[one-shots]: The Law of Transformation, R, 2/2

[lomonaaeren]

Don't start reading here. This is the second part of a long one-shot.



Draco found himself leaning against the front of Potter’s building, panting, the next time he tried to Apparate to his flat. Only then did he recall Potter’s mention of Granger giving him anti-Apparition wards.

Draco cursed heartily and stood up, staring at the front door as it opened. Potter leaned out and cocked his head at him. “Malfoy,” he said. “I thought I felt someone nearly Splinch themselves, but in an aristocratic and elegant way. What’s the occasion?”

There were many things that he might have said to that, but Draco contented himself with holding up the bottle of red wine he’d brought. His reward was Potter’s eyes narrowing skeptically.

“I don’t usually drink red,” Potter said.

“You don’t usually drink anything but tap water, based on the state of your flat,” Draco snapped back. “Are you going to try it, or not?” He was prepared to turn his back and Apparate away again. Yes, he had come here to seek out Potter, but there were other friends who would be perfectly delighted to see him and entertain him for an evening.

Potter gave him a very small smile, shaking his head as though Draco’s exasperation was his reward, and stood back to let him in. “Who knows?” he added, as Draco passed him. “It might even be good. In a terribly decadent and foul-tasting way.”

Draco gave him a long, level look. It didn’t make Potter stop grinning, but it meant he followed Draco down the corridor to his flat without speaking.

Potter’s flat hadn’t changed beyond the acquisition of a new table to replace one the Death Eaters had presumably broken and the glimmer of the wards that Draco could see the moment he stepped inside, and had already felt. Well, and the brute of a dog that lumbered out from behind the table and stared at them.

“What is that?” Draco asked, unable to keep himself from eyeing the dog with disfavor. It had a neck like a mastiff, but had to be at least part elephant, given the wrinkly grey skin that covered it, with patches of sparse fur clinging here and there. Of course, everything was explained when Draco saw the mad red eyes. Ugly and murderous—of course it would be the irresistible combination for a Gryffindor.

“That’s the dog I told you about,” Potter called, stepping into his kitchen to find glasses. At least, Draco hoped that was what he was looking for. There were several impressive bangs that promised nothing good.

“Ordinary dogs don’t look as though they’re related to the Dark Lord.” Draco moved to the side, cautiously aiming for the chair he’d used the last time he was here. The dog swung its head to watch him go, a low growl rumbling up from its throat. Draco tightened his hand on his wand. Come to that, if the brute attacked him, he had one advantage that Potter didn’t. He had only to cast a Stinging Hex, and he would give the beast something else to think about.

“Maybe he is,” Potter said, and Draco heard a wrenching noise, followed by the breaking of glass. He closed his eyes in resignation, but it must have been only a cup, because the next moment there came the soft whisper of wine from its bottle. “But as he didn’t kill my parents or give me this scar, I’m inclined to give him another chance.”

“Where did you get him?” Draco managed to sit down. The dog continued to watch him, then audibly sniffed and lumbered behind the nearest table. It kept its eyes on him as long as its head was visible, silently warning him not to move.

“I found him wandering on the streets.” Potter came back in with the two glasses and an indignant expression. “Someone just abandoned him. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, very easily,” Draco said, and accepted the glass that Potter handed him. It was overfull, and an ordinary cup besides, an insult to the age of the wine, but Draco could always sip, and he had never expected Potter to have the right kind of glasses anyway.

Potter gave him a half-hearted glare and sat down near the window, kicking idly at a rug on the floor. “Anyway, I think he’ll warn me of the Death Eaters. He barks at everything.” He gulped, and then coughed harshly.

“He didn’t bark at me,” Draco pointed out, and sipped, silently providing Potter with a model of how it was done—not that he was paying attention.

“So he didn’t.” Potter cast an annoyed glance in the dog’s direction. “Or try to bite you, either. I reckon that means that I’ll have to hope he bites the Death Eaters. At least he’s big enough to hang onto them and drag them down.” He took another swallow of wine, this time nodding. “Hey, this is good.”

“Of course it is.” Draco leaned forwards with his hands clasped between his knees and spoke quietly. He hadn’t come to Potter’s home to speak to him specifically about this, but since the subject suggested itself, he didn’t want to pass up the chance. “You know that what you’re doing—your attempt to live without magic—is ridiculous.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this. You have nothing new to say, I have nothing new to say, you don’t understand my reasons, it’s tiresome. I want to talk about something else.” He licked a drop of wine from the corner of his lips—Draco wondered why he had noticed that—and leaned forwards. “How many people have you fucked?”

Draco choked on the wine and dripped some of it down his shirt, which was a crime. Potter watched him with an innocent smile that didn’t fool Draco for an instant, and Draco stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

“Well, yeah.” Potter rolled his eyes.

“You don’t really want to talk about it, that means,” Draco said. “So, we can discuss how you don’t seem to understand the reality of what the Death Eaters have become in the wizarding world. They are not what they were, but what they are is dangerous enough. A dumping ground for every disaffected teenager or someone who thinks the war could have gone differently and cost less than it did—”

“Which is why they target me. I understand.” Potter leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him while he admired them. He watched Draco staring at him, and smiled at him, winking once. “I just don’t really care.”

“You must,” Draco said. “This is your life we’re talking about.”

“And I’ll defend it how I like,” Potter said easily. “I told you, we’ve had this conversation before. And if not with you, I’ve had it with my other friends. Anyway. I was serious. How many people have you fucked?”

Draco’s hand tightened around his glass before he set it aside. No need to commit other things that were a crime to wine. “That depends on what you mean with the word,” he said. “A vulgar name for sex, or the more specific act.”

“Will that get me two different numbers?” Potter grinned, swinging his legs. “I’d like to hear them both.”

Draco bore down with his teeth to keep from bursting into laughter. It wasn’t funny, he told himself. Potter was showing him—and the wine—a profound lack of respect. He had every right to be angry.

But he wasn’t. Perhaps because it had been so long since even Pansy had bantered with him like this, he found he didn’t mind nearly as much as he should.

