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Chapter Sixteen—What Draco Malfoy Ate

“Hm.”

Draco looked across the table at Harry, but he wasn’t looking back at Draco—or, Draco thought, looking at anything in particular. Instead, he was smiling at the ceiling and munching his way contentedly through a plate of buttered toast that the house-elves had made exactly to his specifications. Whatever objections of Granger’s he might share, he didn’t seem to dislike benefiting from elvish services.

But the expression on his face had never come from mere food.

Draco reached across the table, mostly because it had been too long since he had a touch of Harry’s skin, and grazed his fingers across Harry’s wrist. At once Harry turned his hand over, clasping Draco’s thumb. An expression of dissatisfaction crossed his face, as if that wasn’t enough, and he leaned forwards, grabbing and caressing Draco’s arm. Draco had to sit back so that Harry wouldn’t haul him out of the chair.

“Happy, are you?” he asked archly.

“Of course, you great blond git,” Harry remarked, and then stood up and walked around the table. Draco had only enough time for a gasp of surprise before Harry embraced him and bowed his head, nuzzling his face into the hair that lay along the nape of Draco’s neck. No other lover had ever done this before. Indeed, in the mornings after they tended to be standoffish and coldly polite, probably because that was the attitude Draco adopted himself.

“No one has ever done as much as you have for me,” Harry whispered. “I was half-convinced that I was deluding myself when I realized how good I felt. How could someone I fell in love with from afar—and whose morals I’d come to doubt these last few weeks—make me feel that good? But yes, you fucked me up the arse, and it was wonderful.” He laughed suddenly, and Draco wondered if it was the gust of Harry’s breath along his cheeks or the sound itself that made his belly and groin tighten. “I can’t wait to tell Ron.”

Draco pulled away with more violence than he meant to use, but the thought behind Harry’s words was intolerable. “You are not telling the Weasel what we do in bed together.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Not that part of it, you prat. Just that he argued with me a few times, when I hinted I had an interest in men, about how much it must hurt. Getting fucked up the arse, I mean. I’ll hint back that this experience was particularly wonderful. It’ll be worth it to watch him turn green.” He grinned.

“Not just the experience,” Draco whispered, and reached out to encircle Harry’s neck with his arms, because he couldn’t stand not to. “No one else could make you feel that way. I know it.”

“I don’t know it,” said Harry, and his eyes were very wide and very bright. “Maybe I should go out and ask a few other men if they would be so kind as to oblige me, so that I can compare the experiences—”

Draco seized his mouth in a kiss, because it didn’t seem worth the effort of yelling at him. Harry stiffened for a moment in his arms, and then leaned forwards and surrendered with a sigh. Draco harshly rubbed his shoulders and guided Harry onto his lap, jabbing his tongue into Harry’s mouth in an imitation of what they’d done yesterday. Harry picked up on it and groaned, his hips nudging his erection forwards into Draco’s belly.

“No one else is ever going to do that to you,” Draco whispered, when his mouth had begun to sting and he had to pull back. He whispered the words directly into Harry’s ear. The only ones present who might hear them were the house-elves, since his mother was never up this early, but he didn’t care. They were private. “Your cock and your arse and all of you is mine.”

“I was sort of counting on never having a chance to compare experiences,” Harry said, with a mournful sigh. His voice was still teasing, which Draco didn’t understand, given how thorough the kiss had been. “And of course I can’t compare this experience to the past, either, since you’re the first man I’ve ever let do that.”

Draco couldn’t remember what he’d been doing with his hands. Had they always been on Harry’s shoulders? And had his jaw always gaped open the way he could feel it doing now?

Harry smiled and reached up a finger to press against Draco’s jaw and tilt it closed. Draco obeyed. He swallowed, and then swallowed again, because the dryness in his mouth didn’t dissipate. He found himself unable to look away from Harry’s face, which was very pink and very pleased.

“I thought you would like that,” Harry murmured.

Draco didn’t understand how he was supposed to respond, other than by taking Harry over the table, so he just clasped a hand behind Harry’s head, drew him forwards, and kissed him again.

*

Harry sat back on his heels and licked his lips with satisfaction. He’d wondered for a long time how it would feel to suck Draco off, and now he knew. It wasn’t quite as overwhelming as having Draco’s cock up his arse, but it was exciting to watch Draco fall apart and stutter and stuff his fist in his mouth as if the sounds he made were shameful. And then Harry had taken even more pleasure in taunting him into truly losing control.

