"I don't understand, Draco."

"Which part?"

Draco stirred his ice cream around in his bowl with the spoon. It was already almost entirely liquid; warm swirls of what had once been chocolate icecream oozed sluggishly against his silverware. If he stopped stirring, he'd have to look up. If he looked up, he'd have to see Blaise's face. If he saw Blaise's face, he'd see just how soft and gentle Blaise was being with him, and then Draco would have to admit just how badly he'd fucked up.

"Talk to me. I know you're keeping something back." Blaise's voice was warm, convincing.

Draco wanted to believe it. He wanted to fall into the richness of that voice and trust that it held answers. But it was useless; he was too deep in a mess of his own making, and he didn't even know why he'd bothered to come here today, except that if he tried to last one more second on his own he was going to lose it.

He threw his spoon into the bowl where it landed with a strident clatter, sending flecks of chocolate liquid onto the table cloth. When he looked up at Blaise, there wasn't even a hint of chagrin in his expression.

Draco sighed. "It's not just about the bet," he confessed.

He'd just spent the last thirty minutes explaining why he and Potter had decided to pretend they were dating. It had only taken so long because, after their display the other week, hiding in dark corners at Pansy's party, Blaise had been utterly convinced they were dating. And every time Draco had to insist it was fake he felt a twist of misery deep in his gut and had to pause and drink a third of the contents of his wine glass. They'd nearly made it through the bottle and it wasn't even midday.

"It's about Potter."

Draco's head snapped up. "How did you know?"

Blaise snorted. "It's always about Potter."

"Fine, so it's about Potter. And me. And how I feel about Potter. And about how he feels about life, or something, I don't quite know yet."

Blaise's brows had drawn together in confusion, but he didn't interrupt. Draco tried to distract himself by staring at the ornate ceiling of Blaise's second drawing room, but even the gold-flecked paint on the architraves made him think of Potter—Gryffindor gold. More importantly, it made him think of how Potter used to be, and how much that wasn't the man he was now.

"Potter has changed," Draco finally said, eyes a little glazed as switched his focus to his hands, twisting his fingers together in a manner that brought him straight back to first year Hogwarts and Professor Quirrell. "He's not who he once was, and I don't yet know why, but I do know that it's killing him."

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Draco couldn't look up, couldn't see the expression on Blaise's face. So he just kept talking.

"When he came to me with this plan to win that drunk bet, I thought it was just a lark. Something stupid to fill in the time, and I'll admit, it was nice to think of spending a little time with Potter for once. We never really did get to know each other after the war. But now that I've spent time with him, I'm seeing things that..."

He swallowed, the words suddenly catching in his throat before he managed to continue.

"I don't know how his friends haven't noticed, but Potter's messed up, Blaise. He's really messed up. I don't know how it ties into this ridiculous bet—or even if it does at all—but all I know is that Potter is happiest when he's with me. He's happiest when we're making stupid plans and trying to trick our friends. It's like it gives him... purpose, I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if it takes him back to Hogwarts, to the kind of pranks the Weasley twins would play. Like, maybe because it's so light-hearted, he can shove all the rest of it aside. But I don't know, Blaise. I just don't know."

He trailed off and finally looked up, his stomach sinking at the depth of compassion he saw in Blaise's eyes.

"Even just these last couple of weeks," he continued quietly, "since you saw us at the party, I'm noticing new things every day. We're seeing each other more and more—keeping up appearances—and I just... It's driving me crazy."

"We all lost something in the war," Blaise said thoughtfully, dark fingers tapping on the edge of the table as his eyes slid away from Draco to stare into the distance. "It stands to reason that Harry Potter would lose the most. But there's more to the story, isn't there?"

Draco gulped and nodded. "I want to keep up this charade, since it's the only thing that makes him happy."

"So keep it up then. What's the harm? You'll win the bet and then everything will go back to normal."

"What if it doesn't? What if he loses all hope? What if this is the only thing keeping him going?"

Blaise shook his head carefully. "You can't plan for that. You can't read the future. All you can do is try, and if you think that this is the best thing for him right now, then what's the harm in keeping it going?"

"Because I think I'm falling in love with him," Draco's voice cracked and broke, and suddenly his eyes felt embarrassingly wet, even though no tears were falling.

Blaise's face crumpled in empathy, and he reached across the table to take Draco's hand. "Draco."

He only said that one word, but it was enough. Draco covered his face with his other hand, squeezing his eyes shut against tears that were threatening to fall. He didn't even know why he was crying.

It wasn't because he had feelings for Potter—those felt separate from this whole thing. If he could somehow take away everything else about the situation, he rather thought that his feelings might be relatively easy to deal with. He and Potter got along quite well now; there was every chance that Potter would agree to a date. And if he didn't, well, Draco wouldn't be the first person to deal with a broken heart.

