Draco Malfoy.

By the time he had put his signature on the last report that demanded it, Draco’s fingers were aching and his vision was blurring with fatigue. He had had three cups of tea, and seemed to have reached the saturation point; he had ceased to awaken fully a few hours ago, though he had made numerous trips of the loo. He leaned his head on the back of his chair and blinked hard.

“Malfoy?”

And of course Cullingford would choose this moment to come up behind him. Draco sat up and tried his best to look alert. “Madam?”

Cullingford, her blonde hair frizzing around her head as it always did when she’d been up all night, looked at him for a long moment with her lips pursed. Draco gazed back as evenly as he could. He didn’t think she bore him any particular malice—he wouldn’t have stayed active in this Department for years if she did—but she had to have mixed feelings that he’d been the one who brought Dobs’ ring down, after so many other agents had tried various strategies that should have succeeded. And he had pursued the case against her wishes at first; she hadn’t thought the Wolfsbane connection enough to give the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures authority over it.

But Draco and Harry had found enough evidence in the wagons to make him gaze back at her steadily. The wagons had had built-in shelves and tables covered with hens’ teeth, foxglove, and pieces of dragon eggshell—enough to convict Dobs and the rest all by themselves—as well as foxberry and the other more usual ingredients of legitimate Wolfsbane potions. Glass vials, lists of contacts who worked at apothecaries, and shipping crates warded against breakage of the contents declared their intention to sell the potion far and wide. And best of all, Harry had sensed powerful wards in the floor of one wagon and uncovered a locked chest containing the shops that the first version of the potion had already been sold to. One of them was the seller that Andromeda had bought the potion for Teddy from.

From what Draco could read of Dobs’ nearly illegible notes, he had so many misconceptions about Wolfsbane it was a wonder he hadn’t destroyed himself in the brewing. He thought it was solely a potion to make the werewolf in the mind of an infected human calmer, and that meant he should be able to duplicate it with cheaper ingredients and tests on dogs with wolf blood. When the first version had failed, he had not taken it as a sign that he should stop selling his inferior recipe, but simply a sign that the potion should be improved.

Draco was glad he and Harry had stopped the idiots. They weren’t just dangerous to werewolves and other people like Teddy Lupin who needed the Wolfsbane, they affronted his sensibilities as a potions-maker.

But that didn’t change the opinion his superior might have of the matter.

Cullingford glanced away as if she were appealing to an invisible audience for help. Then she looked sternly at Draco. “As long as you don’t do it again,” she said, weighting her words as if she thought he would cease to do it again in simple dread of her wrath, “then I think you deserve a commendation this time.”

Draco relaxed slightly. He had, technically, broken the rules in going after Dobs without back-up, and with an agent of another Department at his side. But his work for the last four years hadn’t been in vain. He had been too polite, too consistent in his paperwork, too willing to take the mean little cases that would bring no glory. Cullingford didn’t think he’d done this to simply boost his own reputation, which had been the danger Draco was most worried about.

“Thank you,” he said. “And believe me, I don’t plan to make a habit of this.”

“Dashing off like a schoolboy on a mad lark?” Cullingford asked, raising her eyebrows. “Or doing so in the company of Harry Potter?”

Draco smiled. “The former.” He waited, curious to see what her reaction would be. There were people who wouldn’t react well to his being in company with Harry, and it was best to know now if his boss was one of them.

But she only raised her eyebrows higher, and then turned and stalked away in the high boots she favored that always made her waver as if she were about to collapse.

Draco sighed and turned to filing his paperwork.

“He’s sleeping better than he was and not sweating any more, but I don’t know what that means,” Andromeda said, hovering next to the bed as Harry bent over and carefully examined Teddy’s fingernails and hands. “Is it another bad sign?”

Harry murmured wordless reassurances for the moment, since he was rather occupied in studying Teddy’s palms. Draco had told him that the blue stain should fade from Teddy’s skin if he was recovering completely from the botched potion. Should it do so, then he would need no cure but rest. If it didn’t, then Harry was to let Draco know at once by Flooing the Ministry, and he would come through with a potion to counter the effects of the foxglove as soon as he could.

Teddy’s skin was smooth, and soft, and warm, and pink. Entirely.

Harry sat back, shutting his eyes, his bones suddenly lighter. His hand trembled as he stroked Teddy’s fringe away from his forehead, and let his fingers linger around his eyes. Teddy made a sleepy mumble, and then Harry felt eyelashes flicker against his fingers. He opened his own eyes hastily.

Teddy was looking at him with some curiosity. His eyes were bright and sane for the first time in two days. “Uncle Harry?” he said. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t going to visit for a few days.”

