the breast pocket of his shirt and the way the cuffs of his trousers were starting to fray. "Er. Well, I have...I could change my shirt..."
"Just stop before you hurt yourself, Potter." Harry looked up to see Malfoy massaging the bridge of his nose and looking like he'd just been told that Voldemort had risen again and was descending on the Ministry with an army of pink bunnies. "All right. I should have known, judging from your everyday attire, that your sense of proper fashion was despicable, but that is a mistake I shan't be making again." He stood, heading to the door. "Wait here."
Harry stood up, wondering what the fuck Malfoy was up to. "D'you want me to come wi--"
"No." Malfoy blinked, the expression on his face quite clearly saying that he hadn't expected to be quite so...vehement, but repeated himself nonetheless. "No. I'll only be a few moments."
And with that he was gone, leaving Harry alone in their (comfortably sized) office with a (comfortably sized) frown on his face. Not that this was surprising. Malfoy was a private sort of person -- in all the time they'd known each other, he'd not so much as found out Malfoy's middle name, let alone where he lived or what he did outside of work or what he liked or even if he had family or friends. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as secretive. Ron was always dropping by, down from the seventh floor and his work with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, bearing pictures of his wife and steadily growing brood. Hermione came by sometimes between classes, a huge pile of books with really long titles in tow, usually to rattle off something about this project or that research she was doing and then to make sure Harry was taking care of himself before pecking Harry on the cheek again and darting off as quickly as her rucksack would let her. He occasionally had other visitors too: Neville, usually with a plant of some sort, even though he knew Harry would inevitably kill it no matter what charms he put on it; Remus, hair now completely grey but face looking much younger and more alive thanks to Snape's ongoing modifications to the Wolfsbane potion (and, Harry imagined, Snape's presence in Remus' bed, although he didn't much like to think about that); Colin, now a photographer for the Daily Prophet, although he'd long since learned to leave his camera behind; and any number of other Hogwarts friends, always with cheerful words and pleasant stories about the goings on in their part of the world.
And yet, in the past three years, Harry'd never once seen anyone come to visit Malfoy. When Harry's friends were there, they largely ignored him, perhaps giving him the slightest awkward smile that inevitably faded in the face of Malfoy's bored expression, and as far as Harry could see, Malfoy ignored them as well. But before all of this, before the unknown something that had made Malfoy defect to 'their' side, he'd never seen Malfoy without an entourage of people, a prince among commoners.
Although, Harry thought, picking up one of Lucius' files from his desk and leafing through it idly, Malfoy's entourage was all dead or imprisoned at this point, and those who weren't were either wanted by the Ministry or wouldn't speak to Malfoy anyhow. No wonder he was so deliberately distant from everyone.
Or maybe he was just a misanthropic shit.
Harry chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair again and kicking his feet up again as he began scanning the oft-read file. Lucius Malfoy, born 13 January 1954; Marked spring 1971. Cleared of charges 21 November 1980 (grounds: Imperius Curse), imprisoned Azkaban maximum-security 3 June 1995 (conviction: Death Eater; conspiracy, battery, attempted homicide), escaped 31 December 1995. Still at large; considered armed and extremely dangerous.
Malfoy, blue eyes flashing and lip curled into a sneer as he aimed his wand at Harry's heart, cold voice drawling "It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams..."
"Dreaming again, Potter?" breathed a voice against his ear, and he jumped, startled, wand already in his hand as he looked up into the...grey eyes of his partner.
"Fuck, Malfoy," he gasped, heart pounding in his chest, extremely unsettled as Lucius Malfoy's face morphed into Draco's and the dark shadow of the Department of Mysteries faded away, leaving only his office. "Didn't your father ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"
Malfoy's face shuttered immediately, and Harry was struck by just how much he looked like his father when he did that. Then he realised what he'd said and cursed under his breath. "Look," he said sheepishly, "I didn't mean--"
"Don't trouble yourself, Potter," Malfoy said flatly, turning his back and walking off. Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He might not have known much about Malfoy, but he did know that when Malfoy passed up an opportunity to insult him, he'd really struck below the belt. And he really had this time. Lucius was the one constantly touchy subject for Malfoy, and for good reason. Malfoy got a lot of shit just for his name, and for the fact that his father was one of the few outstanding figures that the Ministry had not yet managed to capture; many people seemed intent on blaming him, convinced that it was his influence on the Order, and now the Ministry, that kept the Aurors from searching for him, and Harry knew that for every letter of gratitude or gift Malfoy got, there were always three Howlers to go with it.
After a long silence, he forced himself to set down the file and stand, rounding his desk and approaching Malfoy, who was very busy writing...something. "Malfoy, listen, I..."
"Your suit is hanging in the coat closet," Malfoy interrupted him.
Harry blinked, train of thought derailed. "My...suit?"
Malfoy signed his name on the parchment with a flourish, rolled it up, and sealed it before finally looking up at Harry with irritation. "Are you deaf as well as blind?" he scowled, and Harry felt some of his misgivings abate -- if Malfoy was insulting him again, then he'd let Harry's remark slide. For the time being.
"Suit in the closet," Harry repeated, feeling a bit dazed, but walking over to the closet nonetheless, painfully aware of Malfoy's gaze fixed to the back of his head. He reached inside and pulled out a heavy garment bag, black, with Versace emblazoned on it in small silver letters, and then proceeded to stare at it dumbly. "You..." He looked up, taking in Malfoy's blank stare. "You bought me a suit?"
Malfoy snorted. "Hardly. I loaned you one of mine. Do be careful with it though -- it cost me upward of two thousand galleons."
Harry dropped it.
"Oh, wonderful, Potter," Malfoy snapped, launching himself elegantly out of his chair and stalking across the room, scooping up the bag in one smooth motion and hanging it back in the closet. "I tell you to be careful and you drop it on the floor. That's really excellent. I'd hate to see what you'd do if I told you to mangle something."
Harry opened his mouth to object, but Malfoy was already walking off again, picking up the parchment from his desk. "Our meeting with the contact is at seven this evening," he said, not looking at Harry. "Considering the circumstances, we shall have to arrive together. I will meet you at the front of the building at six fifteen; that should give us enough time to solidify our story in the car before we arrive at the restaurant."
Harry watched Malfoy tidy the papers on his desk -- always impeccable, unlike Harry's haphazard piles of crumpled parchment and open folders and scattered quills -- and smooth down the front of his robes on his way to the door. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Meet in front of the...solidify our...where exactly are you going, Malfoy?"
Malfoy finally looked up at him, a positively milk-curdling scowl in place. "I," he ground out tersely, "have to go dress-shopping."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Harry with a two thousand galleon Versace suit and absolutely no idea what the fuck was going on. This was not a good feeling.
He needed a drink.
Half an hour later, he was sprawled out in his favourite booth at the Leaky Cauldron, pint in hand and a plate of greasy chips at his elbow, listening to his best friend laugh his head off.
"Dress shopping? Merlin, Harry, what I wouldn't give to have been there, watching him argue about it with Kingsley! What I wouldn't give to see the expression on his pointed little face when you escort him into the restaurant tonight!" Ron snickered wildly before tossing back the rest of his pint and signalling for another.
"Really, Ron," Hermione said primly, sipping her glass of Chianti, "one would think you were twelve again. Surely you can manage to remember that Malfoy was on our side during the war and doesn't deserve all this condescension?"
Harry arched a brow at her, not missing the small smile she hid in her glass. Ron, however, was oblivious. "Oh, come off it, Hermione!" he snorted, grabbing a chip and stuffing it noisily into his mouth. (Having children had apparently made him regress somewhat.) "Nobody likes the git, including you, so there's no need to pretend. What he deserves is a good kick in the arse for being such a prat. Surely you haven't forgotten all the horrible things he did to us when we were in school?"
"We were in school, Ronald," Hermione retorted, but not as sharply as she would have if it had been something she actually cared about. Harry knew she didn't like Malfoy any more than Ron did; she was just trying to be mature about it.
Ron had no such qualms. "He's still a twitchy, pointed little ferret, and honestly, Harry, I can't believe you put up with him, especially after all the shite he put you through."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, taking another swig of his beer. "Yes, well," he returned evenly, "someone has to keep an eye on him."
Ron snickered, snagging a whole handful of chips from Harry's plate, but Hermione went silent, eyes wide and thoughtful as they fixed on Harry's face, the same way she always behaved whenever this subject came up. It was fairly common knowledge, although it really shouldn't have been, that Harry was assigned Malfoy as a partner to make sure he didn't get up to any trouble. Even after his work with the Order and his role in the war, which had been just as much as Ron or Hermione had done and certainly more than Harry, the Ministry didn't trust him, which was the reason he'd only gotten a third class instead of the first that he deserved.
What wasn't such common knowledge was that Malfoy had been assigned to Harry to keep an eye on him as well.
With Malfoy, the Ministry was worried he was going to defect, or start passing information to hidden war criminals, or basically live up to the reputation the rest of the Wizarding world had crafted for him based on his name. But with Harry...they were afraid he was going to crack.
He almost had, once. Being locked away in Grimmauld Place for days on end with no news of what was going on or how their side was doing or which of his friends had been killed had been enough to drive him nearly to insanity, and eventually several Order members had arrived for a strategy rendezvous to find him with his wand pressed to his temple and what was apparently a hysterically murderous look on his face. He hadn't wanted to listen to any of them, or to let any of them near him, and any spells they'd cast at him had only bounced off -- a testament to the innate magic crackling through his system. He'd been pretty intent on doing some major harm, though to himself or to someone else, he couldn't remember.
Malfoy'd been the one to stop him.
Even now, Harry couldn't quite say why he'd listened to the other boy. Maybe it was because he didn't give a damn about Malfoy, didn't respect him, didn't like him, didn't think much of him as a wizard and therefore a threat. Or maybe it was because Malfoy'd never coddled him the way everyone else had. Whatever the reason, it was Malfoy that had kept him from doing something drastic, and Harry's inadvertent show of power that had convinced the Order he was ready.