He crawled up the bed, carefully, because his spine still hurt from where Draco had slammed him against the wall as they stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom. Draco reached out for him and rolled him onto his back. Harry could see the sated trembling of his muscles, as if he’d spent all morning exercising, but still he retained the strength and single-mindedness to kiss Harry until he had trouble breathing.

Harry laid his head on Draco’s chest when the kiss was done and closed his eyes for a moment. The stickiness drying on his own cock and his chest and his face, the urge to gasp for breath, even the ache in his back, all made him vastly happy.

And then he remembered what he hadn’t told Draco about yet, and grinned. The thought of being able to cause mischief revived him as effectually as the offer of his mouth had revived Draco’s passion.

“I wanted to ask you out to dinner,” he murmured lazily, so that Draco wouldn’t realize right away that this was different from other requests.

“Say it’s in a place where you’ll do that again.” Draco rubbed his legs together, but didn’t open his eyes or remove his hands from Harry to gesture to his crotch. Perhaps he was too tired to do so. Harry hoped he was, because that would be enough cause for the burst of pride that traveled through him.

He’s the one with the experience of dozens of lovers. I only ever had Ginny before I had him. For me to be keeping up with him and even wearing him out…I think I can be proud of that.

“Afraid not,” Harry said, and his tone made Draco open one blurry eye and peer at him hard. Harry returned his gaze blandly, which sharpened Draco’s stare rather than otherwise. Already learning to recognize that tone, are you? Harry raised his eyebrows and turned his stare challenging. “It’s in the Valiant Friends’ meetinghouse.”

Draco lay still for so long that Harry began to think he’d deliberately suppressed his reaction. Then his hands tightened on Harry’s neck and chest, and he gave a charming smile. Harry had seen that smile work wonders on some of the Muggleborns he’d debated, when they were about to give him up for lost. Not Hermione, of course.

“I don’t want to,” Draco said.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and kissed him. “But I thought it would be a good thing anyway. Hermione would control the ground, and she could come to feel confident around you. And Ron would be comfortable in a way that he wouldn’t if we met in a restaurant somewhere, especially a restaurant that you know better than he does.”

“And what about me?” Draco pulled his hands away from Harry’s body, which hurt more than it should have, and rolled over, lacing his fingers together behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, which he probably imagined kept Harry from reading his expression. But Harry had learned more in the past few days than he had in almost two years of observation, and he knew the tight lines at the corners of Draco’s eyes meant more than the light tone of his voice. “I reckon my comfort didn’t enter into your plans?”

“I reckoned,” said Harry calmly, “that my life won’t be what I want it to be until you and Ron and Hermione manage to make a truce. They won’t come to Malfoy Manor. They won’t let you enter their home. And any restaurant that we choose is likely to be more congenial to you, simply because you’ve probably spent more money there than they have.”

“I can’t help my wealth.” Draco drawled the words, but Harry could read the sharp tone behind his words, too. He’d spent years trying to make up for the crime of being born with a pure-blood name and money, when the war had drained those commodities of much of their value.

“I know that,” Harry said, and put a hand in the middle of Draco’s chest, rubbing back and forth until Draco let out a hefty sigh. “The reason I think the Valiant Friends’ meetinghouse would be best is that it would show Ron and Hermione you really have changed, and can compromise. They don’t believe in you the way I do. They never did,” he added musingly, thinking of the years when Hermione had tried to tell him that Draco’s arguments with Muggleborns amounted to a ploy to keep his social status, rather than a way to show off changed ideals. He had to admit that, in that respect, she had known Draco better than he did. “I want them to see you’re willing to bend a little.”

“The ways in which I can truly bend are only for you to know,” Draco said, lowering his voice to a tone that caused Harry’s cock to twitch.

Not everything can be about sex, Harry reminded himself righteously, and dragged his mind back to the topic. “And, in return,” he said, “I’ll make sure Ron and Hermione are on their best behavior. And it will give us a chance to be seen in public as a couple.” He leaned back, studying Draco’s face to see how he would react to that suggestion.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. And the nod was not too slow, either. Harry was satisfied. After Draco had appeared with him at the Ministry and explained how he wanted to own Harry yesterday, Harry hadn’t thought he would desire to keep their relationship secret, but it was always good to be sure.

“If you’ll give assurance of Weasel’s manners,” Draco muttered.

“It’ll improve them if you don’t call him Weasel,” said Harry, and rapped Draco on the skull with his knuckles, which made him yelp in what seemed to be genuine surprise. Really. Did he think I would tolerate that? Harry sat up and regarded Draco disapprovingly for long moments. “You thought that insult up when you were still at Hogwarts,” he said. “I know you can think of better ones.”