Andromeda said something that might have been half a prayer. Harry smiled and bent down so he could kiss the middle of Teddy’s forehead, where his hand had rested. Teddy tried to squirm away; he was just at the age to find kisses embarrassing instead of comforting.

“You’ve been very sick,” Harry said. “The potion you drank was the wrong kind of Wolfsbane. But you’re going to get better now. Do you want something to eat?”

Teddy nodded, and his hair turned the bright orange color that it usually went he was hungry. “Fish,” he said. “Lots and lots of fish.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll talk to Kreacher.” He rarely called on the house-elf anymore because he didn’t live in Grimmauld Place, but Kreacher was more than happy to cook food on a moment’s notice. He would, of course, grumble because he could have done even better with more time, but Harry had long since ceased to find Kreacher’s grumbles threatening.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, at least if you discounted the noise of Teddy’s chewing and mumbling his way happily through mouthfuls of trout. Andromeda sat by his bed in silence, eating some toast that Harry had pressed on her by claiming he couldn’t possibly eat the rest of the enormous tray of food Kreacher had brought. She still had guilt and fear swirling through her eyes, but they were disappearing at last. Harry nevertheless sat with his hand clasping hers for some time, so he could make sure she understood that he didn’t hold her to blame for buying tainted Wolfsbane. How was she to know the truth, when Dobs and his group had avoided the notice of the best in the Ministry for months?

He would have liked to stay longer, but he had business at the Ministry—something quite apart from the endless paperwork he knew would be waiting for him. He had finally made a connection he should have made some time ago, and needed to follow up on it.

He kissed Andromeda on the cheek when he stood, and held out his hand to Teddy, who shook it gravely. “I should be back this afternoon,” he said, “if the paperwork mountains don’t destroy me.”

“Why paperwork?” Teddy asked, as he dug into his third helping of trout.

“Because the wizards who sold that potion that made you sick were evil,” said Harry, “and I had to arrest them, with Draco Malfoy’s help. There’s always a lot of paperwork when you arrest someone.” Most of the time. And when there’s not, there should be.

“I want a story about the evil wizards!” Teddy said, sitting up with wide eyes, the rest of his breakfast forgotten.

“In a little while,” Harry said, and smiled at Andromeda and left the room before Teddy could get shrill in his demands for a story. He was as enthusiastic as Tonks had been when he wanted something.

Harry felt the usual pang that came with thinking about Teddy’s parents, but succeeding it was a new thought: He’s rather like Draco, too.

He wore a smile that made some of the people passing in the corridors look at him wonderingly, when they didn’t want to stop him, slap him on the back, and congratulate him on the capture of Dobs and his minions. Ron met him in the corridor outside their office and tried to harangue him about taking off with Malfoy of all people, but Harry cut him off. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it later, Ron, as we fill out the paperwork. Right now, I need to know where Máire is.”

Ron blinked as if it were taking him a moment to remember whom Harry meant; Harry was used to the effect when Ron was tightly focused on one case, and waited patiently. Then Ron frowned and said, “Still in the holding cells, I suppose. They held her a little longer this time on the Obliviators’ insistence, but as usual, there’s no evidence on her.” He sounded guiltily proud. His own brothers’ ability to get away with immense trouble had made him admire people like that, Harry thought.

“This time,” Harry said quietly, “I have some.”

With Ron trailing behind him, Harry crossed three corridors and came to the temporary holding cells for those criminals whom the Aurors expected to release fairly soon, either because of a lack of evidence or because of minor offenses. The polished wooden doors looked no different from the doors of the Aurors’ offices, if one ignored the wards crawling all over them. Harry examined the plaques above the knobs—enchanted to change depending on the name of the wizard or witch confined in the cell at the moment—and grunted in satisfaction when he found the one that said Máire Dobson.

Dobson. Dobs. And Máire had been in Stone’s office when Ron brought in word of Teddy’s sickness, and most prisoners were allowed a few firecalls to relatives or friends to explain what had happened when they were arrested. Máire could easily have conveyed the information about Teddy’s illness to one of Dobs’ people. It might not even have taken a code or lies, Harry thought; the Aurors were accustomed to thinking that Máire was no threat and rarely paid attention to her Floo calls.

With a sense of an era ending, Harry unlocked the wards and entered the cell with his wand drawn.

Máire was sitting on the chair in the center of the room, staring at the wall. The walls themselves were bare stone with no decorations, though they were spelled to be warm enough for anyone not under a Freezing Charm. Other than the chair, the only furniture in the room was a bed and a crude loo. Harry had long ago decided that the purpose of the holding cells wasn’t to make criminals think about what they’d done so much as bore them to death.