Voldemort had fallen three days later.
Unlike Malfoy's name, which was obviously very public, Harry's near-breakdown had been kept under wraps, known only to those individuals who'd been present. However, as Kingsley had been one of those individuals, and as he was now in charge of the department, he'd been the one to assign their partnership. He'd only mentioned the surface reason, of course, but Harry knew better. He could see it every time Kingsley looked at him, as if expecting him to lose it any second.
He shook his head, taking another gulp of his drink. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the two best Aurors the Ministry had, and the two most likely to snap. Harry knew it, and he knew Hermione knew it, and she knew that he knew. It just wasn't something that they ever talked about -- a spectre of the past, like Sirius and Wormtail and Bellatrix Lestrange and Seamus Finnigan, buried along with the rest of the war-worn dead.
"Really, Harry," Ron said suddenly, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, "I can maybe understand working with him...but is it really necessary for you to be going as a couple?"
Harry again resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew perfectly well where this was going, and he geared himself up for The Lecture, the one he received at least once every two weeks.
"You've been single so long that now even your boss is trying to set you up." Ron regarded him seriously, although it was hard for Harry to return the look as Ron had a smear of ketchup decorating the corner of his mouth.
"He's right, you know," Hermione said quietly, not nearly as intrusive as Ron was, but infinitely more bossy and determined to see Harry settle down with a nice girl. Sometimes he wondered if she wanted that girl to be her, but she'd been seeing the same bloke for...six months? seven months? at this point, so he figured he was mostly safe.
He sighed, raising a hand and massaging the bridge of his nose. "Look, guys," he said, his standard response to all this. "I'm touched that you're so concerned about my personal life, but really. I'm fine. I just haven't...met the right person yet."
"Well maybe if you looked, then you might meet her," Ron returned, eyeing Harry sternly. "At least before, you used to come out with me and pick up girls, but really, Harry, when's the last time you even talked to a girl, let alone took one home?"
"I talk to Hermione all the time," Harry said tightly, wishing they'd leave it alone.
"You know what he means, Harry," Hermione chimed in, her voice rather more stern than it had been when speaking to Ron earlier. "You know I don't condone all those one-night stands you had--"
"It was only a half dozen, Hermione, really," Ron interrupted, but at the venomous look she shot him, he shut up, taking another handful of chips.
"--but I agree with him. You can't keep throwing yourself into your job and ignoring your personal life like this. You can't be happy unless you find a balance."
"I have a balance," Harry objected. "I work ten hours a day, and I see you guys at least twice a week, and people are always coming by the office to go out for lunch or to catch up. It's loads better than going to a pub and having random birds flinging themselves at me."
Harry remembered how well that turned out. He'd learned pretty quickly after a series of unfortunate one-night stands (a short series -- Ron's estimate had been fairly accurate) that girls weren't after him for his charmingly awkward personality or his poor conversation skills. They wanted Harry Potter the hero, with the name and the money and the image to go with it, and as soon as they'd realised that he was a markedly private person who lived well below his means and didn't much care for extravagance and had no idea what he was doing as far as relationships went, they'd been gone. It had hurt quite a bit at the time, but now, he couldn't care less. He loved his friends very dearly, and they were far better than any random Julie or Christine or Susan or Kathryn or Deena he could ever meet.
"Then try going out with one of your friends!" Hermione said in that infuriatingly logical tone that made Harry want to insist she really had belonged in Ravenclaw. "You know Cho's had a thing for you for ages, and Luna's..."
"No," Harry said quite vehemently, shaking his head. "Come on, Hermione, you know how I feel about that."
Hermione sighed, shaking her head. He'd made it quite clear that his friends were like his family, and dating Cho or Luna or Ginny (if she'd been straight) or any of the other girls in their group would be like dating his cousins. He and Hermione had gone out for about two weeks their seventh year, and the first (and only) time they'd kissed, it had been like kissing his sister. He still wasn't sure how she'd felt about it, but it was another one of those Things They Did Not Speak Of.
To date, Hermione had been his only girlfriend, bringing his grand total of romantic attachments to seven, including his nightmarish stint with Cho his fifth year.
"Well," Ron broke in in exasperation, "you're going to have to do better than that, Harry. Really, it's not healthy for a good-looking bloke like you to be single for all this time. People might start thinking there's something wrong with you."
Harry shrugged, draining the rest of his pint before reaching for the garment bag. "Well, if that happens," he said, extracting himself from the booth and standing, "at least I'll always have a meaningful relationship with my right hand. In fact, we're quite attached to each other."
He raised said hand in farewell, ignoring Ron's incoherent spluttering and Hermione's Honestly, Harry as he turned and headed for the door.
It was a fairly short walk to his very modest flat, a one-bedroom on the ninth floor of a nice old Muggle building, and the fresh air helped clear the smoke from his sinuses and the lingering confusion from his mind. It was rare that Malfoy was able to catch him off-guard with anything, but he supposed it was understandable in this situation. After all, Harry was usually obsessive about detail, wanting to be involved in every single aspect of a case regardless of how many extra hours he had to put in -- after his role, or almost non-role, in the war, he'd made it a point to never let himself be used as a pawn of any sort. But in this case, he felt lost because frankly, he didn't know a thing about the high life. He'd always been perfectly content to walk around in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, to sprawl across his threadbare sofa and watch a flickering telly, to eat Chinese takeaway and pizza and his poor attempts at cooking, and to forget that there was a whole other world out there where he was famous.
But Malfoy...he'd grown up surrounded by the rich Wizarding elite, and while their actual mission involved meeting at a Muggle venue and probably discussing Muggle culture, Malfoy would still know a lot more about how to handle himself and what to say than Harry could ever even pretend to. Besides, from what little Harry knew about Malfoy's sense of style and fashion, -- with a glance at the garment bag -- he was fairly sure Malfoy was up on Muggle culture as well.
At least, he hoped so, because he was utterly hopeless.
He glanced at the clock -- half five -- and groaned, heading to the bedroom and tossing the garment bag onto his unmade bed before shucking his shirt and dropping it carelessly on the floor. He had just about enough time to shower, shave, and dress before he had to head to the Ministry to meet Malfoy, and he knew he had to allow extra time for his tie. He'd never been any good at tying them by hand, even with seven years of practice, and he was pants at the spell for it too.
Sneakers, socks, jeans, and pants ended up in a tangled heap by the increasingly large pile of laundry in the corner, and he walked naked into the bathroom, starting the shower and ignoring the screech of pipes as he stared at himself in the mirror.
Ron and Hermione always told him he was a good-looking bloke, but he couldn't really see it. It wasn't that he was ugly or anything; he just didn't see the appeal. He wasn't quite so skinny anymore; Molly'd kept him well-fed, and he'd taken to working out when he'd been stuck in the house alone for long periods of time, and then Auror training on top of that had given him a fair build, although he didn't look a thing like Kingsley or Charlie or even Ron, whose short career as a Keeper before he decided he liked organising events more than he liked playing (or maybe more than he liked losing, which was all his team ever had done) had thickened him up quite a bit. Harry supposed his shoulders weren't too bad -- they were broader than his hips, but not by much, and he could see the dent of muscle definition when he looked for it, but it was certainly nothing to write home about.
Although, he pondered, he could see that dent of muscle definition everywhere -- his arms, his chest, the planes of his sides (though he could still see the shadows of his ribs), the ridges of his stomach, the jut where side met hip, and down through the muscles of his thighs and calves. He was depressingly hairless as well, at least visibly, except for a light furring over his calves and thinning out over his thighs, and the dark curls under his arms and around his quite normal-sized cock (or at least he imagined it was fairly normal-sized...he'd never had much chance -- or inclination -- to compare).
He pulled his gaze back up to his face, studying the angle of his jaw, not quite as lean and pronounced as Ron's or as...pointy as Malfoy's, the straight line of his nose, the slight upward quirk to his lips, and his eyes, huge and very green behind his glasses and beneath a wild fringe of unruly black hair, hair that he intentionally wore long enough to cover the faded scar on his forehead. It was still there, of course, and still pronounced, but with Voldemort's magic bound and destroyed, it didn't burn, or ache, or throb, or give him inexplicable headaches or twisted dreams; now it was just a mark, a souvenir, another ghost to be added to the graveyard, and he didn't much like to look at it anymore.
He blinked as he realised his glasses were fogging up, and removed them, setting them on the edge of the sink before stepping into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, he was staring at himself in the mirror again, this time with an end of his tie in each hand and a furious scowl on his face. After retying the thing four times, each time increasingly worse than the last, he'd about had it, and was very tempted to set the thing on fire. But then he remembered what Malfoy'd told him about the suit, and refrained, instead draping it around his neck and deciding that if Malfoy was going to dress him up like this, then Malfoy could damn well do his tie as well.
He glared at his reflection, raising a hand to try and push down his still-tousled hair (which, of course, failed), and watched in disgust as the material of his shirt...shimmered. Malfoy'd given him a bloody shimmery shirt, one that shone different shades in the light, and a bloody shimmery tie to go with it. Wanker. And Harry'd gotten stupid thin black socks and poncy shoes as well, and really, he felt like an idiot, although he supposed it was better than going in a checked shirt and a pair of chinos.
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and grabbed his wand from the tangle of sheets. If Malfoy wasn't satisfied, he could fix it himself, because Harry'd had enough of fighting with it.
Well, he thought in a (largely futile) attempt to make himself feel better, sliding his wand up his sleeve and heading toward the door, at least the shirt is red.
The walk to the Ministry was short and uneventful, and he resisted the urge to lean against the brick façade and tap his ridiculously clad foot as he waited for Malfoy to arrive. The bloody ponce was late, of course, when he'd been so adamant about arriving on time, and Harry was shimmery with an undone tie around his neck and he was about to start kicking the wall, expensive shoes be damned, when a long, sleek black car pulled up to the curb and an absolute vision got out.