No, he wasn't crying over unrequited love. If he was certain of anything, he was certain of that. He was crying because... because something was wrong with Potter, and Draco knew—he just somehow knew—that it wasn't going to be easy to resolve. When he thought of the way that Potter's face shifted from superficial happiness to blind rage to that terrifying mask of apathy and back, all in the span of a night, his chest tightened with so much fear he almost felt like he was back in the middle of the war again.

He was crying because he didn't know what to do. Because he knew that Potter was only ever one argument away from running, from throwing up walls that Draco had no hope of breaking through. The only option Draco had was to keep up their relationship as it was, in the hope that they continued to grow close enough for Draco to be in a position to help. And every second that their relationship grew stronger was going to be an arrow straight through Draco's heart, as Potter pretended to flirt with him, to go out with him, to love him.

A handful of tears fell, but that was all that Draco allowed. Then he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket and straightened up, giving Blaise's hand one final squeeze before he let go.

"So, what will you do?" Blaise asked, his eyes so full of understanding that Draco nearly cried again.

"The only thing I can do," Draco said with a wry smile. "My feelings aren't important right now. I'm going to keep this up as long as it takes to get Potter the help he needs."

Blaise frowned. "Your feelings are always important," he said softly. "And you understand that this is going to take a toll on you, right?"

Draco drew back sharply. "You make it sound like Potter's a burden. He has no idea what affect his moods have on me and the people around him, and he is entirely unaware that I'm trying to help—"

Blaise shook his head and held up his hands, silently pleading for mercy. "I don't mean that he's manipulating you. He's absolutely not. But please understand, Draco, before you continue with this, that if you're not careful, you could get hurt. Really hurt. That doesn't mean you don't do it; it means you have to do it smart. Okay, so Potter isn't ready to see anyone yet—we don't even know what the problem is—but that doesn't mean you can't see someone. Find a professional. Educate yourself. Get some support. Thousands of people have gone through this before you, Draco; there's simply no sense in trying to do it alone. Don't rush in there blind, and don't ever discount the importance of your own feelings. If you do, that's when it's going to go downhill. You can't save someone if you have to destroy yourself to do it."

Draco stared at Blaise, unable to form coherent thoughts. It was as if the room had suddenly darkened, the sun hidden by clouds and the birds falling silent to allow Blaise's words the weight they deserved. He felt powerless to turn away from the look on Blaise's face, the quiet promise in his words. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny part of the burden he was carrying float away. Whatever happened, Blaise knew the truth. He could always come to Blaise.

"Thank you."

The words were barely more than a whisper, but Blaise heard them all the same. He smiled, radiant and warm, and the moment faded away.

Draco sat up, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head a little to clear it. "In other news, Pansy is starting to come around to the idea of us dating. At the moment, she's angrier at me for, as she puts it, 'thinking with my cock and my heart instead of my head' than for trying to win her bet. I think she's actually forgotten about it."

Blaise tipped his head back and laughed, the sound rolling around them in the cavernous room. "Well, she has a point."

Draco picked an imaginary piece of dust off his lapel. "I happen to think my cock and my heart have some pretty good ideas."

"You would, Draco. You would."

*

He'd arranged to meet Potter at the bar that night, just the two of them, so he said goodbye to Blaise and went home to shower and get ready.

At least, that was the plan, but he only got as far as the shower before everything just seemed to hit him at once. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his hair a ragged, wet mess that flopped forward and nearly reached his eyes. Rivulets of water ran down his cheeks, his chest, and the towel sagged on his hips because he lacked the energy to bother fixing it.

Blaise was right; he needed to be smart about this. He needed to talk to someone—a therapist or something—and start getting things in motion for the time that Potter was ready to take action. He needed to do this for Potter... and for himself.

Somewhere in the last few weeks everything had shifted. Their game hadn't changed, but the stakes had skyrocketed. Since Potter didn't seem to even acknowledge that, Draco was playing for both of them.

He ran a comb through his hair, slowly slicking it back and then tousling it until he looked some semblance of put together. He imagined Potter doing the same thing on the other side of London. Imagined the dark bathroom with the flickering light, the way Potter's eyes would turn haunted whenever he looked in a mirror and thought no one else was watching.

He set the comb down a little harder than necessary and squeezed out a dollop of lotion for his face. The steady glide of his fingers against his skin was a soothing distraction. He could close his eyes and focus on the faint scent of citrus, feel the warmth of the heated lamp above the mirror, pretend everything was fine.

Everything was fine; he would make sure of it. He'd get the help he needed, come to Blaise when he had to, and make sure Potter got through this.

He hitched his towel tighter around his hips and went to get dressed.