And he rose and walked across the room, naked, to fetch his robes, leaving Draco behind him with something to think about.

*

The worst part about this, Draco thought, stiffening his shoulders, is the Gryffindor décor.

It was true. He could have dealt much better with the Valiant Friends—even with Granger at their head—if they had not chosen red and gold. The walls, which from the outside looked to be made of fine marble and other stone that should not be disguised, were covered with scarlet tapestries, probably made to hide the pure blood they spilled in their arguments here. The golden sunburst theme dominated the tapestries, the chairs, the stained glass windows, and even the floor of the immense dining room they walked into.

Perhaps it’s meant to give any onlookers a headache, and ensure they do less effective battle with Granger, Draco thought, and rubbed at his aching temples.

A wand touched him on the hair, and a murmured charm diminished the pain. Draco turned in surprise to find Harry smiling at him. He lifted one hand and laid it on Draco’s cheek. He seemed utterly unconscious of all the watching, staring eyes around them.

“Thank you for agreeing to come,” Harry murmured. “I know it’s hard for you for several reasons. But you did it for me.” His fingers curled, so that Draco could feel back the back of his hand and his palm at once.

Draco saw Granger standing near the head of the table, beside a chair draped with the sunburst, exactly as the chair in the debate had been. Her eyes fixed on him, and her jaw set. He knew anything he could do tonight would displease her; she might be polite to him, as Harry had insisted, but she would never like him.

So he might as well outrage her. Draco let his tongue curl around Harry’s knuckles, and murmured, “My pleasure.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and fluttered. But he recovered enough to lead Draco towards Granger and the head of the table a moment later.

Draco lifted his head and adopted the arrogant walk, flowing mostly from the shoulders, that his father had used when he went to the Ministry in the years following the Dark Lord’s first defeat. He was among enemies. No disguising that. No pretending that he would be here if not for Harry, either. The reporters might think so, and the undecided, the neutral observers who made up so much of the wizarding world and whom Draco worked so hard to impress, but the Valiant Friends knew better.

So he would make the best of it. He would show them that they could not frighten him. He had endured worse than a few pointed stares in his time.

He reached Granger and bowed. Ignoring the hostile glances about, he took her hand. Ordinarily, he would have kissed it, but she would recognize the pure-blood courtesy and probably disdain him for it. And there were only so many rules he was willing to bend for Harry. Corrupting the traditions of his own culture was not an option.

“Granger,” he murmured. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I hope the food will taste right to you without all the extra ingredients that your slaves no doubt add to it,” Granger said, through a tight smile.

“Hermione.”

Harry didn’t have to say much. The sharpness of his voice came from disappointment, not anger. Granger flushed and turned sideways to stare at Harry.

“You know what I feel,” she said. “You know how pure-bloods treat the elves who serve them.”

“My elves are treated differently,” Draco said. He saw no reason not to speak the truth, either, even though he knew she wouldn’t believe him. This was for Harry. “My father used them as a convenient target for his anger, true. I do not have as violent a temper as he did, and I do not undertake such…indiscretions.”

“They’re still slaves,” said Granger, her lips barely parting. “I thought about what you said the last time we met, Malfoy, and I have the answer. They’re still slaves if they didn’t originally consent to the servitude, no matter how happy they might be now. People under the Imperius Curse are happy, too, as long as you don’t question them too deeply. We’re doing research right now that should reveal the foundations of house-elf slavery and explain why they seem so happy to stay captive now.”

“I’ve always wanted to know more about house-elves,” Draco lied, and bowed again. “I look forwards to the results of your research with interest.”

Granger looked as if she wanted to chew rocks, but she inclined her head and sat. Draco and Harry took the seats on her left. Another member of the Valiant Friends sat down next to Draco, which made him stiffen, but only briefly. Sitting between her and Harry was still better than sitting between Granger and Harry.

Then Weasley stepped out from behind Granger’s chair and took the seat across from Harry.

Draco met his eyes as blandly as he’d given the lie about house-elves, and wondered what Weasley had been waiting for. Had he thought Draco would try to strangle Granger? He’d certainly been in the ideal spot to jump out and rescue his lady.

Or maybe it’s Harry I’m supposed to publically kill in his twisted universe, Draco thought, and reached for a plate of bread. It would be interesting, as Granger proposed, to compare the taste of this food with the taste of that his elves prepared.