Máire looked up when they came in, and her face brightened. Then she noticed the wand, and lifted her hands in mock fear. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” she said. “I’m not armed.”

Harry looked at her in silence, remembering all the instances over the last few months when Máire had been captured and then released within a few days, each time for crimes they could find no trace of. No one had tracked the correspondence of her periods of imprisonment and those times when Dobs’ group had apparently gained information that would enable them to vanish from under the noses of the authorities. Why should they? Máire was as harmless as she was short. Even now, she looked at them with a mask of practiced innocence.

Our decision not to come to the Ministry for back-up was a better one than we could have known at the time.

“Not with a wand, perhaps,” Harry said at last, quietly. “But you’ve proven yourself armed with the right information at times that are—troublesome for the Ministry.” He’d chosen that word over several others he could have. He wanted to avoid being too dramatic right now. Máire thrived on drama; she would simply turn the situation to her advantage if Harry let her. “What is your relationship to Ferris Dobs?”

Máire came up out of the chair at him. She never changed a line of her face or a muscle in her body before she did so; she simply sprang, and if Harry had been alone there was a good chance she would have overwhelmed him. She was too close in an instant, and her elbow slammed his wand away as he tried to bring it to bear.

But Ron was there, and he shouted “Petrificus Totalus!” in time. Máire froze and then leaned on Harry as heavily as a slab of stone. Harry grimaced, retrieved his wand, and floated her back into her chair.

“Unfreeze her jaw, Ron,” he said, not taking his eyes from Máire’s. They had gone deliberately blank, now, and she was staring over his shoulder as if the entire affair rather bored her.

Ron did, but Máire didn’t speak. She shifted her eyes sideways to glance at Harry’s face, though, and Harry considered that progress.

“I would hazard a guess he’s a relative,” Harry said, and leaned his elbow on the wall, keeping a faint smile on his lips. The more he seemed to know, the more he could unnerve a criminal who might try to deceive him. “A half-brother, perhaps, or a cousin. You don’t look like each other at first glance, but a lot of that’s his nose. And he’s already telling us some important things about his brewing.” That last was only true in the widest sense; Dobs was still unconscious from the necromantic magic Harry had used on him. But it had worked in the past to convince some criminals they might as well talk, since everyone else was doing so, and Harry saw Máire close her eyes and swallow.

“He’s my half-brother,” she said at last. “And yes, I sent information to him. No, you won’t get me to confess more than that.”

“If you talk more freely, it could be easier for you,” Harry suggested. “I’m not pretending that you won’t go to Azkaban, but it could be for a shorter term. There are questions about the brewing process and what his group thought they were doing—how they formed and where they found that hidden pure-blood estate they were camped on—that he hasn’t answered yet.”

Máire sighed. Then she said, “I don’t owe him that much loyalty. He would probably do the same thing, if he were in my position.”

“I’m sure he would,” Harry said encouragingly. Dobs hadn’t impressed him as someone who had the greatest common sense about such things, but he did have an addiction to dramatic gestures that rivaled Máire’s. A confession might be dramatic enough for him. “And, well, the information will come out sooner or later. There are others in his group who might be willing to talk, after all.”

Máire sighed again. Then she looked at Harry and began to speak. Harry gestured for Ron to fetch some Confessional Parchment so they could take down Máire’s speech exactly as she made it, but Ron was already scrambling for it.

Harry settled back and listened to the story, which unfolded more or less as he had expected it. Dobs had seen a way to “take advantage of the market” for Wolfsbane without considering that Wolfsbane was an immensely complicated potion for a reason; it had taken years to perfect it so that Remus could teach at Hogwarts. Dobs had learned enough of the brewing process to become a danger, but no more than that. And the “improvements” he had made to his diluted version were almost all aimed at concealing the negative effects for a greater period of time, rather than eliminating them. He didn’t possess the knowledge or the compassion for that.

Just as Harry heard Ron’s footsteps in the corridor coming back, Máire paused in her confession to ask, “Can I have something brightly colored in my cell at Azkaban at least? A quilt, or a Quidditch poster? Say that I can.”

Harry said, “If the story suits.”

“You’re a hard man, Harry Potter,” Máire muttered without rancor, and went on with the story. Harry doubted he would ever understand her.

Well, I don’t need to. There are better people that my understanding can be spent on. And Harry began smiling as he thought of Draco, to the point that Ron glanced at him curiously as he set the Confessional Parchment to record.

“Draco. Hello.”