*

Potter was waiting for him at the counter, dressed in a rich, navy three-piece suit that made Draco stumble a little when he saw. It was the suit he had admired in the window the other day, the one he'd said Potter should buy.

The thought that Potter had returned and bought it, all because Draco had said he should, filled him with a surge of hope and wonder that should be downright illegal. It was useless getting so caught up on the small details—it was just an act, and Draco needed to remember that.

"Nice suit," he murmured as he slid in as close to Potter as decency allowed.

He secretly loved the way the other patrons glared at him, silently outraged that he was the one to be so close to Harry Potter, that he was the one to make him smile like that. Draco reached out discreetly, brushing his fingertips along Potter's wrist in a way that he knew would look like he was trying to be subtle.

Someone would see. It was perfect, and if Draco took rather more pleasure from the touch than he was meant to, it was no one's business but his own.

Potter's eyes darkened, sending a wave of heat in Draco's stomach rushing south. He could see why Blaise had taken so much convincing; Potter was a far better actor than Draco had realised.

"How did you shape up after the pub last night?" Draco asked, his voice deliberately low and sultry for the benefit of anyone who was listening.

The bartender mopped around them, setting down a fresh glass for Draco and pouring a dram of his usual. Potter bit back a smile, staring down into his glass and avoiding comment on the transparent attempt to eavesdrop.

"Sore," he finally said with a wicked grin and a subtle wink, just as the bartender was walking away.

Draco had to bite down hard on his tongue to stop from laughing as the bartender stumbled, head whipping around to stare unabashedly at the two of them. He adopted a sympathetic expression.

"Yes, I'm not surprised. You were making quite a display of yourself."

Potter's eyes sparkled with mirth. It was just the tiniest bit electrifying, sharing a joke with Potter like this. Even if Draco did desperately wish it were true. He wondered momentarily what the papers would print, if the bartender ran his mouth off.

"You didn't seem to mind," Potter replied, taking a long pull from his glass and letting his eyes roam across Draco's body.

Draco snorted at that, unable to keep the thought of exactly how little he would have minded their imaginary tryst from overwhelming his mind. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so bloody pathetic.

"Well—" he began, intending to carry their charade as long as he could when a commotion behind them made him turn.

It took him a second to recognise the face, but he soon realised Zach Smith had just stumbled in, drunk as a skunk and with his arms wrapped around the shoulders of two older women. It seemed as though he must have bumped into a family who were on their way through to the bistro. They all stood in the doorway arguing with each other while the mother shielded her children indignantly.

Draco wrinkled his nose but kept watching. He'd never liked Smith. The guy had always been far too ready to kiss the arse of whoever was closest.

A few words of the argument drifted over, but it was incomprehensible—something about the child getting in the way of Smith's drunken attempt to cast an Accio. After a moment, Draco realised the child was a Squib. He probably hadn't recognised the magic then and had somehow interrupted.

Draco turned away. It was no use getting involved in the argument. Smith was clearly sloshed, and the kid hadn't meant any harm.

He opened his mouth to resume their conversation but was struck mute by the fury in Potter's eyes. For a moment, he expected Potter to get out of his seat and march over there, wand blazing, but he didn't. His face twisted into something horrible, and then he turned away and slouched against the counter.

Long moments past with no attempt to break the silence. It was clear that Potter was trapped in his own thoughts, lost in some dark emotion. He kept waiting for Potter to break out of it, but he didn't. Nothing changed, and the rising tide of conversation around them made each passing second seem longer and more brittle.

Draco swallowed. He could let it slide, do what everyone else did and avoid the difficult stuff. Or... he could ask. He could find out a little more about Potter and be one step closer to working out how to help him.

He took a sip of his whiskey, opting for casual even though he was practically vibrating with a sense of anticipation, of urgency.

"What was that about?"

Potter continued to stare into his glass. It was as if he hadn't even heard Draco, as if he was somewhere far away. Draco didn't repeat the question; he just waited.

Eventually, Potter turned to him. His eyes were still faintly unseeing, like a sheet of muted glass had dropped between them, but he was closer now. Draco thought that if he reached out, Potter would feel solid beneath his fingertips. He hadn't thought that before.

"Sorry, what?"

"What was that all about?" Draco waved a hand vaguely in the air.

Potter's brows drew down, fury flashing across his face for a split second before being replaced by something darker.

"They shouldn't speak like that to a kid."

"Pardon?"

Draco felt wrong-footed all of a sudden. He'd thought they were going to argue about their old school mates—that there was some childhood grudge to do with Smith that Potter needed to get off his chest. Maybe an ex-lover. And now they were talking about some kid?