“Fine,” he said. “They are two different numbers.” He paused until Potter was nearly falling off the chair, and then added, “And you don’t get to hear either.”

“I’m grieved,” intoned Potter. “Grieved and shocked. And I asked so politely, too.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said, reaching for the wine again. A small sip restored the world to rights, though he wondered about the glass that was probably on the floor of Potter’s kitchen. “I’ll define it how I like.”

“I’ll tell you how many people for me,” Potter volunteered. He leaned back in his chair, cradling the arm that had been wounded against his side. He watched Draco with ravenous eyes for a moment, then grinned hard at him again.

“Why are we talking about this?” was what Draco asked instead, pressing his forehead against the cup before he remembered that he probably didn’t want to do that, not when the cup had never seen the right end of a house-elf. He leaned back in the chair in turn and studied Potter, looking for clues.

Potter simply regarded him with that slightly defiant look, his head tilted to one side, as though he was patiently waiting for Draco to figure out a puzzle that wasn’t beyond his abilities. He started tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair after two minutes, though. Draco hid his grin. It was nice to know that he was still more patient than Potter, who had displayed talents today that Draco should certainly be jealous of, including stubbornness and the ability to find the ugliest dog in the world.

“Fine,” Potter said, as though this was a major concession. “I thought that I’d shock you and distract you by bringing up a topic that you would never talk to me about, so you’d leave the other one alone.”

Draco arched his eyebrows. “Strange that you should say that.”

“Why is it strange?” Potter stared at him as if he couldn’t imagine the answer.

“I’d think you had a little more gratitude for someone who saved your life,” Draco said, pitching his voice low. “Of course, perhaps that’s happened so often for you that you no longer take much note of it.”

“Oh, Christ.”

Draco blinked, expecting neither the Muggle curse nor the way that Potter flung himself out of his chair as if it had become burning hot and paced about the flat. It was a short trip, since he seemed determined that Draco shouldn’t see the corridor that led to his bedroom and bathroom, and therefore pretended that only the kitchen and drawing room existed. He watched Potter pace, and, because Potter’s words had put the subject in his head, he watched the jeans-clad legs shifting back and forth, the pull of muscles in his back, the way his hair flopped about.

Then he remembered how close he had come to losing the chance to watch all those things, and shook his head with a grimace. Even if Potter was fit, which he was, who would want to date a man so mad he’d let go of his magic in the first place, let alone refuse to pick it up again after an attempt on his life?

“Listen,” Potter said finally, spinning around. His voice had calmed down, at least. Draco gave him a slow nod, prepared to accept that he might not be as mental as Draco had thought—maybe. Potter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Everyone who associates with me knows how much danger I’m in, all the time, at any given moment.”

Draco stared at him with a slightly open mouth, then realized it was slightly open and shut it with extreme force, disgusted with his own lack of taste. “But you were surprised to hear about the reformation of the Death Eaters, and that they were targeting you,” he said slowly.

Potter shook his head. “Surprised to hear they’d taken the same name. But—look, I knew that my danger would increase when I gave up my magic, all right? I didn’t lose all common sense. I just chose things that I wanted to honor above it.”

“That’s new?” Draco asked.

Potter laughed at him with his eyes, but only let go another of those hard smiles and continued, “Most people who visit me a lot know that, and Hermione would have put up anti-Apparition wards before now if I’d let her, but I thought it would draw too much attention, that much magic in a place so obviously Muggle. Anyway—I forgot that was a new thing for you, to be so close to the danger and think that I’d die. Sorry.”

Draco could see the origin of that odd apology, he could even make out that most of the words had sense, but it wasn’t enough. He drank the last of the wine and leaned towards Potter. “You would have died, without my help.”

“Well, yeah,” Potter said, with a bob of his shaggy hair.

“You’re still speaking as though you wouldn’t have, though,” Draco said. “As though someone else would—would come along and do the same thing if I hadn’t, or as though one of the Death Eaters would have tripped over his wand and impaled himself through the heart with it.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Potter said softly, and now he wore a pained smile. “The Chamber of Secrets, for example. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.” He shook his head and continued before Draco could say that he wanted to know now, if the story wasn’t simply Potter killing the basilisk with the power of his pure goodness, as he had always assumed it was. “People help me. I have good luck. I think I’ve come to depend on those. Maybe too much.”

Draco seized the one grain of sanity in the sack of madness and nodded several times. “You need stronger magical protections on your flat, Potter.”

“These wards are the strongest anyone could raise without getting into legal trouble with the Ministry!” Potter protested, giving Draco a sideways glance, as if he’d expected him to be familiar with every one of the Ministry’s rules, since he worked for it.

Draco stood up and crossed the floor to Potter, touching him and trying not to flinch at the coolness, the absence, beneath his skin. “You need your power back,” he whispered. “You know you do. It’ll guard you better than anyone else ever could.”

Potter shook his head, and the anger that had shone briefly through his mask folded up again and spluttered into ash back inside him. "You don't understand," he said. "You don't know what it was like. It made my life difficult, it made the lives of everyone around me--except my friends, who knew me well enough to resist the influence of my magic--horrific, and I won't go back to that."

"Then stronger magical protections," Draco said. "It's really the only choice, and you know it."

Potter tilted his head back, eyes fathomless as they met Draco's. "Why do you care, Malfoy?"

"Because I saved your life," Draco said, going with the first words that sprang to mind instead of trying to wait for the best ones the way he usually did, "and I don't want my time and energy to go to waste."

Potter's smile was soft and private this time, as though Draco had reminded him of a cherished personal memory. Draco felt his hand twitch at his side. He wondered if Potter's skin would still lack the warmth that magic gave to it when he smiled like that.

He kept his hand down. He had no interest in doing something that Potter would interpret wrongly merely to gratify a fleeting curiosity.

"All right," Potter said, the smile vanishing as his eyes focused on Draco again. "But again, we're up against legal barriers. The Ministry considers me a Muggle now. They won't hesitate to leave me out of magical protections unless a wizard actually attacks me, and they could legally send an Obliviator after me." He gave Draco's wand a calculating look that made Draco have to set his teeth together. "So how can I possibly have powerful spells around this place, given all that?"