“Harry.” Draco was unable to think of an appropriate greeting, so he put out his hand and hoped that would be enough. Harry clasped it and shook it with every appearance of contentment, so Draco thought it worked. Then Harry leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and that was even better—

Except that it should be the lips. Draco caught his head and realigned their mouths. Harry chuckled and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Draco lost track of time in a most pleasant fashion as he let his tongue travel leisurely around Harry’s mouth. With no sick children or Dark wizards to worry about this time, he sank his fingers into Harry’s hair and let them explore there as well, learning all the sensitive spots on his scalp. Harry sighed into his mouth and let him.

When they had parted and were once more seated in front of the fireplace with glasses of Firewhiskey, Harry leaned forwards with eyes gleaming. Draco braced himself. It had been two weeks since they’d seen each other. The paperwork had taken more time than either of them had foreseen, and then there’d been the official commendations from the Ministry, and their superiors had had to give them stern lectures, and Draco had to fight with his parents about his being seen in public with Potter, and Harry had to convince his friends that he was not, actually, dating a mass murderer. Arranging a cautious visit with Andromeda and Teddy was the only thing Draco had been able to do for himself in that time.

Draco had not been sure the connection between them would endure two weeks. It had been so passionate and immediate, after all, they probably should have consummated it the moment they captured Dobs and his group. The Ministry could sod off. Apart from anything else, Harry would have had time to chew over uncomfortable memories and think of awkward questions.

But Harry only said, “You know some of the reasons I’m so different from the person I was before the war. But why are you so different?”

“Maybe I’m not,” said Draco, greatly daring. But he wanted to know if he would be able to tease Harry. If he couldn’t, then he doubted this could last, even if they had saved each other’s lives and managed to have some pleasant times in bed. “Maybe I have a collection of Death Eater paraphernalia in the kitchen.”

Harry laughed, a sound that made Draco’s stomach roil with excitement. Yes, he could get used to hearing that. “Yes, you have,” he said. “At one time you would either have flown into a rage or taken on dreadfully if I asked you that question.”

“I see you have learned no manners,” Draco muttered, and downed some of the Firewhiskey.

“That’s me,” Harry agreed cheerfully. “Necromancy books are woefully short of manners courses.” He spun the stem of his glass between his hands. Draco bit his lip as Firewhiskey settled on the carpet, since he knew perfectly well the house-elves would clean it up later. “But what about you? Was it a life-changing experience? Did something happen that forced you to reconsider your former beliefs?”

“Why, yes,” Draco said, unable to keep dryness out of his voice. “It was called the war.”

Harry’s face softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was stupid of me to forget that. What I meant, I suppose, was whether you changed all at once, or if it was long, or if it was unconscious, or if it was conscious…” His voice trailed off as if he found the subject embarrassing, or as if he were only now realizing that Draco might not want to talk about it. “It’s interesting,” he said. “Everything about you is interesting.”

Draco relaxed. He’d kept Harry almost continually on edge since he’d stepped out of the fireplace, and still Harry hadn’t run away. That was a good sign. “It was a conscious process, and it took a long time,” he said. “It’s still not completely done. Basically, I decided I was unlikely to advance in the world being the kind of person I’d always been.

“So I started…watching. Spying, maybe. I wanted to know how other people got along. And I learned the value of politeness, which I used to think was reserved for dealing with people like the Dark Lord. And I learned that being a bit more courteous and not blurting out everything I thought at the drop of a wand didn’t have to restrict my freedom of expression. Besides, when I spoke more slowly and with more thought, people respected me more.” Draco smiled into his Firewhiskey.

“I’ve made compromises. I want peace, I want respect, I want friendship, and I can’t get it if people think I’m a child.” He had almost included love on the list of things he wanted, but he was a bit too shy to do that with Harry in the room. “The most important step is waking up and looking at myself in the mirror every morning, recounting the changes I’d like to make, and trying to make myself actually put them into practice. I still scold myself. I still have moments when I slip up, or know that I’m taking a risk to say something to a particular person. It’s uncomfortable. But I’d rather do that than go back to the person I was, the kind of person my father still is.”

“What’s your relationship with your parents like?” Harry asked softly.

“Uncomfortable, also,” Draco said wryly. “They don’t really understand why I changed, and my father mocks me when I explain. My mother comes closer, but even she doesn’t grasp why I felt change was necessary. She thinks I should take what I want and only worry about the consequences if I offend someone powerful. Besides, my career as a Ministry flunkey doesn’t please them.”

He heard the thump of a glass being set down, and looked up in surprise. Harry was kneeling on the floor next to his chair, looking at Draco with an expression that made him want to glance away again at once. Holding Harry’s gaze was at least as painful as looking at himself in the mirror.