Potter drained his glass and lifted his gaze to glare into the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, his eyes darted to the family where they'd moved into the corner, but he quickly looked away again. Draco tried to catch Potter's gaze in the mirror, but he was intent upon himself, eyes fierce as he stared down his own reflection. As Draco watched, a strange sort of shift came over Potter's features—a fierce disgust that burned so strong below Potter's skin it couldn't help but leak through to the surface.

It made Draco shiver, lines of fear running down his spine.

When Potter spoke again, his voice was cold. "Did you hear them? What they said to him?"

"No."

"They said he was a freak."

Draco shrugged. "And?"

Potter's head whipped around, his eyes flashing. "You think that's okay to say to a kid, do you? Think that's appropriate?"

"Of course not," Draco snapped back. "But some parents are monsters who should be tarred and feathered at the very least; I don't see why it's made you withdraw into yourself like this. And I don't understand why the Gryffindor hero didn't go up to them and verbally rip their heads off."

"Because there's no fucking point." Potter's voice sounded strange as he hissed the words—harsh and uneven. "It's not going to make them stop."

Draco's stomach sank. He was getting close to something, and with each passing second all he wanted to do was run. But he'd come this far.

"I'm fairly certain you faced a hurdle or two when you took down Lord Voldemort," Draco drawled, searching for that cutting tone that would rile Potter just enough to make him lash out rather than run. "It didn't stop you then. What's the difference now?"

"Maybe I'm sick of fighting losing battles."

Draco couldn't help the incredulous expression on his face. "You won! What in Merlin's fucking name are you talking about, losing battles? You win! You always win! That's your thing, Potter. What the hell is going on?"

They were leaning so close together, Draco could feel Potter's breath rasping across his skin with each ragged exhalation. Potter's face twisted into something pained, something furious.

"What's going on?" He laughed, cold and bitter and awful. "What's going on is that I've never fucking won anything in my life, and you're somehow all so fooled into thinking I'm a hero that you can't see what I really am."

The words were like ice straight down Draco's back, but Potter wasn't finished.

"Do you know how I grew up, Malfoy? Do you know how the boy hero was raised?" He jabbed a finger towards the family in the corner, though he didn't turn away from Draco. "Like that. Do you know what it's like, to be called a freak when you let slip a little accidental magic? Do you know how fucking terrifying it is to think that maybe, maybe you are. Because things keep happening to you. Things you can't control, and all you know is they hate you for it. God, how they hate you. And sure, you find out that magic exists, and that's wonderful. It's amazing. But that doesn't make it go away because—"

Potter broke off, eyes wide and a little glassy. He closed them and swallowed, taking a slow, measured breath. Draco's stomach was churning, the alcohol he'd already drunk heavy like stone, and all he could taste was bile.

Potter opened his eyes, and the storm of emotions were gone, leaving a horrible, blank emptiness in their wake. He drained his glass in a single gulp and wiped his mouth.

"And I didn't win the war, Malfoy. I died." He laughed again, but it wasn't like before. It sounded normal, the way he did when they were laughing together with Pansy and Granger and Weasley. Somehow, that was far, far worse. "I died, and it was the biggest accomplishment of my entire life."

Then, he dropped a few Galleons on the table and walked away.

Draco wasn't sure how long he stayed at the counter, staring at the small pool of liquid around his coaster. He didn't remember spilling it. Although, now that he was looking, he could see that his hands were shaking. He steadied them against the wood, pressing his fingertips against the lacquered surface and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Trauma. Potter had trauma.

He knew a little about that. The word had been thrown in his face by a few Mind Healers over the years with varying degrees of tact. Somewhere, between specialists who cost more than a new wing for the Manor and potions that were illegal in some countries, he'd found a way to get by. It wasn't the best way, and the journey was long, but he had his coping techniques and the Floo address for several professionals when it became too much to bear.

Potter didn't sound like he was even aware it was trauma. He sounded like he thought it was fact. Like he still believed the vicious words that had been said to him all those years ago. That explained why Granger wasn't much help to him; this was just the Potter she'd known all along. A little rough around the edges, a little over-emotional, but competent and strong in spite of it all. He'd been like this since they were children; Draco didn't blame Granger for being unable to see it with fresh eyes.

Draco had thought that whatever was going on with Potter was to do with the war, but this had started a long, long time before that. Draco didn't even know where to begin.

As he sat there, goosebumps tingling along his forearms from the adrenaline that still coursed through him, he felt the unfamiliar swell of a new emotion. His thoughts went back to how Potter had been before the family walked past. Potter probably hadn't noticed, but half the guests in the bar had their eyes on him, and it wasn't because he was the Boy Who Lived.

Potter exuded an aura of fearlessness, of strength. He always had. Tonight—like many other nights—Draco had been caught by the twinkle in his eyes, the unexpected wit of his humor. He had been enraptured, dazed, falling with no end in sight. And now, to discover that this lurked beneath the surface...