"There is a legal loophole," Draco said coolly. "People aren't allowed to cast spells as strong as the ones that you'll need, but artifacts can. And I have one that I'm willing to sell to you."

Potter gestured around the flat. "You think I have the money to pay you? Especially the way that it'd probably translate into Galleons."

Draco shook his head. "My price is a promise. You owe me a favor, and when I bring the artifact by and show you how to use it, then I'll tell you what it is."

Potter considered him, thoughts flickering across his face, through his brain. Draco didn't know him well enough to read every change, but well enough not to be surprised by the direction his words took when he did speak. "This favor won't hinge on asking me to do something illegal or something that could get someone else hurt?"

"No," Draco said, and stared hard at him.

Potter made a waving-away gesture, though he still flushed pink as he muttered, "Sorry. All right. What is the artifact? I don't have much room here." He glanced over at that monstrosity snoring in the corner to emphasize the point.

"It's a white stone in form," Draco said, and smirked as he watched Potter's eyes narrow over the last words. "It won't take up any room, and once it begins to cast its magic, it isolates itself from the eyes of outside observers. Don't worry. It's easy to control."

Potter nodded, but still watched him through the rest of the visit as though he was trying to figure out what Draco's ulterior motive was.

In fact, Draco would have been glad to know that, too. He knew, of course, what the artifact really did and what favor he wanted to ask of Potter, but he still didn't know what had possessed him to make the offer.

Ah, well. He reckoned that his life could use a shadowed corner or two; he had lived so much of it of late in the eyes of the Ministry, clear and plain to them if no one else.

*

"That's it?" Potter squinted doubtfully at the artifact Draco had brought by as if he knew that it was too small to contain the power he must feel lapping quietly at his senses--

And then reality returned home to Draco, and he held back the scowl. Potter wouldn't feel the power because he no longer had the senses that would have let him feel it. He had sacrificed everything. Standing close to someone who had burned himself out in an attempt to handle a too-powerful artifact, Draco could feel a faint, sympathetic tingle, as if he had a missing finger. Potter was like a Muggle, utterly bereft, like his neighbors that Draco could sometimes hear in their own flats but had never seen.

He's insane.

Draco put that thought aside for now, and nodded, rolling the white pebble in his fingers. The silver ring at its base was smooth and round, and shone free of tarnish, bright enough to mirror Potter's face as he stared down. "Yes. Let me show you how to use it."

He knelt and placed the stone in the corner of the window. He had identified that as the most open place in Potter's flat other than the door itself, and Granger's anti-Apparition wards already centered on the door. He breathed gently over the stone, and it became a rotating spark of white on its silver base.

"Malfoy?" Potter asked suddenly. "What was the favor that you wanted me to do for you?"

Draco smiled, because he had his back turned and he could, and watched the stone revolve faster and faster, churning the air around it into light. The light traveled under the silver and came out on the other side in a skein of silken delicacy, rather like a spider might weave if it were made of pure power. The skein draped over the window, running back and forth, an ice-bright tracery, and then spread out over the walls and towards the kitchen. Draco watched it a moment longer, then relaxed and turned to face Potter.

"Well?" Potter had one hand braced on the kitchen counter, leaning forwards as if he expected Draco to cast a spell he'd have to dodge.

Draco waited a few moments, studying Potter as he did so. Potter was trying to play casual, and perhaps doing a good job of it to someone who hadn't spent as much time around him in the last few months as Draco had. But Draco could see the way that one shoulder was higher than the other, and how Potter had parted his lips as if he was going to either snarl or speak Parseltongue. His fingers curled on the counter, ready to push himself off and away in any direction. Draco smiled. He was glad to see that Potter's body retained the Auror instincts that the Ministry had tried to train into him, whether or not Potter had the magical knowledge.

"When you smile like that, I know the news is bad."

Draco locked eyes with Potter and said calmly, "You said once that you would never pick up your magic simply to defend yourself, but you might pick it up again for a different reason."

"It's not exactly picking up," Potter began, and then shook his head and gave up with a sigh. "Fine. So what?"

"I want you to promise me," Draco said, "if the time comes when that reason applies, you'll reassume your magic without protest. Without argument. Without hesitation. Without slowing down."

A shadow passed over Potter's face. Draco leaned forwards to see it better, but Potter turned his head away and moved into the kitchen. The dog stuck its head out from behind the chair to watch them.

"Why?" Potter asked, back to him.

"It oughtn't to be hard," Draco said. "Since you told me that you would become a wizard again for the right motivation anyway. And it's a small favor to be asking for the magical artifact. I already told you that I didn't want money."

Potter gave a nervous little twitch of his head. "Things would be simpler if you would let me pay you."

"You couldn't afford me."

Potter turned around with a serpent-like motion, his hands really clenching on the counter this time. "Why do you care?"

"You already asked that," Draco said, leaning on the wall and watching him. He had cast the spells that would render his robes impervious to dust, as well as moving the dust away from that section of wall as much as he could. "And I already answered."

"You saved my life," Potter said, waving a hand as if he would clear smoke between them away. "That's an answer for why you wanted to give me this protection. It's not an answer for why you care so much about me being a wizard."

Draco felt the first traces of his gathering smile fade. He took a step towards Potter. Potter didn't move, not even as Draco stepped up to him until he was less than an inch away, their chests touching, their clothes brushing, their eyes unwavering. Potter stiffened, but continued not to move, when Draco leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"I care because wizards should stay wizards," he breathed. This was the first time he had ever put the belief into words, but it had been with him a long time, so he didn't feel that he was making a special sacrifice in laying it out for Potter. "Because magic is a gift from the universe that shouldn't be thrown away so easily. Because you were not meant to be a Muggle, and your becoming one of them annoys me." He moved away with a single gliding step and considered Potter from that distance. "Understandable?"