Harry stared, eyes huge behind his glasses and clenched hands falling open, as the woman approached, long, stocking-clad legs just visible through the slit in her skirt, breasts -- god, her breasts -- swaying as she stalked forward and...
"For fuck's sake, Potter, seven years in school and you still don't know how to tie a tie?"
Harry's mouth dropped open and he forced his gaze up from the woman's cleavage to her face, taking in the full, glossy lips, the pink glow to her cheeks, the slight curve of her jaw, the...grey eyes, flashing furiously from beneath long lashes and smoky lids.
"Malfoy?" he choked out stupidly, unable to keep his eyes from dropping again as he took in Malfoy's attire, the way the sheer material of the dress clung to his body, accentuating the slight dent of his waist and the length of his legs, the drape of the neckline just barely concealing the swell of his breasts, -- his breasts, fuck -- the thin straps that disappeared into a plunging backline, revealing the jut of vertebrae and leaving almost his entire back (almost to the curve of his arse) completely bare...
"My face is up here, Potter," Malfoy ground out, and Harry blinked hard, horrified that he'd just been...fuck, he'd been checking out Malfoy, and...oh, hell, and liking it too.
This was not shaping up to be a good night.
"S...sorry," he stammered, licking suddenly-dry lips and trying not to flinch when Malfoy snatched the tie from around his neck.
"Shut up. You're absolutely hopeless, Potter. Now take off your jacket."
Harry complied dazedly, slipping the three buttons from their holes and shrugging the heavy material off his shoulders, forcing himself to hold still as Malfoy slid the length of silk around his neck and smoothly fastened the knot, drawing it up beneath his throat with long, white fingers.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, studying Harry appraisingly. "Not completely awful...hold on." Malfoy bent, pulling the slit of his skirt back from his thigh, and Harry closed his mouth hard before he could embarrass himself. Withdrawing his wand from where it was tucked into a band around the top of his stocking, Malfoy pointed it at Harry and murmured a series of soft, elided spells, one dissolving the wrinkles from his shirt, one to stiffen the angles of his collar, and one, Harry was horrified to note, to tighten his trousers against his -- oh, god -- stiffening prick.
"Better," Malfoy pronounced, sliding his wand back into the garter, and Harry felt his trousers tighten even more. God, no man had the right to make such a gorgeous woman. Especially Malfoy.
It took him a long moment to realise he was ogling again, and only when Malfoy cleared his throat in irritation did he drag his eyes up to Malfoy's scowling face, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry," he said again, sliding his arms back into his jacket and refastening the buttons. "It's just...you make such a pretty girl."
Malfoy glared at him, pale skin reddening again and hands curling by his sides. "Get in the car," he growled, lip curling, and stomped off, heels clacking against the pavement.
Harry grinned and followed.
"Now," Malfoy snapped, the instant Harry pulled the door shut, "here's our story. Your name is James Blakeney, and you're the CEO of a company that specialises in intelligence technology. Quiet -- if he asks, you can simply inform him that you're unable to discuss your business due to your contract with the British government. I'm Giselle Fauré, and I've just inherited a large sum of money after my grandfather died -- my father was a Minister for the government of France who was killed several years ago, and my mother was an actress who died in childbirth. We're meeting Mr Rutledge under the guise of seeking his help in figuring out how to invest the money."
"We?" Harry repeated incredulously, not quite able to get past the idea of Malfoy as an...heiress, especially since he'd spent so many years thinking that's exactly what Malfoy was and always would be.
"Yes, we," Malfoy retorted. "We're engaged to be married in June."
Oh, this just kept getting better and better. "Married," Harry echoed, the word thick against his tongue.
"Yes, Potter," Malfoy said, now looking entirely exasperated as he held up his left hand, and Harry blinked, wondering how he'd missed the huge diamond sparkling on Malfoy's finger. "Married. You know, when a man and a woman's parents arrange a political commitment of--wait, you're a Gryffindor. When a man and woman fancy themselves in love and feel the need to--"
"I know what it means, Malfoy," Harry snapped, trying not to feel unsettled at the utterly clinical way in which Malfoy'd initially mentioned the concept. "I just don't see why we have to--"
"Potter." Malfoy scowled, arching a brow. "Believe me, I'm not any more thrilled about this than you are. But the fact remains that this man only agreed to meet us under very Muggle conditions -- he doesn't want to take any more chances, not after what happened to our last potential contact -- and as I doubt you have some previously untapped base of knowledge about the inner workings of finance, this was the most plausible scenario. And Shacklebolt signed off on this, so consider it set in stone."
Harry opened his mouth indignantly, but at the filthy look Malfoy shot him, closed it again and leaned back against the seat, folding his arms. Uncomfortably. This was already shaping up to be a complete nightmare, especially if Kingsley had known about this drivel and hadn't even warned him. Ron's words from earlier came floating back to him -- even your boss is trying to set you up -- and he wondered, idly, if maybe Ron had been right.
Then he glanced over at Malfoy, eyes drawn immediately to the sliver of white thigh peeking out through the slit of his dress, above the line of his stockings, and swallowed, thinking that maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
Oh, god. What the hell was wrong with him?
The ride to the restaurant seemed to take forever, Harry uncomfortably aware of Malfoy's proximity (and breasts) at all times, but they finally arrived and Harry practically leapt out of the back seat, in dire need of a drink.
The sound of a throat being cleared stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked at the valet in confusion before noticing his pointed glance toward...
Oh.
Cursing under his breath, he walked back over to where Malfoy was standing and trying not to look furious, and, after the briefest hesitation, offered his arm, almost surprised when Malfoy took it gracefully and stood up a little straighter, blond curls brushing the sleeve of Harry's jacket as he leaned toward Harry a bit and murmured, "You're going to have to do better than this, Potter, or I might have to castrate you." Then, he plastered a pleasant smile on his face and began to walk, giving a grimacing Harry no choice but to follow.
Fuck me, he thought with a scowl as they walked into the foyer together and he caught a glimpse of their surroundings, the thick carpet beneath their feet and the crystal chandeliers overhead and the paintings adorning the walls, -- he thought he recognised Monet or Manet or something like that, but his knowledge of fine art was limited to the times when Hermione'd dragged him and Ron to the galleries in an attempt to make them respectable men -- not to mention the fancy clothes and snooty expressions worn by the rest of the patrons. He almost stopped right there and ran right back out of the restaurant, but Malfoy, as if expecting that, tightened his grip on Harry's arm and dragged him toward the host's table.
"Yes, sir?" the man in the black shirt and blacker expression asked, and Harry felt Malfoy stiffen next to him, presumably insulted that he'd been entirely ignored. Harry couldn't say he was too pleased with the man's behaviour either, but then again, it seemed in character for this sort of establishment -- treat him rudely until he gives you reason to change your tune.
Harry drew himself up straighter, narrowed his eyes, and snapped, "We're here to meet with Mr Rutledge."
That, apparently, did the trick -- the man's head bowed slightly and his scowl lessened. "Of course," he answered, stepping out from behind the table. "Right this way, please."
Harry suppressed a smirk, feeling somewhat more at ease and less useless than before as he led Malfoy to the indicated table, where a tall, dark-haired man sat sipping a glass of what looked like scotch. He rose as they came to a halt, holding out his hand with a smile that was equal parts pleased and predatory, the expression of a powerful man who knew his own abilities.
"Well," he said, shaking Harry's hand firmly as the host made a discreet exit. "Mr Blakeney. A pleasure to meet you at last."
"Mr Rutledge," Harry answered, returning the handshake, unsurprised to feel the slight crackle of magic beneath his fingertips. He hadn't been positive that their contact was a wizard, but considering the information he would (hopefully) be providing, it wasn't at all unexpected. "Thank you very much for agreeing to meet us."
"Not at all," he replied, smiling. "I'm always delighted to add such a handsome young couple to my clientele. And this must be your delightful fiancée."
Harry tried not to flinch at the word, instead smiling and resting a hand on the small of Malfoy's back the way he'd seen Ron do with his wife, purposefully ignoring the way Malfoy's skin felt beneath his palm. "Indeed. May I present Giselle Fauré?"
"Enchanté, mademoiselle," Rutledge replied with a much more genuine smile, taking Malfoy's hand and kissing the back of it.
"The pleasure is all mine. Mr Rutledge," Malfoy returned in a soft, lilting voice just tinged with a French accent, and Harry was shocked at how...feminine Malfoy sounded, and how comfortably his hand rested in Rutledge's. Equally shocking was the way his stomach twisted when Rutledge's gaze lingered on Malfoy's face, and he cleared his throat a bit too loudly, then offered up a brightly apologetic smile as Rutledge let Malfoy's hand drop.
"Would you like something to drink?" Rutledge asked, pulling Malfoy's chair out for him and waiting until he'd sat down before sliding into his own chair and beckoning for a waiter. Harry sank down into his seat, grimacing to himself for not having thought of the chair thing, and was about to order a double scotch when he noticed Rutledge looking expectantly at Malfoy and shut up, biting down on his tongue. Of course. Ladies first.
"I'd like a glass of Roussanne, please," Malfoy said after a moment's perusal of the wine menu.
Rutledge looked pleased. "You have excellent taste, mademoiselle," he said, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table. Malfoy smiled, dipping his head a bit, almost...coyly.
Harry gritted his teeth. "I'll take a double scotch," he said, wondering why the fuck Malfoy was flirting with their contact like that, and also why the hell it was pissing him off so much.
"Also an excellent choice," Rutledge remarked as their waiter bowed and disappeared, and Harry relaxed as Malfoy turned his head slightly and smiled.