The unnamed feeling grew, bursting within his chest. He'd always secretly admired Potter, respected him for what he'd done for the world, but, Merlin...

The words he'd said to Blaise, the uncertain confession... perhaps it wasn't so far from the truth.

He shook his head, clearing away the thoughts that didn't have a place right now. He would deal with them later—much, much later. Possibly never.

With a final glare at the family in the corner, he drained the rest of his glass and left.

*

He didn't see Potter for about a week after that. Occasionally, they'd pass each other in the corridors at the Ministry, and there was an aborted mid-week lunch attempt with the five of them, but everyone was simply too busy to do anything more than a quick greeting.

For the most part, Potter didn't even acknowledge their argument. There had been a small moment there where Draco thought he might be getting the cold shoulder, but then Granger had bumped into them and received the same treatment. He decided then that it must simply be that Potter's bad mood had not yet evaporated.

Sure enough, by the time pub night rolled around, it was as if nothing had changed. Draco tried to act the same, but it was hard. How could he act like everything was the same when he didn't even feel like the same person? He wondered if anyone else knew what Potter had gone through as a child. Did they know it had never truly left him?

"Draco, are you planning on joining us at all tonight? Or would you rather brood in silence?"

Draco looked up to see Pansy watching him shrewdly. He supposed he had been rather absent.

"Sorry," he murmured. "What did I miss?"

"Oh, nothing much." Pansy waved her hand in the air. "Just an explosion or two and the near destruction of the Granger-Weasley partnership."

"What?!" He sat up straight then, looking around in alarm.

There didn't appear to be anything out of order in his surroundings. The polished wood of the table was unsinged and the passing waiters seemed entirely unruffled as they greeted new customers. Both Weasley and Granger were giving each other secret smiles over the top of their glasses, blissfully unaware of the rest of the pub.

He turned back to see Pansy giggling. He sighed, selected a peanut from the bowl in front of Potter, and threw it at her.

"That wasn't nice."

"You deserved it. I'd been saying your name for five minutes."

"In fairness to Pansy," Potter murmured to him, a slight smile on his face as he ducked his head closer to Draco's for him to hear. "Ron accidentally set his glass on fire, then he accidentally set Hermione's glass on fire, and then Hermione threatened to dump him if he didn't get her a new drink. So, technically, it was true."

"Technicalities should be taken out the back and shot," Draco grumbled.

Pansy gave a fake gasp and fluttered her hand over her chest. "How very un-Slytherin of you. Clearly, you've been spending too much time with this Gryffindor lunkhead."

For the first time since they'd begun their bet, there was no hint of suspicion beneath Pansy's words. Their performance was both subtle and believable enough that Pansy no longer questioned it. For some reason, the thought made Draco's stomach sink.

Potter laughed and reached out to grab a handful of peanuts, clearly unbothered by the implication.

"Speaking of," he said, the words muffled as he was still halfway through chewing, "Could I get your help with something, Malfoy?"

Draco blinked in surprise. They hadn't discussed anything; as far as he knew, they were letting recent events settle in everyone's minds before they tried anything new.

"With what?"

"Aah, there's my Slytherin boy." Pansy reached across the table to pat Draco's hand affectionately. "I knew you hadn't gone far."

Then she turned to Hermione, laughing at something she'd said and ignoring the two of them entirely.

Potter didn't seem fussed at all that he no longer had an audience. Perhaps this wasn't for show. He grinned at Draco.

"Have to know what you're agreeing to first, right?" He didn't look offended; his eyes were crinkled with amusement.

"Of course."

Potter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's kind of silly."

Something painful stuttered in Draco's chest; he ignored it. "Go on."

"You got me thinking, when we were working on the security spells for your house."

"Yes?"

"What if there was a way that the Ministry could provide basic protection spells for at-risk wizarding families?"

Draco blinked at him in confusion. "At-risk?"

"Yeah, you know, houses in areas that have been targeted a lot. High crime areas." He cleared his throat. "Families with Squibs. Half-bloods in pure-blood districts."

Draco didn't know. He'd never looked at crime stats—never even thought about crime stats. But what Potter was saying made an awful sort of sense.

"It's an excellent idea." The warmth in his own tone just about disgusted him, if he wasn't already resigned to what Potter was turning him into.

Potter lifted his head up abruptly, eyes bright with surprise and pleasure. "You think so?"

"I do. But what do I have to do with it?"

"You're smart," Potter said sincerely. "And you understand finance."

That was an understatement—he was a financial advisor.

"True on both accounts," he said dryly.

Potter smirked. "So I thought you could help me put together a funding proposal. The Ministry will never approve it if it doesn't fit their budget."