Potter stared at him with eyes that the pupils had nearly drowned. But just as Draco began to think that he was about to faint and that meant Draco had to intervene, Potter inclined his head once, in a sharp bob, and then nodded more normally.

"Yeah," he said. "Fine. It makes sense. It makes you mental, too, but I don't think you care about that."

Draco gave him a pleasant smile and turned away. Potter was free to think what he liked, as long as he was protected and as long as--

He turned back. "You haven't made me the promise yet."

Potter lifted his head like he was trying to add a few extra inches to his height. Their eyes met and held, and Draco wondered what would happen to someone who stepped between them right now. He was wagering on their catching on fire.

"I promise you," Potter said, throatily. "If the situation that I've already defined as the reason to take up magic again comes my way, I'll do it without hesitation."

Draco closed his eyes and nodded.

*

Draco shut his door behind him and thought about the bath that awaited him. It was going to be hot and long, and he was going to scrub as hard as he could at his face.

He didn't often have an Obliviation go as wrong as this one had. It was supposed to be a fairly ordinary removal of a memory from a Muggle family. They had seen a wizard Apparating out of their flat, an Auror trainee who'd panicked, and unfortunately, it had happened in broad daylight and when they weren't on mind-altering substances of any kind. One of the important aspects of Draco's job was judging when he needed to use the Memory Charm and when he didn't. Some Muggles could explain the situation to themselves without help.

But this one...

The Memory Charm had brought him into the mind of the man he'd cast it upon, as it sometimes did.

That mind had been a field of nightmare.

Half-suppressed memories of guilt and torture, broken fingers and slamming bodies, blows to the face and the ribs. And even more suppressed memories of doing the same thing to the two people he shared the flat with, his wife and son, laced over with glittering threads out of nightmare, the shadows that proclaimed I didn't do that, I couldn't have done that, and allowed him to get through the day without questions. Draco had waded straight into the center of it, and he didn't have the defenses that had let the man hold back the flood for so long.

He shuddered and scratched at the skin on the back of his neck before he forced himself to pull his hand back. He had done that scratching in his first weeks as an Obliviator, and it had ended up with scabs and a spell to bind his hands. He wouldn't do it again.

He had barely turned towards the bathroom when someone knocked on the door.

Draco arched his back in defense without thinking about it, and then shook his head. The wards would have warned him of any remotely hostile presence long before it touched their edges. That meant this was someone who wasn't hostile. And Draco knew that none of his friends would have troubled him this late at night. They understood propriety. Neither would the Ministry, but that was because they didn't care enough about his work to need a report the moment he'd finished it.

That left one person. Draco walked over and flung the door open. "Tell me that you brought wine this time," he said.

Potter slipped past him, carrying, yes, a bottle of wine and something larger and wrapped in what looked like silver paper. Draco gave it a suspicious look, but Potter didn't give him a chance to ask the obvious question. "How are you feeling?" he asked, turning around and pinning Draco with anxious eyes.

Draco stared at him. "How did you know that I would be feeling like shit tonight?" he demanded.

"I told you that I maintained an interest in the wizarding world," Potter said, carefully setting down the object wrapped in the silver paper. It smelled of something familiar, but once again Potter took Draco's attention before he could concentrate and identify it. "This time, I just had them keep an eye on you instead of Death Eaters."

"There are many people in the Ministry who would say that those are the same things," Draco murmured. His stomach rumbled.

Potter stared around with wide eyes at the ceiling and walls, then turned back to him, shaking his head. "Why, look at that. We aren't in the Ministry."

"Wanker." Draco forced his way past him and approached the package. He reached out to tear back the silver paper, but Potter caught his hand.

"You'll damage it if you just rip the foil off," he murmured, and then eased it back with a care that would have done credit to the package containing a Crup puppy. But Draco, his gaze fixed on the round surface visible beneath a heavier, almost log-like shape, knew it wasn't that by now. He had to gulp back saliva.

What was revealed was a shimmering combination of meat and cheese, red and yellow and white and glazed here and there with something that could have been extra sauces, which weakened Draco's legs. He sat down hard on the edge of the couch and looked hopelessly around for a plate and cutlery. Of course, he could just dig in with his hands and start eating that way, but he doubted Potter would appreciate it.

"Here." Potter came back from the kitchen with a plate and a fork and knife in his hands, along with a bowl and spoon for good measure. Draco grunted, grabbed them, and began tearing the lasagna apart with a ravenous speed that he thought surprised even Potter. At least, his lips twitched.

Draco wanted to ask some more questions, but he had to fill his stomach first, and that meant filling his mouth at the same time. He swallowed continuously, but there was always another bite, as good as the first, as deep, as warm, as half-explosive with the thickness of the cheese and the sheer smoothness of the sauce. Potter lounged on his couch and watched him eat with a grin that Draco glanced up at whenever he could, to drink it in and remember it.

It was less desirable than the lasagna, of course, because anything was right at the moment. But that was the reason Draco wanted to remember it, so he could savor it for later.

Potter brought him a glass of water first, and then a glass of wine, without being asked. He moved as gracefully and confidently through Draco's kitchen as if he belonged there, and when he was able to take a smaller portion of the lasagna later, after his first hunger had been satisfied, Draco watched him. His stomach was tight with another kind of hunger by the time he laid down the plate and scraped his fork against it in sign of surrender.

"Oh," Potter said. "Done, already?" He grinned at Draco and bent over to pick up the plate, turning towards the kitchen again.

Draco grabbed his arm. Potter turned towards him, blinking. He seemed to recognize the expression on Draco's face, but also not to know how to deal with it, as if he had done everything necessary just by bringing over the lasagna and feeding it to Draco.

And Draco knew that some people would have said so. But there was too much he wanted to know.

"You can cook?" he demanded.

Potter smiled, slower than before, an upwelling of delight that made Draco shift closer. "Yes," he said. "I just don't often have someone over worth cooking for, that's all. You've never visited on the nights that one of my friends did."

Draco shook his head. Too many questions he wanted to ask, and the one that finally made it out was, "So now I'm worth it?"