As expected, Malfoy was an invaluable resource. Harry's largest contribution to the conversation came when Rutledge asked him what he did and he'd made up something suitably vague about a government contract and an expected capital spike in the near future with the release of a new line of software, earning him a soft chuckle from Malfoy and an I do hope this means you'd like to set up another meeting then! from Rutledge before the two of them went back to discussing French politics. Really, if there was any sort of helpful information in the seemingly useless small talk Rutledge and Malfoy were making, Harry certainly couldn't see it, but Malfoy was more animated than Harry had ever seen him, pale skin flushed and eyes shining as he and Rutledge argued about some government corruption or another. Since Harry couldn't make heads or tails of what they were talking about, he took the opportunity to study his partner between bites of his beef something or other, wondering why he'd never noticed the way Malfoy's neck arched like that, or the sharp jut of shoulderblades, -- had he always been that skinny? -- or the curve of muscle in his arm, or the way his entire face lit up when he smiled, or the flicker of his tongue across his lower lip after every bite of food, and fuck, Harry really had to lay off the scotch -- it was starting to get uncomfortably warm, and even with his jacket unbuttoned, he could feel himself starting to sweat.
Oddly, he thought, as he signalled for a glass of water, the fact that he was studying Malfoy like this didn't seem strange to him. After all, he'd known the other man for more than half his life, but didn't really know him, or anything about him -- he'd always just taken it for granted that Malfoy would be there, cold sneer in place and eyes glinting with malice as he spat out some vituperative or another. But Harry didn't mind those anymore; in fact, he'd quite come to like them, their familiarity, their constancy, still there even though everything else had changed. Ron was always busy with his wife and his kids, and Hermione with school, and all his other friends had moved on, found their niches, and were satisfied.
But not Harry. Harry's entire life had been defined by his destiny, to defeat Voldemort and to save the Wizarding world, and now that he'd done so, he felt...empty. He knew Ron and Hermione were right, and that he needed to stop existing and start actually living, find a hobby, settle down, maybe have a family, but everyone only wanted him for his name or for what he was or what he'd done, and the only people he trusted -- could trust -- were the people he'd fought beside, strategised with, and come to respect and understand, because they knew what the rest of the Wizarding world didn't. They knew what he was, and who he was, and didn't want to treat him like the embodiment of his name.
But he knew he wouldn't be able to date his friends, because his friends were his family, and so he'd thrown himself into his work so he didn't have to think about the fact that he was looking at a life of solitude while everyone moved on around him and left him behind.
Only, he wasn't alone. Malfoy had always been there with him, the one constant from his childhood, the one person who'd never stopped berating him or snapping at him or telling him he was nothing special just because he had the Dark Lord committed, and he'd come to depend on that, because it meant that Malfoy hadn't been able to move on either, hadn't found a new life in the new, Voldemort-free world. He was still there, and had been there for so long that Harry couldn't imagine a life where he wasn't.
And that realisation didn't scare him nearly as much as he'd thought it would.
"Mr Blakeney?"
Harry blinked in surprise, dragging his eyes away from the curl of Malfoy's fingers around his glass to see that both Malfoy and Rutledge were looking at him expectantly. "Er...sorry?"
Malfoy shook his head, laughing lightly as he reached across and rested a hand on Harry's arm. "Do pardon him. James is notoriously uninterested in politics, I'm afraid."
Harry flushed, both at the implication and at the press of fingers against his arm, but Rutledge only laughed, raising his glass of scotch. "I can't say I blame you," he remarked. "Politics are notoriously uninteresting things, really only good for starting arguments and destroying names."
Harry laughed in agreement, trying not to pay attention to the way his arm burned under Malfoy's palm, but he couldn't help noticing the tightening of fingers against his wrist, and he glanced up to see Malfoy looking as though he'd been slapped, although he was hiding it rather well.
Oh. A bit too close to home, Harry realised, steeling his face into a more neutral expression. "Perhaps, although I should probably have at least some passing knowledge of them. I tend to focus on my job and forget about the things around me. I'm sure it can't be healthy."
"Mm, perhaps not," Rutledge answered. "Although I find the most successful people are those who can focus on their jobs without allowing the outside world to affect their opinion of what they're doing. It takes a very determined person to break away from outside influence and do exactly what he wants and needs to do, and I find that sort of behaviour very commendable."
"Thank you," Harry answered. "I feel exactly the same way."
He and Rutledge smiled at each other for a moment, but he was acutely aware of Malfoy's gaze on his face, knowing that that remark had hit just as close to home, but he hoped in a more pleasant way. Malfoy's fingers curled beneath the sleeve of his jacket to press at the underside of his wrist; the significance of that action was not lost on him, and he reached across with his right hand, covering Malfoy's hand with his in what he hoped was sufficient acknowledgment. Beside the concealed compliment he'd just paid his partner, his exchange with Rutledge had hopefully pushed their conversation away from the mundane and casual discussion and toward the reason they were there, if all three of them were on the same page at this point, which they may or may not have been depending on whether Rutledge was steering them in the direction Harry thought he was.
But there was something else there as well, he realised, in the way Malfoy's fingers were now tracing the fine bones of his wrist, an idle exploration that would seem perfectly casual to anyone who thought they were a couple, but something with infinitely more significance to Harry since he knew that they weren't. He didn't know what Malfoy was playing at, or if he was even aware of it, or why Harry even cared, but the fact remained that even though they were poised on the edge of hopefully uncovering their first big lead in this case for almost a decade, he couldn't ignore the way his breath had been speeding slightly every time Malfoy'd touched him, or that his trousers had been getting steadily more and more uncomfortable all night, or that he'd felt an inexplicable burn of jealousy every time Malfoy laughed too loudly at one of Rutledge's jokes or leaned in too close for a conspiratorial exchange of information, and maybe it was just because he'd gotten so used to Malfoy's presence that the idea of anyone taking him away made Harry uncomfortable...
...or maybe he had to suck it up and admit to himself that despite everything, despite their history of animosity and the other man's infuriating attitude toward him and the fact that Harry'd only ever been interested in girls, somehow, he'd become...attracted to Draco Malfoy.
Of course, he realised a moment later as Rutledge turned his head and Malfoy jerked his hand away, while he and Malfoy weren't friends, but had worked together in the war, thereby fulfilling heretofore impossible to meet criteria, there was also the slight problem that Malfoy didn't like him. Hell, he barely tolerated him most of the time, making it perfectly clear that being forced to work with Harry was an agonising inconvenience, so the idea of...anything beyond the most tenuous of friendships was really ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that Malfoy was a boy and Harry didn't even know how the mechanics of that were supposed to work, although he imagined they had to since he'd heard some pretty definitive rumours flying around about Justin Finch-Fletchley. Not that he cared much about that sort of thing -- sure, it wasn't considered appropriate to be homosexual in the Wizarding world, even less so than it was in the Muggle world, in fact, but he always figured that if you were lucky enough to find someone you really cared about, it didn't matter what gender they were. Unfortunately, not everyone felt the same way; Ron still hadn't gotten over the fact that his baby sister was a dyke, and had objected even more vociferously to the revelation that Remus and Snape were doing the nasty, though that was an objection shared by most of Harry's friends, but it had never really been that much of a direct issue for Harry.
Apparently until now.
On to Part Two...
Harry bit back a laugh at the sight of Draco Malfoy, his normally pale skin flushed scarlet and elegant hands clenched into fists by his sides, glaring up...and up...and up...at the very imposing, and currently very stern-looking, Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Listen, Malfoy," Kingsley said in that tone reserved for delinquent prisoners and out-of-line employees, "I had to convince a lot of people to let you two have this case. And these are the terms. If you don't like it, well then you can just kiss my arse. But you're still doing it."
Malfoy growled, looking to Harry for some sort of backup, but Harry merely shrugged in assumed helplessness, leaning back in his chair and regarding the other man calmly. "Sorry, Malfoy," he said, though he was anything but. "You pushed for this case, remember? Nothing I can do about it."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed and he eyed the case file like it was a particularly foul Blast-Ended Skrewt...or more appropriately, Harry amended with a roll of his eyes, a particularly ebullient Muggle.
"I understand," Malfoy said through gritted teeth, "that this gentleman is both high-profile and very proper, and that it would be...inappropriate to seem out of place in the setting, but...why do I have to--"
"Because it's the only way he would agree to meet," Kingsley interrupted him, and Harry snorted to himself, noting the change from Disciplinary Auror Voice to Matter-Of-Fact Auror Voice. Malfoy wasn't getting out of this one, no matter what he did. Even if he refused to do it, which Harry knew he wouldn't, since this case was the whole reason Malfoy'd become an Auror in the first place, they wouldn't let him back out. Harry'd read the file from front to back -- hell, had practically memorised the whole thing -- and while he knew that he was the best Auror the department had, Malfoy wasn't far behind, and was by far the most competent to handle this sort of thing. There was nobody else with the background to make him a natural for a rendezvous at an extremely elegant and exclusive restaurant, and as their contact was insisting on it (hardly surprising, considering the subject of the case), they had to have the best.
Even so, they'd come across a lot of resistance from the higher-ups. After all, they were both young, and had only been Aurors for about three years, not to mention the fact that while they worked extremely well together, and had never given the department problems, they also had a seven-year reputation of being utterly volatile. And in the Ministry's eyes, that took precedence over the year and a half spent fighting side by side in the war, their respective Orders of Merlin (Harry's a first class, of course, and with distinction, and Malfoy's a third), and their impeccable record of success.
"But why do I have to be the girl?"
Harry's attention snapped back to the argument still going on, unable to repress a sound of amusement at the utterly ridiculous question. Malfoy's eyes were instantly on him, flashing steel.
"What's so funny, Potter?" he snapped, stalking forward in what was probably supposed to be a menacing fashion.
Harry stifled a yawn.
"Come on, Malfoy," he drawled, stretching his hands behind his head and crossing his feet atop the desk in a way he knew showed off his shoulders and torso to very good effect. He also knew it pissed Malfoy the fuck off. "Me? Pose as a girl? You've got to be joking. That wouldn't even fool Voldemort."
To his credit, Malfoy didn't even flinch the way he usually did at the mention of the former Dark Lord, once powerful, but now an utterly decimated and magicless lunatic who was locked up in a maximum-security Muggle asylum for the duration of his remaining life span. Instead, he scowled, but remained silent.