Draco's mind was already turning over figures, running analysis against existing budgets that he'd worked on during the last financial year. He could make this work. If he put enough effort in, accounting for potential investments from potioneers and businesses that traded in security and illusions, he was fairly certain he could even make it turn a profit.

"I think I have a few ideas."

Potter's answering smile warmed him far more than the Firewhisky that already thrummed in his veins.

"How about tonight?"

The words were innocent, but something about the way Potter's lips looked as he said them, the way his eyes were bright with ambition, with justice, made Draco's knees weak. If only they meant something different.

"Just say the word."

Draco wasn't sure how the rest of the night passed; he was powerless to focus on it. Drinks were set in front of him, laughter surrounded him, conversations ebbed and flowed, but it was as if every second was transient, lacking connection with the seconds before and after. The only constant was Potter, and Draco was drowning in him.

Nothing had changed, but there was an undercurrent to every word, every action, that made Draco aware of the layers he'd never known existed. A sharp smile when Ron mentioned his childhood suddenly had new meaning. When Granger asked what everyone's plans were for the upcoming War Memorial Service and Potter fell silent, letting the wave of chatter from Weasley and Pansy take over, Draco thought he might be beginning to understand why.

Draco's mind returned to the night when Pansy had made her ridiculous bet. He remembered thinking how oddly sober Potter had seemed, even with all they had been drinking. He watched Potter closely now and realised that the drinks were disappearing far, far slower than he had ever realised. For every three drinks that the others consumed, Potter only had one, and he was constantly on alert. Draco catalogued the subtle twitches, the glances—the many ways that Potter responded to the constant stream of noise around them, all while never turning his attention away from their little group.

Draco stopped drinking. He felt sick with the realisation that he had never seen it, and then the sickness—the guilt—evaporated as the twisted burn of rage took its place. Perhaps he had never noticed, but Potter's friends should have. They should have understood it; how could it be that Draco Malfoy was the one to come along and attempt to pick up the pieces?

He nearly said something. Nearly tore into the two of them, sitting so innocently across the table from him, but he held back. If he hadn't, he would have ruined not only the friendships at the table, but the trust that he and Potter were slowly building—and that was too dear a price to pay, even for the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

Eventually, the sound of the bar began to die, vibrant chatter being replaced by sleepy conversation and wide yawns. Draco thought Potter must have forgotten about their plans, but then their eyes met and Potter lifted his eyebrows in question.

"Still up for a late-night planning session?"

Draco's tiredness disappeared, replaced by a burning need to get Potter alone, to hear his voice where there were no other distractions, to see all the many emotions he wore openly on his face when he stopped worrying about who was watching.

"Lead the way."

They bid goodnight to the others and Flooed back to Potter's apartment. At first, Draco thought they must have gone to the wrong place, it was so dark and cold. But when Potter turned on the lights, Draco recognised the faces in the picture frames that sat on the mantelpiece, and he knew they were home. The photos were the only decoration in the living room, and the furniture was sparse at best.

"Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"

"Tea, please."

"Milk, two sugars?"

Draco's eyebrows lifted and he couldn't help but smile. "Someone's being paying attention."

Potter grinned. "Don't think I ever really stopped, when it comes to you."

Something twisted and clenched in Draco's chest, but he shoved it far, far down.

Potter's kitchen was just as bare as his living room. Worn cupboards lined the walls, their white paint coated in a thin layer of dust—testimony to just how little Potter opened them. Nonetheless, the mugs he placed on the bench were clean, and his tea was the good kind, so Draco supposed the situation could be worse.

The thought thrummed through him, bitter and dark. Things could always be worse; it had no bearing on the intolerability of the present.

He settled himself on one side of the breakfast counter, palms wrapped around the warmth of his mug. Potter sat on the other side with a mug of steaming coffee in front of him.

"Before we get stuck into it," Draco said, "do we need to discuss anything about the bet?"

Potter lifted his eyebrows. "The bet? I don't think so. Unless you're not happy with the progress?" He took a sip from his mug. "I figured it was going great, and we just need to keep at it as planned."

Draco nodded slowly. "Just making sure you were still keen. It's been weeks; you might have become bored." He grinned, trying to take the edge off his words, making sure he didn't reveal just how much it meant to him that he maintain this closeness to Potter right now.

"Definitely not," Potter said, a bright smile stretching across his face. Then he cleared his throat, looking momentarily embarrassed. "I mean, I still want to get one over them all, you know?"

Draco bit down on a triumphant smile—Potter was still enjoying his company, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Of course."

Potter relaxed. "Right. Then, that's that, yeah?"

"Absolutely," Draco said smoothly.

Silence filtered around them as they sat comfortably together and drank.