"Yes," Potter said, unabashed. "Of course."

Draco curved his hand around the back of Potter's neck, holding him there. Potter's gaze shifted to puzzled, but Draco murmured, before he could think about it too much, "Why don't you cook like that for yourself?"

Potter sighed. "Not this again. I promise, Malfoy, it's not as though I'm starving myself because I don't take the same food that I give other people. I just don't feel like cooking for myself, that's all. It's best when I can share a meal with someone else."

"Share," Draco breathed. His head felt as light as though he hadn't eaten, but the contentment and warmth still flowed through his limbs, and it was no effort at all to lean towards Potter. "What else can you share?"

"Time," Potter said, his eyes falling to Draco's lips. "Space. Friendship." He was the one who closed the distance, though he kissed softly enough to give Draco a plausible reason to pull away if he wanted one.

Draco didn't want one. He slung a leg over Potter's hips and rolled him to the couch, safely beneath him, where he could bite and pinch and hold. Potter arched into him with a soft laugh, soft as the dust in his flat, soft as the hands that plucked beneath Draco's shirt a moment later.

If it had been a different time, if Potter hadn't brought food, if Draco hadn't saved his life, they might not have done this. But one could go so far back along the chain of events, Draco thought hazily. If Potter hadn't given up his magic, if Draco hadn't become an Obliviator, if he hadn't found Potter in the Muggle world...

They kissed, and Potter's mouth was as warm as if he had eaten some of the lasagna. Draco slid one hand into his pants, and Potter bucked and writhed before getting his own back with a tight hold on Draco's dick. Draco closed his eyes and grunted, rocking back and forth. Potter's calluses provided all he needed in the way of friction.

"Damn," Potter said beneath him, rubbing against Draco and squirming against his chest and locking his legs with Draco's so that they jerked each other off with their hips as much as their hands. "Oh, damn." His eyes were lost and wild when Draco looked, behind those glasses that allowed him to see and bypass magic, and his mouth was loose, and he seemed intent on filling it with Draco's tongue again as soon as possible.

Draco gave in to that request, and to the tight scratch of Potter's fingernails against his hip, and the twist of his legs, and the demands of his own body, rising, riding the warmth, the tide of sparks that expanded in his belly, then whirled and exploded, filling him with heat to the furthest corners of himself. He groaned into Potter's neck and licked down, nibbling on the skin as Potter sobbed.

"Come," Draco whispered to him.

Potter did, as though the command had been an Imperius, pressing frantically against Draco's arms. Draco quieted him with another kiss and then reached out with a lazy hand and grasped his wand. The blanket that he kept over the back of the couch unfolded itself and dropped neatly over them, tucking in at all the little odd gaps where cold air might come through to sting their fingers or toes.

"This is the kind of thing I can still do because I still have magic," Draco told Potter, and fastened his lips on the edge of his neck where it met his collarbone for a lazy suck.

"Bastard," Potter said, shutting his eyes with a long groan. "Stop talking."

Draco did, but that was because he had his head on Potter's chest and his hands on Potter's hips and his legs intertwined with his, and that meant he could go to sleep.

*

He woke up in the morning when Potter tried to creep out from under him. There were advantages to sleeping on top, one of the reasons that Draco liked to do it as often as possible. He planted one hand in the center of Potter's chest and shoved him flat again. "Going somewhere?" he asked casually.

Potter glanced at him hard. He'd lost his glasses, and Draco made a mental note to find them before Potter left, so that he wouldn't walk straight into someone's wards and be butted outside magical London before he could leave on his own. "Thought I'd leave before you regretted it," he said.

Draco laughed, because it was that kind of morning, and twisted again. He was the professional Obliviator, while Potter was no longer a professional Auror, which meant he held him down easily. "What made you think I would?"

"Because--because most people did," Potter said, his head jerking as though touched with lightning. "Either because they didn't really want to, because it was my magic, or because it was too dangerous to be with me. So I thought I'd take the decision out of your hands, because I don't regret it, and I don't want to be around when your expression changes."

Draco clasped his neck and kissed him. Potter struggled unhappily for only a moment before giving in with the same kind of groan he'd used last night and slinging one leg around Draco's waist. Draco allowed him to rub both of them to half-hard interest before he pulled back, shaking his head.

"You don't have your magic right now to overpower me," he said. "And I've already shown that I'm equal to the danger you find yourself involved in, for various reasons, in various ways."

Potter shrugged and glanced away. "Yeah, but we're only friends," he muttered. "I didn't--I didn't do any of the traditional things that I'd think you'd want, because you're a pure-blood and all the rest of it."

Draco burst out laughing. Potter scowled at him, but that only made him laugh harder. He sprawled over Potter's chest, giggling, and Potter pushed at him, but Draco let his weight fall limp, so he pushed down like a ragdoll until Potter gave up. Draco let the laughter trail off naturally, and then cupped a hand beneath Potter's chin, tilting his head so that he could kiss his eyelids.

"What made you think that I'd want such traditional gestures from someone?" he murmured into Harry's ear. "What made you think that I was a traditional pure-blood at all, working for the Ministry in a profession often viewed as scum for having to interact with Muggles all day? The first time I saved your life should have been an indication that I'd changed my tune." His hands scrabbled into cloth, and only then did he consciously realize that they'd got each other off and slept together all night without removing their clothes. He converted his light groping into an imperious tug. "Let me see you without this."

Potter--no, he would need to be Harry right now, wouldn't he--stared at him with an open mouth and wider eyes. Draco snorted and kissed him.

That seemed to impress Harry enough to kiss him back. "God knows why you want this," he muttered, tugging his mouth away and beginning to take his shirt off. It didn't succeed, probably because he was trying to grope Draco at the same time, and Draco rolled his eyes and helped. Harry's chest was still broad and muscled despite the recent lack of Auror work, and Draco helpfully licked the edge of one of his muscles to bring it more into definition. Harry's eyes rolled, he cried out, and then he stared hard at Draco and said, clearly, "But I'll do my best to be worthy of it."