“I’m curious, Malfoy,” Weasley said. There was something disconcerting about his voice, and it took long moments of concentration for Draco to realize what it was. He didn’t speak with his mouth full, as Draco had automatically imagined he would. In fact, only a slice of meat and a small dish of berries were on his plate as yet. He had his hands folded in front of him, his elbows not even resting on the table, and a serious, thoughtful expression on his face. “Why did you stay with Harry when you found out that he was the one writing the letters to you?”

Draco wanted to hiss at Weasley, but more because of the implied insult to Harry than because of any animosity towards himself. But when he glanced sideways, Harry was eating bread and ignoring the conversation. Perhaps he expected this kind of bluntness from Weasley. Draco smothered the brushfire of his temper with difficulty and answered in a tone he had to congratulate himself on; it didn’t sound too strained.

“Because I was intrigued by him,” Draco said, and bit into the bread. He was displeased to realize that he could taste no difference between it and the bread that his own elves baked, bar the differences that anyone would expect from minor variations in the recipe. “Because the personality he showed me in the letters was of the sort I could imagine compatible with my own.”

“Compatible?” Weasley stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, and Draco relaxed. Ah, here is the moronic Weasel of my memories. “You didn’t hit your head very hard just before that, Malfoy?”

“Not compatible in the way that you and your wife are compatible,” Draco said sweetly, though in reality he could hardly imagine two people worse-suited. “Compatible in that I wanted someone who would present a challenge to me. I’d grown tired of women who did nothing but simper and curtsey. And now I’ve found someone.” He reached out and laced his fingers with Harry’s, briefly interrupting the way Harry had reached for the cheese platter. He squeezed.

Harry turned and smiled at him, the same pleased and proud expression he’d worn when he saw Draco in his dress robes, really meaning to attend the dinner at the Valiant Friends’ meetinghouse. Then he reached for the cheese again, and Draco let his hand go. At least he still had the warmth of Harry’s shoulder and thigh beside him.

Weasley looked unexpectedly thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Draco peered more closely at his old nemesis, eyes narrowed. He hadn’t wanted to admit it before—and anyway, it was easy to overlook, given that freckled, lumpish face and the glaring red hair—but Weasley had changed. His eyes were sharper, and slower to move around a room. He ate more neatly. He seemed to have a subliminal awareness of Granger at all times, if the way he kept his head partially turned towards her was indicative, the kind of rapport that Draco had seen between his parents and hoped to achieve with Harry someday.

Harry had said, when Draco asked about Weasley earlier that afternoon, He’s a good Auror. And Draco had dismissed the idea without even considering the words, because he had so adamantly believed it could not be true.

It might be. And you need to stop making assumptions and think a little more about what’s obvious and what isn’t, if you want to captivate Harry.

Draco nodded back, said something inane that was probably, “Good,” and then focused on his food for a time. No matter how carefully he bit into the cheese, or sipped the wine, it refused to taste very different from the way his elves prepared the food. He wondered for the first time if Granger was right, and if common household charms, or the hands of talented cooks, could replace house-elves.

But he rejected the notion, and this time he had more solid reasons for doing so than he’d had for rejecting the notion of Weasley’s competence. The house-elves were not primarily important for the services they provided, or at least not to him. They were a link to the past, to the centuries when each wizarding family had largely lived on its own, without central gathering places other than Hogwarts, and had existed grandly, self-sufficient in that self-isolation. One needed trained elves. One wouldn’t want to risk the running of one’s household on imperfect knowledge of charms.

Yes, the world had changed—most especially in the last six years. Yes, Draco knew those times were unlikely to return. Malfoy Manor would not have to sail free of the world like an island for years.

But he also knew that his life would change if he did not have elves, in more ways than simply having to take care of his own laundry and prepare his own meals. Life would be less stable, less stately, less traditional.

He did not want that to happen.

And then he paused, because it had never occurred to him to communicate that to Granger. He had assumed without thinking that she would have laughed at it, since she was one of those Muggleborns so determined to change traditions they had never lived with and could not have valued.

The same way I assumed Weasley could not be a good Auror, and would never be sitting across from me eating his dinner instead of interrogating me as to my next evil plot.

Draco found Harry’s hand again and squeezed a second time. Harry rubbed his fingers gently up and down Draco’s knuckles in response.

One reason I want Harry in my life is so that I can stop making assumptions, and think better, and in general not act as much like a stupid arse. And there are worse things I can do than start changing my behavior now.

Draco took a deep breath, turned to Granger, and said, “There’s something about elves that you don’t know, and that I’d like to tell you.”

The wary astonishment on Granger’s face was sweet, but far sweeter was the way Harry leaned his head on Draco’s shoulder.

Chapter 17.