"Malfoy," and now Kingsley sounded almost exasperated, "look. This is the case you've been waiting for for three years. I'm handing it to you on a fucking silver platter. So just suck it up and put on the goddamn dress."
And with that, he shoved the folder into Malfoy's hands, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.
Malfoy stood there for a long time, just staring at the folder. Harry watched him, watched defiant anger and refusal give way for resignation and acceptance, and was still watching him when Malfoy looked up again, instantly spotting Harry's gaze. Harry made no move to hide it; while Malfoy might have continued to be haughty and cold and generally as unpleasant as possible over the years, Harry didn't have the energy to return the animosity. Besides, he'd worked with Malfoy for so long, first in the war, then in a shortened training program, modified to account for war-induced field experience, and now as partners, that he didn't have the inclination to hate him either.
Of course, that didn't stop him from teasing.
"I'm sure you'll make a simply stunning woman, Malfoy," Harry said mildly, although he was sure his eyes were sparkling at the image of Malfoy looking like a drowned rat, hair hanging loosely around his face like Luna wore hers, thin shoulders poking out the top of the sort of strapless dress Cho favoured, toddling around in pumps (and complaining loudly) the way Ginny did on the rare occasion when she deigned to go out in something other than jeans and flannel shirts. In fact, the conglomeration of those three images was enough to make him snort, although he managed to get his hand over his mouth first, turning the sound into a cough.
Malfoy continued to glare, narrowed eyes not leaving Harry's face once as he stalked across the room and slammed the file down onto his desk before flinging himself elegantly (Malfoy did everything elegantly) into his chair. "I hate you, Potter," he grumbled, just loud enough so Harry could hear.
"I know, Malfoy," Harry returned soothingly, flashing him a sunny smile before lowering his feet from the desk and starting to peruse some of his paperwork. There were a lot of things to take care of before their meeting that evening -- he wanted to go over Lucius' case files again, making sure he was completely up to date on all the facts so he didn't end up getting redundant information from the contact, even though he knew Malfoy knew those files almost as well as he knew his own name. He also had to check over what information they had on this contact that wasn't included in this specific file, such as the other cases he'd figured into in the past, the string of associations that had led the Ministry to him... Oh, and he should probably go scout the area where they were meeting, just because he liked to be especially sure he knew what they were getting into before they went, after that Incident about a year ago with the fanatic assassin--
"So what are you wearing tonight, dear?"
Harry blinked owlishly, looking up from his desk to see Malfoy regarding him with barely concealed hostility.
"What?" Wearing? He was an Auror, not a fashion plate, although his partner often seemed to think the exact opposite.
"I asked," Malfoy returned with poisonous sweetness, "what you're wearing tonight. As I don't happen to have evening gowns coming out my ears, I shall have to purchase something appropriate, that preferably matches your attire. Therefore, I need to know what said attire will be."
Harry shrugged, looking down at his chinos and slightly rumpled button-down shirt. "This?"
At the horrified look Malfoy gave him, he studied himself more closely, noting the faint spaghetti sauce stain on the breast pocket of his shirt and the way the cuffs of his trousers were starting to fray. "Er. Well, I have...I could change my shirt..."
"Just stop before you hurt yourself, Potter." Harry looked up to see Malfoy massaging the bridge of his nose and looking like he'd just been told that Voldemort had risen again and was descending on the Ministry with an army of pink bunnies. "All right. I should have known, judging from your everyday attire, that your sense of proper fashion was despicable, but that is a mistake I shan't be making again." He stood, heading to the door. "Wait here."
Harry stood up, wondering what the fuck Malfoy was up to. "D'you want me to come wi--"
"No." Malfoy blinked, the expression on his face quite clearly saying that he hadn't expected to be quite so...vehement, but repeated himself nonetheless. "No. I'll only be a few moments."
And with that he was gone, leaving Harry alone in their (comfortably sized) office with a (comfortably sized) frown on his face. Not that this was surprising. Malfoy was a private sort of person -- in all the time they'd known each other, he'd not so much as found out Malfoy's middle name, let alone where he lived or what he did outside of work or what he liked or even if he had family or friends. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as secretive. Ron was always dropping by, down from the seventh floor and his work with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, bearing pictures of his wife and steadily growing brood. Hermione came by sometimes between classes, a huge pile of books with really long titles in tow, usually to rattle off something about this project or that research she was doing and then to make sure Harry was taking care of himself before pecking Harry on the cheek again and darting off as quickly as her rucksack would let her. He occasionally had other visitors too: Neville, usually with a plant of some sort, even though he knew Harry would inevitably kill it no matter what charms he put on it; Remus, hair now completely grey but face looking much younger and more alive thanks to Snape's ongoing modifications to the Wolfsbane potion (and, Harry imagined, Snape's presence in Remus' bed, although he didn't much like to think about that); Colin, now a photographer for the Daily Prophet, although he'd long since learned to leave his camera behind; and any number of other Hogwarts friends, always with cheerful words and pleasant stories about the goings on in their part of the world.
And yet, in the past three years, Harry'd never once seen anyone come to visit Malfoy. When Harry's friends were there, they largely ignored him, perhaps giving him the slightest awkward smile that inevitably faded in the face of Malfoy's bored expression, and as far as Harry could see, Malfoy ignored them as well. But before all of this, before the unknown something that had made Malfoy defect to 'their' side, he'd never seen Malfoy without an entourage of people, a prince among commoners.
Although, Harry thought, picking up one of Lucius' files from his desk and leafing through it idly, Malfoy's entourage was all dead or imprisoned at this point, and those who weren't were either wanted by the Ministry or wouldn't speak to Malfoy anyhow. No wonder he was so deliberately distant from everyone.
Or maybe he was just a misanthropic shit.
Harry chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair again and kicking his feet up again as he began scanning the oft-read file. Lucius Malfoy, born 13 January 1954; Marked spring 1971. Cleared of charges 21 November 1980 (grounds: Imperius Curse), imprisoned Azkaban maximum-security 3 June 1995 (conviction: Death Eater; conspiracy, battery, attempted homicide), escaped 31 December 1995. Still at large; considered armed and extremely dangerous.
Malfoy, blue eyes flashing and lip curled into a sneer as he aimed his wand at Harry's heart, cold voice drawling "It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams..."
"Dreaming again, Potter?" breathed a voice against his ear, and he jumped, startled, wand already in his hand as he looked up into the...grey eyes of his partner.
"Fuck, Malfoy," he gasped, heart pounding in his chest, extremely unsettled as Lucius Malfoy's face morphed into Draco's and the dark shadow of the Department of Mysteries faded away, leaving only his office. "Didn't your father ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"
Malfoy's face shuttered immediately, and Harry was struck by just how much he looked like his father when he did that. Then he realised what he'd said and cursed under his breath. "Look," he said sheepishly, "I didn't mean--"
"Don't trouble yourself, Potter," Malfoy said flatly, turning his back and walking off. Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He might not have known much about Malfoy, but he did know that when Malfoy passed up an opportunity to insult him, he'd really struck below the belt. And he really had this time. Lucius was the one constantly touchy subject for Malfoy, and for good reason. Malfoy got a lot of shit just for his name, and for the fact that his father was one of the few outstanding figures that the Ministry had not yet managed to capture; many people seemed intent on blaming him, convinced that it was his influence on the Order, and now the Ministry, that kept the Aurors from searching for him, and Harry knew that for every letter of gratitude or gift Malfoy got, there were always three Howlers to go with it.
After a long silence, he forced himself to set down the file and stand, rounding his desk and approaching Malfoy, who was very busy writing...something. "Malfoy, listen, I..."
"Your suit is hanging in the coat closet," Malfoy interrupted him.
Harry blinked, train of thought derailed. "My...suit?"
Malfoy signed his name on the parchment with a flourish, rolled it up, and sealed it before finally looking up at Harry with irritation. "Are you deaf as well as blind?" he scowled, and Harry felt some of his misgivings abate -- if Malfoy was insulting him again, then he'd let Harry's remark slide. For the time being.
"Suit in the closet," Harry repeated, feeling a bit dazed, but walking over to the closet nonetheless, painfully aware of Malfoy's gaze fixed to the back of his head. He reached inside and pulled out a heavy garment bag, black, with Versace emblazoned on it in small silver letters, and then proceeded to stare at it dumbly. "You..." He looked up, taking in Malfoy's blank stare. "You bought me a suit?"
Malfoy snorted. "Hardly. I loaned you one of mine. Do be careful with it though -- it cost me upward of two thousand galleons."
Harry dropped it.
"Oh, wonderful, Potter," Malfoy snapped, launching himself elegantly out of his chair and stalking across the room, scooping up the bag in one smooth motion and hanging it back in the closet. "I tell you to be careful and you drop it on the floor. That's really excellent. I'd hate to see what you'd do if I told you to mangle something."
Harry opened his mouth to object, but Malfoy was already walking off again, picking up the parchment from his desk. "Our meeting with the contact is at seven this evening," he said, not looking at Harry. "Considering the circumstances, we shall have to arrive together. I will meet you at the front of the building at six fifteen; that should give us enough time to solidify our story in the car before we arrive at the restaurant."
Harry watched Malfoy tidy the papers on his desk -- always impeccable, unlike Harry's haphazard piles of crumpled parchment and open folders and scattered quills -- and smooth down the front of his robes on his way to the door. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Meet in front of the...solidify our...where exactly are you going, Malfoy?"
Malfoy finally looked up at him, a positively milk-curdling scowl in place. "I," he ground out tersely, "have to go dress-shopping."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Harry with a two thousand galleon Versace suit and absolutely no idea what the fuck was going on. This was not a good feeling.
He needed a drink.
Half an hour later, he was sprawled out in his favourite booth at the Leaky Cauldron, pint in hand and a plate of greasy chips at his elbow, listening to his best friend laugh his head off.