"So, how do we do this?" Potter asked. "Do you want to hear what I need so that you can tell me how much it will cost? Or do you want to just list off the ways it won't work before we get started?"

His smile was soft with the faintest hint of self-deprecation. It made Draco's gut twist.

"Why are you so certain it won't work? We haven't even begun."

Potter lifted one shoulder in a shrug—an echo of the same moment earlier in the night. Except, now it was different, a little more exposed, a little less for show. Draco wondered where all the confidence he'd always associated with Potter had gone, because he knew now that it had.

"I mentioned something similar to Robards, once. Not the security spells, but I wanted to provide a detail for a family on their first journey to Hogwarts. Nothing too flash—just an Auror accompaniment to Platform 9 ¾. Their son had been threatened by pure-bloods in the neighborhood for years, and the mother was terrified of sending him off on his own." His eyes hardened. "Robards went on for a full thirty minutes about how it wasn't the Ministry's place to interfere with schoolyard bullying. He kept saying how it wasn't sending the right message and that it was a waste of funding. I tried to explain that it had nothing to do with the kids—it was about sending a message to the parents, so that they knew the Ministry wasn't turning a blind eye to old prejudices. But he didn't get it."

Potter fell quiet abruptly, and Draco didn't know what to say. There was a naivety to what Potter was planning but only in execution—the basis was strong, real. The fact that Robards hadn't bothered to parse through Potter's ignorance for procedure to understand what it might achieve was pathetic. Not that Draco was surprised.

But Potter had been beaten down on this for a long time—years. Draco needed to choose his words carefully.

"Defeating Lord Voldemort was never going to be enough." The words dragged out of him. They were thoughts he'd long mulled over, but never closely examined since, in many ways, they cut too close to home. "To affect real change, you need to dismantle the systems that allowed him to gain power."

Potter stared at him, and Draco couldn't help the bitter smile he returned.

"When you grow up beneath my father's thumb, Potter, you learn a thing or two about how to manipulate people. The question that remains is how you choose to equate that possibility with your own morality."

"Are you talking about manipulating the Ministry? Or society?" Potter was frowning.

Draco chuckled. "Potter, you are talking about manipulating society." He raised a hand against Potter's objections. "Manipulation is a dirty word, but it doesn't have to be. You're not lying. You're not deceiving. You are simply considering what you want the public to see and how that might affect how you want the public to act. You want them to understand the consequences of their prejudice—yes? That's why you wanted to accompany that family to the station. You want them to understand that the Ministry will not stand for the sorts of attitudes that led to the rise of a Dark Lord, and on a deeper level—a level you don't entirely understand yet because it's not a way of thinking you're familiar with—you want them to be faced with the direct impact of those prejudices.

"It isn't enough for you to rely on the law to influence people's behavior. You want them to understand what their prejudice does. You want them to see that there is a face to the half-blood child they so despise—a tear-stricken, terrified face that deserves none of the daily tragedies he must endure. You want to change people's way of thinking, and every time you think of a way to do it, your superiors tell you it's a waste of Ministry resources."

Potter gaped at Draco. Whatever protest he'd been going to make had disappeared, and his face was open instead with a fierce sort of hope that made Draco's breath catch in his throat.

"What do you suggest?" Potter finally asked, leaning forward on the counter as if he didn't want to miss a single thing Draco said, a single movement he made.

Draco smiled. "Do you have some parchment? I have a few ideas."

Their tea grew cold as they made plans, throwing ideas back and forth with increasing enthusiasm. It made Draco think of late nights spent in the Slytherin common room making plans and plotting ridiculous schemes with his friends. Except, none of his friends then had really given the task the same enthusiasm as Draco always did. They hadn't cared as much as Draco had, and it was only now, years later, that Draco was truly aware of it.

He studied the way Potter's face was lit with a fervor, the way Potter scanned the notes on the parchment intently, looking for connections and making plans. It was like watching the sun rise, spreading light and wonder as far as the eye can see. His breath caught in his throat and a painful ache started up deep in his chest. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Potter was in so much pain, and it wasn't fair that Draco had to watch in silence.

Potter must have felt him looking because he looked up at Draco and smiled for a moment before turning back to the parchment. It was a distracted, sleepy little smile that Draco had never seen on him before—real in a way that Draco rarely experienced with Potter.

Draco's heart stuttered in his chest. Maybe there was another path. Maybe what they were building had been real after all and they could turn it into something solid, something with the power to rescue Potter without destroying Draco in the process.

"What if we could make this work?" The words were out before he could take them back.

Potter looked up, eyes slightly unfocused as he struggled to put aside the work he was concentrating on. Then, they sharpened, and he sat up straight.

"Make what work?" He asked cautiously, removing any doubt in Draco's mind that he could backtrack and play this off as something else.