"Gryffindors worry too much about worth, and not enough about speed," Draco said, and sat back on his heels. His trousers clung to him unpleasantly, given the come from last night, but he waved his wand and banished it easily enough.

He didn't do it for Harry until he said "please," though.

*

Draco ignored the Howlers he got from a few people. Of course Harry would have told his friends, and of course some of them would disapprove because Draco wasn't "good enough" for him. Draco sent them owls and arranged a few meetings, and although he didn't know how he and Weasley got away from each other without black eyes, at the very least they had a better understanding at before. That didn't stop Weasley or Granger from "happening" to show up like chaperones every time that Draco visited Harry's flat for the next few months. Then Harry understood the coincidences and lectured them. Draco got to stand by and look genuinely innocent during those, enjoying the way Harry's mouth moved, rather than only trying to look innocent because he'd told Harry the truth. It was fun.

Of course the rest of the Weasleys firecalled Draco and sent various letters that explained how they distrusted him. Draco offered to come over and set their fears to rest. This wasn't well-received. But after he managed to survive a meeting with George Weasley during which he found and defused every single prank or booby-trapped piece of furniture before it went off, he had a level of respect from the family jokester that spread outwards quickly, and sufficed to guard his back from the rest of the Weasleys until that happened.

Of course a few people from the Ministry learned the truth, probably from overhearing certain things Weasley said, and stared at him strangely. But Harry had been right when he said that the Ministry no longer tended to keep surveillance on him at all times. Looks and a few guarded hints were all Draco got from that quarter. When he showed that he understood them perfectly well and still wanted to continue his "risky" course, they shrugged and gave up on him.

All told, by the time and Harry had been seeing each other--a prim phrase for a lot of groping and a lot of blazing rows where Draco told Harry to pick up his magic again and Harry refused--Draco had settled into smug and happy territory.

He had forgotten there was one more direction from which someone might object.

*

They took him just as he Apparated in at the base of the stairs leading up to his front door.

Someone disarmed him in the first seconds, despite Draco's attempt to clutch his wand close to his body. The Ministry had never thought it necessary to combat-train Obliviators the way they did Aurors. Draco regretted that for the first time as he felt his wand fly away and then hard knuckles slam into his face.

He let his head snap back in response and struck out with a fist of his own, hitting someone in the mouth. That person staggered, and Draco ducked, rolled, and tried to come up running.

Nothing doing; someone else curved an arm around his waist, and then a boot met his ribs. Draco curled around the wound in silent agony, which left his face free so that someone could break his nose. Then a third attacker, or at least it felt like a third attacker from the weight of his boots, cracked Draco's untouched ribs for him. Draco kept his mouth shut, even though it wanted to open in a shout of agony. Too much chance that they would get a potion down his throat if he did that.

As bad as it had been so far, Draco knew that a potion could make it ten times worse. He'd spent several years learning during Hogwarts, under private tutelage from Snape, just what kind of ten times worse.

He forced open watering eyes and saw one of his attackers bend down above him. The white mask and black robes of the Death Eaters swam into his sight. Of course, Draco thought, momentarily resigned. Being associated with Harry Potter would make him a target for them as well, and if they had learned what he'd done to two of their not-so-finest, they'd also be angry at him for that.

"Draco Malfoy," the leader said, in a voice that teased the edges of familiarity without crossing them. "You are sentenced to death for the crime of consorting with Harry Potter."

Draco didn't see why he needed to say anything--they already knew all the important facts--but they evidently didn't agree. One foot nudged him in the broken ribs, and he grunted around the shards of pain that filled his vision with purple.

"How will you defend yourself?" The leader's voice fell to a menacing whisper. "Will you disagree with us? Pull out a previously unknown spell? Stand up and show us that your Malfoy skin is clean of such a taint?"

He sounded genuinely interested, which made Draco feel the first real fear, going through him like an icicle. Dealing with fanatics he thought he could withstand. But dealing with someone as mad as this might mean he died.

He had to make them do something he could survive. And it had to be something that would move them away from his front door as soon as possible. Harry was coming this evening. Without magic, he couldn't face them.

"I did have a plan," he whispered. "One that you've ruined, now, because there's no way that Potter will leave me alone long enough to execute it once he sees these wounds."

Someone in Draco's peripheral vision lifted his foot again, but the leader waved him away and crouched down in front of Draco, tilting his chin up when he couldn't lift his head on his own. Draco shivered and groaned pathetically. All the while, his brain ticked along, trying to decide whether he should show more or less pain than he really felt. They might move him in either condition, either because they wanted to prevent him from dying before he talked about the plan or because they thought he wasn't in danger.

"Tell us," the Death Eater whispered.

Words began spilling from Draco's mouth, the kind of story he could make up in his sleep, about gaining Harry's trust, seducing him, making him part of the ideals Draco had never abandoned by corrupting him. The leader listened avidly, but didn't move. Draco felt his shoulders bunching together as if he had wings and could take flight. What was he going to do? This had been the one plan he could think of without his wand, and he still didn't see or feel the wand. If he couldn't get them to move--

"Incendio!"

Draco's first thought was that one of the Death Eaters had turned against the others, because the fire seemed to spring to life in the middle of them. The one whose cloak it caught whirled around, stamping and shrieking and tearing the cloak off him. Not that it mattered, because the fire had already leaped to his hair and his hands and his shirt. It burned faster than any Draco had ever seen before, fiercer, brighter. He stared in fascination and blinked when a single dark figure isolated itself against the light.

Harry. With a familiar wand in his hand and an unfamiliar furious expression on his face.

"Incendio!" he snarled again, and more Death Eaters caught fire. Then he lifted a Shield Charm before Draco could even draw his breath in to warn him about the wizard creeping up behind him, and turned around in the middle of a daze of sparks.

Fires sprang where his feet touched. They sprang where his hands gestured. Of course, nonverbal magic was a simple explanation for that, but the last thing Draco knew, Harry hadn't had any magic, let alone the power to do something like this. He found himself watching with devouring eyes, the way Harry flew and danced through the flames as though this was something he was born to do.