"Dress shopping? Merlin, Harry, what I wouldn't give to have been there, watching him argue about it with Kingsley! What I wouldn't give to see the expression on his pointed little face when you escort him into the restaurant tonight!" Ron snickered wildly before tossing back the rest of his pint and signalling for another.
"Really, Ron," Hermione said primly, sipping her glass of Chianti, "one would think you were twelve again. Surely you can manage to remember that Malfoy was on our side during the war and doesn't deserve all this condescension?"
Harry arched a brow at her, not missing the small smile she hid in her glass. Ron, however, was oblivious. "Oh, come off it, Hermione!" he snorted, grabbing a chip and stuffing it noisily into his mouth. (Having children had apparently made him regress somewhat.) "Nobody likes the git, including you, so there's no need to pretend. What he deserves is a good kick in the arse for being such a prat. Surely you haven't forgotten all the horrible things he did to us when we were in school?"
"We were in school, Ronald," Hermione retorted, but not as sharply as she would have if it had been something she actually cared about. Harry knew she didn't like Malfoy any more than Ron did; she was just trying to be mature about it.
Ron had no such qualms. "He's still a twitchy, pointed little ferret, and honestly, Harry, I can't believe you put up with him, especially after all the shite he put you through."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, taking another swig of his beer. "Yes, well," he returned evenly, "someone has to keep an eye on him."
Ron snickered, snagging a whole handful of chips from Harry's plate, but Hermione went silent, eyes wide and thoughtful as they fixed on Harry's face, the same way she always behaved whenever this subject came up. It was fairly common knowledge, although it really shouldn't have been, that Harry was assigned Malfoy as a partner to make sure he didn't get up to any trouble. Even after his work with the Order and his role in the war, which had been just as much as Ron or Hermione had done and certainly more than Harry, the Ministry didn't trust him, which was the reason he'd only gotten a third class instead of the first that he deserved.
What wasn't such common knowledge was that Malfoy had been assigned to Harry to keep an eye on him as well.
With Malfoy, the Ministry was worried he was going to defect, or start passing information to hidden war criminals, or basically live up to the reputation the rest of the Wizarding world had crafted for him based on his name. But with Harry...they were afraid he was going to crack.
He almost had, once. Being locked away in Grimmauld Place for days on end with no news of what was going on or how their side was doing or which of his friends had been killed had been enough to drive him nearly to insanity, and eventually several Order members had arrived for a strategy rendezvous to find him with his wand pressed to his temple and what was apparently a hysterically murderous look on his face. He hadn't wanted to listen to any of them, or to let any of them near him, and any spells they'd cast at him had only bounced off -- a testament to the innate magic crackling through his system. He'd been pretty intent on doing some major harm, though to himself or to someone else, he couldn't remember.
Malfoy'd been the one to stop him.
Even now, Harry couldn't quite say why he'd listened to the other boy. Maybe it was because he didn't give a damn about Malfoy, didn't respect him, didn't like him, didn't think much of him as a wizard and therefore a threat. Or maybe it was because Malfoy'd never coddled him the way everyone else had. Whatever the reason, it was Malfoy that had kept him from doing something drastic, and Harry's inadvertent show of power that had convinced the Order he was ready.
Voldemort had fallen three days later.
Unlike Malfoy's name, which was obviously very public, Harry's near-breakdown had been kept under wraps, known only to those individuals who'd been present. However, as Kingsley had been one of those individuals, and as he was now in charge of the department, he'd been the one to assign their partnership. He'd only mentioned the surface reason, of course, but Harry knew better. He could see it every time Kingsley looked at him, as if expecting him to lose it any second.
He shook his head, taking another gulp of his drink. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the two best Aurors the Ministry had, and the two most likely to snap. Harry knew it, and he knew Hermione knew it, and she knew that he knew. It just wasn't something that they ever talked about -- a spectre of the past, like Sirius and Wormtail and Bellatrix Lestrange and Seamus Finnigan, buried along with the rest of the war-worn dead.
"Really, Harry," Ron said suddenly, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, "I can maybe understand working with him...but is it really necessary for you to be going as a couple?"
Harry again resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew perfectly well where this was going, and he geared himself up for The Lecture, the one he received at least once every two weeks.
"You've been single so long that now even your boss is trying to set you up." Ron regarded him seriously, although it was hard for Harry to return the look as Ron had a smear of ketchup decorating the corner of his mouth.
"He's right, you know," Hermione said quietly, not nearly as intrusive as Ron was, but infinitely more bossy and determined to see Harry settle down with a nice girl. Sometimes he wondered if she wanted that girl to be her, but she'd been seeing the same bloke for...six months? seven months? at this point, so he figured he was mostly safe.
He sighed, raising a hand and massaging the bridge of his nose. "Look, guys," he said, his standard response to all this. "I'm touched that you're so concerned about my personal life, but really. I'm fine. I just haven't...met the right person yet."
"Well maybe if you looked, then you might meet her," Ron returned, eyeing Harry sternly. "At least before, you used to come out with me and pick up girls, but really, Harry, when's the last time you even talked to a girl, let alone took one home?"
"I talk to Hermione all the time," Harry said tightly, wishing they'd leave it alone.
"You know what he means, Harry," Hermione chimed in, her voice rather more stern than it had been when speaking to Ron earlier. "You know I don't condone all those one-night stands you had--"
"It was only a half dozen, Hermione, really," Ron interrupted, but at the venomous look she shot him, he shut up, taking another handful of chips.
"--but I agree with him. You can't keep throwing yourself into your job and ignoring your personal life like this. You can't be happy unless you find a balance."
"I have a balance," Harry objected. "I work ten hours a day, and I see you guys at least twice a week, and people are always coming by the office to go out for lunch or to catch up. It's loads better than going to a pub and having random birds flinging themselves at me."
Harry remembered how well that turned out. He'd learned pretty quickly after a series of unfortunate one-night stands (a short series -- Ron's estimate had been fairly accurate) that girls weren't after him for his charmingly awkward personality or his poor conversation skills. They wanted Harry Potter the hero, with the name and the money and the image to go with it, and as soon as they'd realised that he was a markedly private person who lived well below his means and didn't much care for extravagance and had no idea what he was doing as far as relationships went, they'd been gone. It had hurt quite a bit at the time, but now, he couldn't care less. He loved his friends very dearly, and they were far better than any random Julie or Christine or Susan or Kathryn or Deena he could ever meet.
"Then try going out with one of your friends!" Hermione said in that infuriatingly logical tone that made Harry want to insist she really had belonged in Ravenclaw. "You know Cho's had a thing for you for ages, and Luna's..."
"No," Harry said quite vehemently, shaking his head. "Come on, Hermione, you know how I feel about that."
Hermione sighed, shaking her head. He'd made it quite clear that his friends were like his family, and dating Cho or Luna or Ginny (if she'd been straight) or any of the other girls in their group would be like dating his cousins. He and Hermione had gone out for about two weeks their seventh year, and the first (and only) time they'd kissed, it had been like kissing his sister. He still wasn't sure how she'd felt about it, but it was another one of those Things They Did Not Speak Of.
To date, Hermione had been his only girlfriend, bringing his grand total of romantic attachments to seven, including his nightmarish stint with Cho his fifth year.
"Well," Ron broke in in exasperation, "you're going to have to do better than that, Harry. Really, it's not healthy for a good-looking bloke like you to be single for all this time. People might start thinking there's something wrong with you."
Harry shrugged, draining the rest of his pint before reaching for the garment bag. "Well, if that happens," he said, extracting himself from the booth and standing, "at least I'll always have a meaningful relationship with my right hand. In fact, we're quite attached to each other."
He raised said hand in farewell, ignoring Ron's incoherent spluttering and Hermione's Honestly, Harry as he turned and headed for the door.
It was a fairly short walk to his very modest flat, a one-bedroom on the ninth floor of a nice old Muggle building, and the fresh air helped clear the smoke from his sinuses and the lingering confusion from his mind. It was rare that Malfoy was able to catch him off-guard with anything, but he supposed it was understandable in this situation. After all, Harry was usually obsessive about detail, wanting to be involved in every single aspect of a case regardless of how many extra hours he had to put in -- after his role, or almost non-role, in the war, he'd made it a point to never let himself be used as a pawn of any sort. But in this case, he felt lost because frankly, he didn't know a thing about the high life. He'd always been perfectly content to walk around in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, to sprawl across his threadbare sofa and watch a flickering telly, to eat Chinese takeaway and pizza and his poor attempts at cooking, and to forget that there was a whole other world out there where he was famous.
But Malfoy...he'd grown up surrounded by the rich Wizarding elite, and while their actual mission involved meeting at a Muggle venue and probably discussing Muggle culture, Malfoy would still know a lot more about how to handle himself and what to say than Harry could ever even pretend to. Besides, from what little Harry knew about Malfoy's sense of style and fashion, -- with a glance at the garment bag -- he was fairly sure Malfoy was up on Muggle culture as well.
At least, he hoped so, because he was utterly hopeless.
He glanced at the clock -- half five -- and groaned, heading to the bedroom and tossing the garment bag onto his unmade bed before shucking his shirt and dropping it carelessly on the floor. He had just about enough time to shower, shave, and dress before he had to head to the Ministry to meet Malfoy, and he knew he had to allow extra time for his tie. He'd never been any good at tying them by hand, even with seven years of practice, and he was pants at the spell for it too.
Sneakers, socks, jeans, and pants ended up in a tangled heap by the increasingly large pile of laundry in the corner, and he walked naked into the bathroom, starting the shower and ignoring the screech of pipes as he stared at himself in the mirror.
Ron and Hermione always told him he was a good-looking bloke, but he couldn't really see it. It wasn't that he was ugly or anything; he just didn't see the appeal. He wasn't quite so skinny anymore; Molly'd kept him well-fed, and he'd taken to working out when he'd been stuck in the house alone for long periods of time, and then Auror training on top of that had given him a fair build, although he didn't look a thing like Kingsley or Charlie or even Ron, whose short career as a Keeper before he decided he liked organising events more than he liked playing (or maybe more than he liked losing, which was all his team ever had done) had thickened him up quite a bit. Harry supposed his shoulders weren't too bad -- they were broader than his hips, but not by much, and he could see the dent of muscle definition when he looked for it, but it was certainly nothing to write home about.