“I think that’s admirable,” Harry whispered. “It isn’t change forced on you from the outside. It isn’t someone telling you you’ll suffer unless you do things his way.” Draco grimaced, remembering the Dark Lord and his disastrous sixth year. Harry grimaced in sympathy with him. “And it isn’t an experience like mine, which changed me for the better but was still something I wouldn’t have chosen to go through. Your path is the harder one. Maybe that’s why I like you so much, because you’ve proven you can do difficult things even if you struggle with them.”

And he leaned forwards and kissed Draco again.

It was right, what they did then.

Harry never remembered making love in such a daze. Too many thoughts for articulation raced through his head. He could touch Draco’s hip in a reverent manner or murmur the words he wanted to say about how Draco’s courage was inspiring—but not both at once. He felt vaguely ashamed of that, as if he needed to get everything perfect the first time.

But if there was one thing the years since the war had taught him, it was that that impression was false, and damaging. So instead he touched Draco’s hip, and kissed his way very gently down his body towards his groin, and trusted that the words could come later.

Draco lay with his eyes shut most of the time, as if he couldn’t bear to watch Harry touch him. But his hands flailed about restlessly, brushing Harry’s hair and then jerking away again, cupping his shoulders, trailing over his chest and locating his nipples. Harry trusted his hands more than his face, at the moment.

Harry sucked Draco as gently as he could at first, then more powerfully, varying the rhythm and speed of his tongue, trying to learn what would make Draco sigh or moan in pleasure and would make him stiffen all the muscles in his thighs with it. Draco did an awful lot of moaning, and then settled into a series of grunts that made Harry warm and amused at the same time. He kept his nose buried in Draco’s skin just above his navel as he sucked—he’d taught himself a charm that relaxed his throat and got rid of his gag reflex rather effectively—and watched the ripples of emotion run over Draco’s face.

When Draco came, it was no sudden revelation, but a burst of musky scent and bitter taste and soft panting sobs that Harry treasured as much as the knowledge that he had been the one to make Draco react like this. When he’d swallowed as much as he could, he pulled away from Draco and dropped his head against his hip, cupping his arse with one hand this time, and letting his fingers trail gently across the cheeks.

Draco caught his breath and rolled onto his stomach.

Harry never knew how long he took to prepare Draco. The daze in his head interfered. Was he using the lubrication, or thinking about the other times he wished to be able to use it, and hoping this wasn’t a one-off? Was he easing a few fingers into Draco, or daydreaming about doing so when he had enough oil on them?

“Easy,” Draco panted, lifting his head and twisting when Harry hooked one finger into his arse. The daze parted, Harry pausing guiltily, his mind concentrated on the one thought of whether he had prepared Draco enough.

“I’m all right now,” Draco said, and curved his head back to seize a kiss. Harry bent down and spent long moments reassuring himself with the taste of Draco’s lips and tongue, until Draco wriggled impatiently and eased himself further down Harry’s fingers.

Draco’s skin shone like gilded alabaster in the firelight.

The pleasure when Harry slid into him was almost too great.

Draco had a way of shifting back to meet Harry’s thrusts, but in an irregular pattern, which drove Harry absolutely mad.

His thoughts raced and blurred. The air around him was gilded alabaster, too, now, as though his eyes could only deal with so many colors at once. Draco grunted softly, rhythmically, under him as Harry drove him into the mattress, and at least that was regular. And then he tilted his head back and came with a great shudder, and Harry followed, utterly surprised, pleased, and half-mortified that he hadn’t even remembered to touch Draco’s erection, but half-proud, too, because Draco hadn’t needed that to climax.

Draco swore quietly as he collapsed. Harry stroked his back from the shoulders down with several long motions, then pulled out and cast a few cleaning spells.

Draco rolled over and smiled at him, his face softened and blurred itself, as though he shared some of the same daze that had overpowered Harry. “Who says that you have no manners?” he murmured, indicating Harry’s wand.

“You,” said Harry. “And I hope you’ll say it a lot more often.” He dropped his wand to the floor and put his arms around Draco before he could think better of it.

“Hm,” Draco said. “Yes, please. But you might have to change a lot more to suit me.”

It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it really did sound like a plain statement of fact, instead of an insult or a warning. And Harry thought he could take it that way.

“We’ll see,” he said, and for the first time in a long time, the thought of a promise didn’t give him the feeling of cold gravestone under his fingers. Draco’s skin was too warm for that, and at the moment, it was all Harry could feel.

I’m learning.

End.