The Death Eaters had no chance. Draco didn't know how many of them there had been from the beginning, but he'd seen at least four or five. Harry laid out that many within two minutes, countering their spells so effortlessly that Draco was still staring more than ten seconds later, expecting to see a duel. He moved with a fluid economy of motion, not darting everywhere, but crouching when he had to, leaping when he had to, and always keeping his body as a barrier between Draco and the Death Eaters.

Draco forgot about the pain his ribs as he watched. Harry was magnificent.

And if he thought Draco was magically going to forget this sight without a Memory Charm, or agree never to discuss it again, then he was a magnificent idiot.

Harry slung the last Death Eater into the wall with a combination of fire and wind and then turned around and dropped to one graceful knee beside Draco, resting a hand on his forehead and then on his side. Draco hissed in spite of himself as the touch compressed his cracked ribs, and Harry drew back at once, letting his fingers hover instead. From the look on his face, that didn't really hinder his ability to learn about the wound.

"You're badly hurt," he said softly. "Four broken ribs. I can take you to St. Mungo's, but I don't know if you want that. It would--it would reveal what had happened, and they might take you for a Death Eater, too."

Draco reached up and grabbed his wrist in a crunching grip. Harry gave him a doubtful look, and Draco shook his head.

"Say--what you mean," he gasped. It was abruptly getting a lot harder to breathe. "You don't want to go to hospital because it would reveal that you had your magic again, and that's the kind of revelation that you want to keep just between us."

Harry flushed all the way up his neck and bridled, leaning down so that he could snarl in Draco's face, "If you think for one second I'm more worried about myself than you--"

Draco tilted his head back and inhaled. The air that swept into his nostrils and lungs took his mind off his wounds right away. It was smoky-tinged and sweet, with a sharp salt undertaste that made his mouth water. Such power could hold him, cradle him, sweep him up. He reached out and skimmed one hand lightly down Harry's side the way Harry had done to him, not because he thought that Harry was wounded but because he wanted to feel that incredible magic in the air before he felt it on skin.

Harry jerked back, and a shutter that Draco hadn't realized was open fell closed across his face. He nodded. "All right. Come on, then." He dipped, cast a murmured spell, and straightened with Draco in his arms, held close so that he couldn't jostle the broken ribs.

Draco closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Harry in return. "That was your condition for picking up your magic again, wasn't it?" he murmured against his neck. "You would only do it if you saw someone else in danger, not to save your own life."

"Right in one," Harry said, turning around with a motion that spun them straight into the Apparition.

Draco opened his mouth to say something else, something that he had figured out when he saw Harry dancing in the midst of the flames like that, but the Apparition was the beginning of a long fall that, gently, ate him alive.

*

St. Mungo's was boring. Full of Healers and questions and fussing and stories. Draco gave the same tale over and over again, both to them and to the Aurors who came to speak to him, explaining that the Death Eaters had approached him months ago and wanted his cooperation in a large raid they hinted was about to happen, because he still bore the Dark Mark and they needed it. He'd refused, and this was payback. The words became well-worn in his mouth and brain.

He might have started believing them himself if not for the much more incredible vision dancing in his mind, surrounded by swirling dark hair and flames that bowed to him as if he obeying his will.

He had a number of visitors, if one wanted to call them that: the Healers; the Aurors; Daily Prophet reporters; Pansy, who came to scold him for his stupidity; Blaise, who hugged Draco regardless of his broken ribs and then yelled at him for half an hour; and Ron Weasley, who scowled at Draco but never did say why he'd come.

Harry wasn't among them.

Draco allowed himself half a minute of pain about that before he thought deeply and understood the reason. The real reason didn't make Harry any less stupid, of course, but it was real, at least to Harry. So Draco tolerated being locked up and metaphorically spat on in hospital, healing and waiting for the minute he could leave it.

When he could, he went to Gringotts and asked a few questions. Then he brushed past a Muggle in the street and felt their skin casually against his.

Then he Apparated to Harry's flat.

*

New spells had been added to Granger's anti-Apparition wards, subtle ones that directed Draco's attention away and told him no one was home and made him shiver with cold and loneliness as he stood there. Draco cast Finite after Finite and then finally made it to the door, which he hammered on with a harsh fist.

Growling and barking from Harry's ugly dog echoed in his ears. Draco leaned against the wall and prepared to wait. It was always possible that Harry was genuinely out, and in that case, Draco would just sprawl across his path and make him have to cross him. Harry wouldn't Apparate into the flat, not when that would constitute cheating by his own personal moral code.

"Malfoy."

The word was as unnaturally cold as Harry's skin had been when Draco first touched him. He swiveled his head and smiled at Harry. "I should thank you for saving my life," he said.

"But you don't want to, because you're angry I didn't visit you in hospital." Harry nodded and arched one leg high to step over him. "I know. And this is probably the end of our...friendship, too. I know. I shouldn't have behaved like a jerk."

Draco seized his leg and held him there, watching for a moment as Harry sawed back and forth before he smiled and stood. In a moment, he had Harry pinned against the wall outside the door, leaning his head along his neck. He sniffed. Yes, the coldness was back as if it had never gone, but underneath that, now that he knew what he was looking for, he could smell that combination of spells that had made him dazed with wonder even when he was fighting blood loss. He wasn't now, except the loss of all the blood rushing to a specific part of his body.

"You don't understand," Draco murmured. "I figured it out. Everything. You didn't deposit your magic in Gringotts."

Harry arched his neck to bring them eye-to-eye. There was a terrible gentleness in his face. Draco hated it on sight.

"You don't have to do this," Harry whispered. "I know that it's only the magic drawing you to me. I should have figured it out when you kissed me just because I'd brought over lasagna when you'd had a shitty day. That's not something someone like you does, Draco."

"Someone like me?" Draco questioned mildly as he hooked his fingers under Harry's shirt and pulled it out of his trousers. Harry inhaled shakily as Draco's touch traced around the bottom of his ribs. Draco smiled and shifted to bite down on his shoulder. Harry's hands came up to cradle his head.