Although, he pondered, he could see that dent of muscle definition everywhere -- his arms, his chest, the planes of his sides (though he could still see the shadows of his ribs), the ridges of his stomach, the jut where side met hip, and down through the muscles of his thighs and calves. He was depressingly hairless as well, at least visibly, except for a light furring over his calves and thinning out over his thighs, and the dark curls under his arms and around his quite normal-sized cock (or at least he imagined it was fairly normal-sized...he'd never had much chance -- or inclination -- to compare).
He pulled his gaze back up to his face, studying the angle of his jaw, not quite as lean and pronounced as Ron's or as...pointy as Malfoy's, the straight line of his nose, the slight upward quirk to his lips, and his eyes, huge and very green behind his glasses and beneath a wild fringe of unruly black hair, hair that he intentionally wore long enough to cover the faded scar on his forehead. It was still there, of course, and still pronounced, but with Voldemort's magic bound and destroyed, it didn't burn, or ache, or throb, or give him inexplicable headaches or twisted dreams; now it was just a mark, a souvenir, another ghost to be added to the graveyard, and he didn't much like to look at it anymore.
He blinked as he realised his glasses were fogging up, and removed them, setting them on the edge of the sink before stepping into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, he was staring at himself in the mirror again, this time with an end of his tie in each hand and a furious scowl on his face. After retying the thing four times, each time increasingly worse than the last, he'd about had it, and was very tempted to set the thing on fire. But then he remembered what Malfoy'd told him about the suit, and refrained, instead draping it around his neck and deciding that if Malfoy was going to dress him up like this, then Malfoy could damn well do his tie as well.
He glared at his reflection, raising a hand to try and push down his still-tousled hair (which, of course, failed), and watched in disgust as the material of his shirt...shimmered. Malfoy'd given him a bloody shimmery shirt, one that shone different shades in the light, and a bloody shimmery tie to go with it. Wanker. And Harry'd gotten stupid thin black socks and poncy shoes as well, and really, he felt like an idiot, although he supposed it was better than going in a checked shirt and a pair of chinos.
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and grabbed his wand from the tangle of sheets. If Malfoy wasn't satisfied, he could fix it himself, because Harry'd had enough of fighting with it.
Well, he thought in a (largely futile) attempt to make himself feel better, sliding his wand up his sleeve and heading toward the door, at least the shirt is red.
The walk to the Ministry was short and uneventful, and he resisted the urge to lean against the brick façade and tap his ridiculously clad foot as he waited for Malfoy to arrive. The bloody ponce was late, of course, when he'd been so adamant about arriving on time, and Harry was shimmery with an undone tie around his neck and he was about to start kicking the wall, expensive shoes be damned, when a long, sleek black car pulled up to the curb and an absolute vision got out.
Harry stared, eyes huge behind his glasses and clenched hands falling open, as the woman approached, long, stocking-clad legs just visible through the slit in her skirt, breasts -- god, her breasts -- swaying as she stalked forward and...
"For fuck's sake, Potter, seven years in school and you still don't know how to tie a tie?"
Harry's mouth dropped open and he forced his gaze up from the woman's cleavage to her face, taking in the full, glossy lips, the pink glow to her cheeks, the slight curve of her jaw, the...grey eyes, flashing furiously from beneath long lashes and smoky lids.
"Malfoy?" he choked out stupidly, unable to keep his eyes from dropping again as he took in Malfoy's attire, the way the sheer material of the dress clung to his body, accentuating the slight dent of his waist and the length of his legs, the drape of the neckline just barely concealing the swell of his breasts, -- his breasts, fuck -- the thin straps that disappeared into a plunging backline, revealing the jut of vertebrae and leaving almost his entire back (almost to the curve of his arse) completely bare...
"My face is up here, Potter," Malfoy ground out, and Harry blinked hard, horrified that he'd just been...fuck, he'd been checking out Malfoy, and...oh, hell, and liking it too.
This was not shaping up to be a good night.
"S...sorry," he stammered, licking suddenly-dry lips and trying not to flinch when Malfoy snatched the tie from around his neck.
"Shut up. You're absolutely hopeless, Potter. Now take off your jacket."
Harry complied dazedly, slipping the three buttons from their holes and shrugging the heavy material off his shoulders, forcing himself to hold still as Malfoy slid the length of silk around his neck and smoothly fastened the knot, drawing it up beneath his throat with long, white fingers.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, studying Harry appraisingly. "Not completely awful...hold on." Malfoy bent, pulling the slit of his skirt back from his thigh, and Harry closed his mouth hard before he could embarrass himself. Withdrawing his wand from where it was tucked into a band around the top of his stocking, Malfoy pointed it at Harry and murmured a series of soft, elided spells, one dissolving the wrinkles from his shirt, one to stiffen the angles of his collar, and one, Harry was horrified to note, to tighten his trousers against his -- oh, god -- stiffening prick.
"Better," Malfoy pronounced, sliding his wand back into the garter, and Harry felt his trousers tighten even more. God, no man had the right to make such a gorgeous woman. Especially Malfoy.
It took him a long moment to realise he was ogling again, and only when Malfoy cleared his throat in irritation did he drag his eyes up to Malfoy's scowling face, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry," he said again, sliding his arms back into his jacket and refastening the buttons. "It's just...you make such a pretty girl."
Malfoy glared at him, pale skin reddening again and hands curling by his sides. "Get in the car," he growled, lip curling, and stomped off, heels clacking against the pavement.
Harry grinned and followed.
"Now," Malfoy snapped, the instant Harry pulled the door shut, "here's our story. Your name is James Blakeney, and you're the CEO of a company that specialises in intelligence technology. Quiet -- if he asks, you can simply inform him that you're unable to discuss your business due to your contract with the British government. I'm Giselle Fauré, and I've just inherited a large sum of money after my grandfather died -- my father was a Minister for the government of France who was killed several years ago, and my mother was an actress who died in childbirth. We're meeting Mr Rutledge under the guise of seeking his help in figuring out how to invest the money."
"We?" Harry repeated incredulously, not quite able to get past the idea of Malfoy as an...heiress, especially since he'd spent so many years thinking that's exactly what Malfoy was and always would be.
"Yes, we," Malfoy retorted. "We're engaged to be married in June."
Oh, this just kept getting better and better. "Married," Harry echoed, the word thick against his tongue.
"Yes, Potter," Malfoy said, now looking entirely exasperated as he held up his left hand, and Harry blinked, wondering how he'd missed the huge diamond sparkling on Malfoy's finger. "Married. You know, when a man and a woman's parents arrange a political commitment of--wait, you're a Gryffindor. When a man and woman fancy themselves in love and feel the need to--"
"I know what it means, Malfoy," Harry snapped, trying not to feel unsettled at the utterly clinical way in which Malfoy'd initially mentioned the concept. "I just don't see why we have to--"
"Potter." Malfoy scowled, arching a brow. "Believe me, I'm not any more thrilled about this than you are. But the fact remains that this man only agreed to meet us under very Muggle conditions -- he doesn't want to take any more chances, not after what happened to our last potential contact -- and as I doubt you have some previously untapped base of knowledge about the inner workings of finance, this was the most plausible scenario. And Shacklebolt signed off on this, so consider it set in stone."
Harry opened his mouth indignantly, but at the filthy look Malfoy shot him, closed it again and leaned back against the seat, folding his arms. Uncomfortably. This was already shaping up to be a complete nightmare, especially if Kingsley had known about this drivel and hadn't even warned him. Ron's words from earlier came floating back to him -- even your boss is trying to set you up -- and he wondered, idly, if maybe Ron had been right.
Then he glanced over at Malfoy, eyes drawn immediately to the sliver of white thigh peeking out through the slit of his dress, above the line of his stockings, and swallowed, thinking that maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
Oh, god. What the hell was wrong with him?
The ride to the restaurant seemed to take forever, Harry uncomfortably aware of Malfoy's proximity (and breasts) at all times, but they finally arrived and Harry practically leapt out of the back seat, in dire need of a drink.
The sound of a throat being cleared stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked at the valet in confusion before noticing his pointed glance toward...
Oh.
Cursing under his breath, he walked back over to where Malfoy was standing and trying not to look furious, and, after the briefest hesitation, offered his arm, almost surprised when Malfoy took it gracefully and stood up a little straighter, blond curls brushing the sleeve of Harry's jacket as he leaned toward Harry a bit and murmured, "You're going to have to do better than this, Potter, or I might have to castrate you." Then, he plastered a pleasant smile on his face and began to walk, giving a grimacing Harry no choice but to follow.
Fuck me, he thought with a scowl as they walked into the foyer together and he caught a glimpse of their surroundings, the thick carpet beneath their feet and the crystal chandeliers overhead and the paintings adorning the walls, -- he thought he recognised Monet or Manet or something like that, but his knowledge of fine art was limited to the times when Hermione'd dragged him and Ron to the galleries in an attempt to make them respectable men -- not to mention the fancy clothes and snooty expressions worn by the rest of the patrons. He almost stopped right there and ran right back out of the restaurant, but Malfoy, as if expecting that, tightened his grip on Harry's arm and dragged him toward the host's table.
"Yes, sir?" the man in the black shirt and blacker expression asked, and Harry felt Malfoy stiffen next to him, presumably insulted that he'd been entirely ignored. Harry couldn't say he was too pleased with the man's behaviour either, but then again, it seemed in character for this sort of establishment -- treat him rudely until he gives you reason to change your tune.
Harry drew himself up straighter, narrowed his eyes, and snapped, "We're here to meet with Mr Rutledge."
That, apparently, did the trick -- the man's head bowed slightly and his scowl lessened. "Of course," he answered, stepping out from behind the table. "Right this way, please."
Harry suppressed a smirk, feeling somewhat more at ease and less useless than before as he led Malfoy to the indicated table, where a tall, dark-haired man sat sipping a glass of what looked like scotch. He rose as they came to a halt, holding out his hand with a smile that was equal parts pleased and predatory, the expression of a powerful man who knew his own abilities.
"Well," he said, shaking Harry's hand firmly as the host made a discreet exit. "Mr Blakeney. A pleasure to meet you at last."
"Mr Rutledge," Harry answered, returning the handshake, unsurprised to feel the slight crackle of magic beneath his fingertips. He hadn't been positive that their contact was a wizard, but considering the information he would (hopefully) be providing, it wasn't at all unexpected. "Thank you very much for agreeing to meet us."
"Not at all," he replied, smiling. "I'm always delighted to add such a handsome young couple to my clientele. And this must be your delightful fiancée."
Harry tried not to flinch at the word, instead smiling and resting a hand on the small of Malfoy's back the way he'd seen Ron do with his wife, purposefully ignoring the way Malfoy's skin felt beneath his palm. "Indeed. May I present Giselle Fauré?"
"Enchanté, mademoiselle," Rutledge replied with a much more genuine smile, taking Malfoy's hand and kissing the back of it.
"The pleasure is all mine. Mr Rutledge," Malfoy returned in a soft, lilting voice just tinged with a French accent, and Harry was shocked at how...feminine Malfoy sounded, and how comfortably his hand rested in Rutledge's. Equally shocking was the way his stomach twisted when Rutledge's gaze lingered on Malfoy's face, and he cleared his throat a bit too loudly, then offered up a brightly apologetic smile as Rutledge let Malfoy's hand drop.
"Would you like something to drink?" Rutledge asked, pulling Malfoy's chair out for him and waiting until he'd sat down before sliding into his own chair and beckoning for a waiter. Harry sank down into his seat, grimacing to himself for not having thought of the chair thing, and was about to order a double scotch when he noticed Rutledge looking expectantly at Malfoy and shut up, biting down on his tongue. Of course. Ladies first.
"I'd like a glass of Roussanne, please," Malfoy said after a moment's perusal of the wine menu.
Rutledge looked pleased. "You have excellent taste, mademoiselle," he said, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table. Malfoy smiled, dipping his head a bit, almost...coyly.
Harry gritted his teeth. "I'll take a double scotch," he said, wondering why the fuck Malfoy was flirting with their contact like that, and also why the hell it was pissing him off so much.
"Also an excellent choice," Rutledge remarked as their waiter bowed and disappeared, and Harry relaxed as Malfoy turned his head slightly and smiled.
As expected, Malfoy was an invaluable resource. Harry's largest contribution to the conversation came when Rutledge asked him what he did and he'd made up something suitably vague about a government contract and an expected capital spike in the near future with the release of a new line of software, earning him a soft chuckle from Malfoy and an I do hope this means you'd like to set up another meeting then! from Rutledge before the two of them went back to discussing French politics. Really, if there was any sort of helpful information in the seemingly useless small talk Rutledge and Malfoy were making, Harry certainly couldn't see it, but Malfoy was more animated than Harry had ever seen him, pale skin flushed and eyes shining as he and Rutledge argued about some government corruption or another. Since Harry couldn't make heads or tails of what they were talking about, he took the opportunity to study his partner between bites of his beef something or other, wondering why he'd never noticed the way Malfoy's neck arched like that, or the sharp jut of shoulderblades, -- had he always been that skinny? -- or the curve of muscle in his arm, or the way his entire face lit up when he smiled, or the flicker of his tongue across his lower lip after every bite of food, and fuck, Harry really had to lay off the scotch -- it was starting to get uncomfortably warm, and even with his jacket unbuttoned, he could feel himself starting to sweat.
Oddly, he thought, as he signalled for a glass of water, the fact that he was studying Malfoy like this didn't seem strange to him. After all, he'd known the other man for more than half his life, but didn't really know him, or anything about him -- he'd always just taken it for granted that Malfoy would be there, cold sneer in place and eyes glinting with malice as he spat out some vituperative or another. But Harry didn't mind those anymore; in fact, he'd quite come to like them, their familiarity, their constancy, still there even though everything else had changed. Ron was always busy with his wife and his kids, and Hermione with school, and all his other friends had moved on, found their niches, and were satisfied.
But not Harry. Harry's entire life had been defined by his destiny, to defeat Voldemort and to save the Wizarding world, and now that he'd done so, he felt...empty. He knew Ron and Hermione were right, and that he needed to stop existing and start actually living, find a hobby, settle down, maybe have a family, but everyone only wanted him for his name or for what he was or what he'd done, and the only people he trusted -- could trust -- were the people he'd fought beside, strategised with, and come to respect and understand, because they knew what the rest of the Wizarding world didn't. They knew what he was, and who he was, and didn't want to treat him like the embodiment of his name.
But he knew he wouldn't be able to date his friends, because his friends were his family, and so he'd thrown himself into his work so he didn't have to think about the fact that he was looking at a life of solitude while everyone moved on around him and left him behind.
Only, he wasn't alone. Malfoy had always been there with him, the one constant from his childhood, the one person who'd never stopped berating him or snapping at him or telling him he was nothing special just because he had the Dark Lord committed, and he'd come to depend on that, because it meant that Malfoy hadn't been able to move on either, hadn't found a new life in the new, Voldemort-free world. He was still there, and had been there for so long that Harry couldn't imagine a life where he wasn't.
And that realisation didn't scare him nearly as much as he'd thought it would.
"Mr Blakeney?"
Harry blinked in surprise, dragging his eyes away from the curl of Malfoy's fingers around his glass to see that both Malfoy and Rutledge were looking at him expectantly. "Er...sorry?"
Malfoy shook his head, laughing lightly as he reached across and rested a hand on Harry's arm. "Do pardon him. James is notoriously uninterested in politics, I'm afraid."
Harry flushed, both at the implication and at the press of fingers against his arm, but Rutledge only laughed, raising his glass of scotch. "I can't say I blame you," he remarked. "Politics are notoriously uninteresting things, really only good for starting arguments and destroying names."
Harry laughed in agreement, trying not to pay attention to the way his arm burned under Malfoy's palm, but he couldn't help noticing the tightening of fingers against his wrist, and he glanced up to see Malfoy looking as though he'd been slapped, although he was hiding it rather well.
Oh. A bit too close to home, Harry realised, steeling his face into a more neutral expression. "Perhaps, although I should probably have at least some passing knowledge of them. I tend to focus on my job and forget about the things around me. I'm sure it can't be healthy."
"Mm, perhaps not," Rutledge answered. "Although I find the most successful people are those who can focus on their jobs without allowing the outside world to affect their opinion of what they're doing. It takes a very determined person to break away from outside influence and do exactly what he wants and needs to do, and I find that sort of behaviour very commendable."
"Thank you," Harry answered. "I feel exactly the same way."
He and Rutledge smiled at each other for a moment, but he was acutely aware of Malfoy's gaze on his face, knowing that that remark had hit just as close to home, but he hoped in a more pleasant way. Malfoy's fingers curled beneath the sleeve of his jacket to press at the underside of his wrist; the significance of that action was not lost on him, and he reached across with his right hand, covering Malfoy's hand with his in what he hoped was sufficient acknowledgment. Beside the concealed compliment he'd just paid his partner, his exchange with Rutledge had hopefully pushed their conversation away from the mundane and casual discussion and toward the reason they were there, if all three of them were on the same page at this point, which they may or may not have been depending on whether Rutledge was steering them in the direction Harry thought he was.
But there was something else there as well, he realised, in the way Malfoy's fingers were now tracing the fine bones of his wrist, an idle exploration that would seem perfectly casual to anyone who thought they were a couple, but something with infinitely more significance to Harry since he knew that they weren't. He didn't know what Malfoy was playing at, or if he was even aware of it, or why Harry even cared, but the fact remained that even though they were poised on the edge of hopefully uncovering their first big lead in this case for almost a decade, he couldn't ignore the way his breath had been speeding slightly every time Malfoy'd touched him, or that his trousers had been getting steadily more and more uncomfortable all night, or that he'd felt an inexplicable burn of jealousy every time Malfoy laughed too loudly at one of Rutledge's jokes or leaned in too close for a conspiratorial exchange of information, and maybe it was just because he'd gotten so used to Malfoy's presence that the idea of anyone taking him away made Harry uncomfortable...
...or maybe he had to suck it up and admit to himself that despite everything, despite their history of animosity and the other man's infuriating attitude toward him and the fact that Harry'd only ever been interested in girls, somehow, he'd become...attracted to Draco Malfoy.
Of course, he realised a moment later as Rutledge turned his head and Malfoy jerked his hand away, while he and Malfoy weren't friends, but had worked together in the war, thereby fulfilling heretofore impossible to meet criteria, there was also the slight problem that Malfoy didn't like him. Hell, he barely tolerated him most of the time, making it perfectly clear that being forced to work with Harry was an agonising inconvenience, so the idea of...anything beyond the most tenuous of friendships was really ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that Malfoy was a boy and Harry didn't even know how the mechanics of that were supposed to work, although he imagined they had to since he'd heard some pretty definitive rumours flying around about Justin Finch-Fletchley. Not that he cared much about that sort of thing -- sure, it wasn't considered appropriate to be homosexual in the Wizarding world, even less so than it was in the Muggle world, in fact, but he always figured that if you were lucky enough to find someone you really cared about, it didn't matter what gender they were. Unfortunately, not everyone felt the same way; Ron still hadn't gotten over the fact that his baby sister was a dyke, and had objected even more vociferously to the revelation that Remus and Snape were doing the nasty, though that was an objection shared by most of Harry's friends, but it had never really been that much of a direct issue for Harry.
Apparently until now.
On to Part Two...