"As a matter of fact," Draco murmured into his flesh, though he pulled back far enough for Harry to hear him, "I don't know a lot of people who would do something like bring me lasagna after a shitty day. Much less care enough to keep track of my days and when they were shitty. Much less respond so enthusiastically and beautifully when I kissed them. So, yes, Harry, I do want this. I do want you." He sighed as more warmth flooded the skin he was touching. "Like that. Yes."

Harry abruptly reached up and caught his wrist. "You don't understand, Draco," he said, shaking his head. "Yes, all right, I never got rid of my magic. It was a spell that kept it pinned under the surface."

Draco nodded, pleased with the confirmation. "Not even a Muggle feels like that," he said.

Harry stared at him. "When did you touch--no, never mind." Draco let his smile widen, because there had been jealousy like sour wine in Harry's voice. "But it was still there. It must have leaked through and influenced you, somehow. It's influencing you now." He reached up and held Draco away from him. "You think you're attracted to me, but it's just the magic, fucking with your head like a drug. I thought staying away from you while you were in hospital would make it stop, but I must not have stayed away long enough."

Draco sighed. "You really must give people some credit for independent decision-making, Harry. I never sensed your magic. I thought you were a fool for giving it away. I want you despite that, because you're a good cook and you talk about weird things and you have bright green eyes and you're stubborn."

"But what if the magic is a factor?" Harry insisted. "I saw the way you looked at me when--after I rescued you. The magic was influencing you then."

"Only because you're gorgeous when you fight," Draco said. "I feel like myself, the same way I always do when I'm around you. I still think you're an idiot. I still think that you should have used your magic to defend yourself when those Death Eaters broke in." He allowed his anger to shine in his eyes, and Harry turned his head away. "Do you realize how stupid you are," Draco whispered, "to have had the tools at hand to live all along, and you would have died if not for me?"

"I was trying to keep my promise to myself," Harry muttered, scrubbing his hand along his face. "I couldn't, in the end." His voice turned smoky with bitterness.

Draco bit his ear. Harry cried out just the way he had when Draco had done it before and lifted his hands. Draco caught them and snugged them to his shoulders, then leaned in to nuzzle violently at the side of Harry’s neck.

"You couldn't keep it because I made you promise that you would use your magic if your special exception to the rules ever came up," Draco murmured. "And you kept your promise and saved my life at the same time. I have an objection to Death Eaters killing me. Thank you for saving my life." He rocked forwards with definite intent, and felt Harry's cock stir to life, jutting at him. Harry's eyes fluttered, his breath escaping his teeth in a sharp sound.

"But--the magic--Draco--"

"I don't think it's influencing me," Draco said. "I'm not throwing myself at you like the people you described, either, with no sense of surroundings." It was getting hard to talk, what with his body surging forwards in tidal waves, but he twisted his head to the side and bit Harry again on the neck, and watching Harry flush and toss his head back gave him the strength he needed to continue. "Otherwise, I would have broken out of hospital and come straight for you. That was the sort of thing people did in the past, didn't they?"

Harry's face was flushed and mottled all over, but he managed to nod.

"Good," Draco said, and took his mouth in a kiss and his cock in the rocking motion. Harry shuddered and accepted him, mouth opening wide so that his tongue could flick against Draco's, his legs falling open to cradle Draco's hips.

With his magic, it was even better than Draco had imagined. That delicate combination of smells surrounded them, and small flickers of fire and color danced at the edges of Draco's vision. Harry's skin heated to the point that Draco thought his hands might melt into it. His tongue curled in impossible positions, and Draco could feel the power brushing past him, around him, prowling in circles.

Harry was capable of throwing him across the room, melting his bones with a glance, dizzying him so badly that he would never stand again.

With or without magic.

That that much power leaned back against the wall and let Draco rut him to completion outside his filthy Muggle hovel...

Draco shuddered in climax, the warmth inside his body and out, flowing over his tongue and caressing his cock, and Harry followed him, tilting his head back desperately, feeding from Draco and to him, his fingernails stings of pleasure in Draco's buttocks.

*

"You'll consider moving back to the wizarding world," Draco murmured as they lay tangled around each other in Harry's too-small bed, the window open to bring in a tiny hint of fresh air and exhale a whole lot of dust.

Harry had seemed on the edge of falling asleep a moment before, but now he tensed. Draco caressed his hair and waited patiently for the objection.

"It'll be just like it was before," Harry whispered. "People falling all over me and trying to kill me. And you--Draco, you could be a target, now that you've escaped the Death Eaters once. How are we going to live like that?"

"It seems my fate to bring common sense into your scatterbrained corner of the universe," Draco murmured against his temple. "Has it occurred to you that, if you can tamp down your magic so much no one can sense it, you could do the same thing, but to a lesser degree? There has to be a middle ground between holding back everything and flooding the atmosphere with so much power that everyone's head turns. Hold back some, and then people can keep their free will around you."

"I...didn't think about that," Harry said.

Draco licked his ear. "Of course you didn't. You need me to think for you."

Harry made a grumbling noise, but didn't actually disagree aloud. Draco looped his arms more tightly around Harry's body and thought in the few minutes between the time Harry fell asleep and he did.

There were so many people who wouldn't understand that he couldn't even list them all. There were so many problems facing them that thinking about them made him cringe. He would have to put up with Harry's guilt complex on top of it, and probably at least a few more bouts of him being afraid that his magic was influencing Draco before he stopped worrying about it.

But Draco knew that things changed. It was the only law of life he had ever discovered that made any sense.

And the people and the problems and the guilt complex meant nothing against what he had seen in Harry's eyes this evening, and the magic dancing around him, and the feel of Harry under him on his couch and on this bed, and the way Harry had let him into his life despite having no reason to do so.

Draco closed his eyes.

Things changed.

He would have an advantage over everyone else in the wizarding world, as long as he knew and could remember that.

And he had only ever needed a slight advantage to secure a victory.

He fell asleep calm, certain, and content, surrounded by Harry's magic.

The End.