Potter knew exactly what he meant.

"We get along well," Draco said slowly. "I..." He didn't want to scare Potter away. It was imperative that he didn't scare Potter away, and Potter was looking well spooked. "I think you're fit, and it's clear we make a good team." He waved a hand at the parchment in front of them. "What if we tried this for real?"

His heart thumped in his chest, making him feel light-headed. He couldn't believe he was actually asking this, saying the words out loud.

After several seconds of tense silence, Potter relaxed. Somehow, Draco had said the right thing.

"I thought you were going to say you were in love with me," Potter said with a laugh.

There was something off about the way he said it, about the bitter twist of humor to the words, but Draco was too strung out on his own stupidity to work out what it was.

"Oh?" Draco breathed, going for light-hearted but coming out strangled to his own ears.

"Yeah." Potter laughed again, more relaxed this time. "Fucking barmy, right? You're the last person I'd ever expect to get infatuated with me. You scared the crap out of me for a second there."

Somewhere through the haze of anxiety, Draco acknowledged that Potter equated love with infatuation. He filed it away for later and forced himself to laugh.

"No, well." He took a sip from his cold tea for something to do. "It was just a thought. But I'm not your type, I take it?"

Potter's eyes widened, and Draco was momentarily gratified to see the moment Potter realised he should take this seriously.

"It's not that." He propped his elbows on the counter, green eyes fixed to Draco's. "I'm just not the dating type. I thought that was obvious. I tried it a bit... after Ginny. But I mean, you've seen my exes." He laughed. "It just doesn't work out. I don't think that kind of thing is meant for me."

The room felt colder than normal, but Draco engaged every ounce of self-control to make sure his sudden fear didn't show. He curved his lips into a smile, though he was sure it must look all wrong.

Potter's brows flickered into a half-frown, just for a second, but then understanding dawned on his face.

"Unless," he said slowly. "That's not quite what you meant?"

It took Draco a few seconds, but when he finally managed to recognise the heat in Potter's eyes for what it was, his blood ran cold.

He cleared his throat, trying to think how to turn Potter down without rejecting him. But even as the idea of going ahead chilled him, something inside began to sing, calling out to Potter, begging him to come closer because this was his chance. And he might not get another one.

"I..." he began, searching for the words to stop this before it began, and then trailed off, feeling every inch the fucking coward he was.

Potter raise his eyebrows in question, and it was like the very air of the room had changed. It was tinged with that same kind of visceral awareness that came right before a storm, like the earth was holding its breath. Draco carefully exhaled, knowing that the end was already inevitable. Even if he could return to the start and look for the signs, he wouldn't stop this.

His abdomen tightened with heat, delicious waves of desire spreading lazily through his body. His cock was already stirring at the thought of what he could do with Potter, of what Potter could do with him.

"We don't have to," Potter said, his voice several notes lower than normal. "If you don't like casual sex, just say the word and I'll go back to work."

Draco liked casual sex—loved it. But he wanted more.

The question was: did he want it enough to turn this down? Were his principles too high? Was his self-respect so strong that he would refuse a night of comfort in Potter's arms—willing, enthusiastic, pleasurable comfort?

Who was he fucking kidding.

"Don't go back to work." His voice cracked a little, desire shining through despite how desperately he tried not to lay his cards on the table.

Potter's eyes widened just a fraction, and then he set the quill down on the countertop. Draco's cock already pressed against the front of his jeans, though his mind still hadn't quite caught up to his body. His thoughts were racing, screaming at him that this was a bad idea, that he would regret it later. Not in the morning—god, no—not even weeks down the track, but months later when everything fell to absolute shit and he realised that the sex had just complicated an already messy, messy situation.

But that was it, wasn't it? There was no easy way out of this one. Draco was fucked no matter what he did, because Merlin he was falling hard. No matter what distance he kept between the two of them, he was going to end up with a broken heart, so why not give himself this? Why not give himself one night?

Potter was watching him, eyes dark and full of heat. His shirt was riding low, the fabric stretching over his chest and dipping below his collar. In the space between the shadow of his neck and his collarbone, Draco could see Potter's pulse thudding under his skin. He ached to press his tongue there, to taste the sweat that dipped into the hollow of Potter's throat.

He might not ever know Potter's love, but Draco could love him tonight. He could show him how it felt to be worshipped not for the pieces of a destiny you'd followed but for who you were.

He might not ever get this chance again, and it wouldn't hurt Potter to take it, it would only hurt Draco. Draco was used to pain. What was a little more if it came with this?

Draco hadn't even realised he was standing, walking around the table, until he came to a halt just before Potter's chair. Potter leaned back, legs spreading just a little further, and looked up to meet Draco's eyes.

It wasn't the fast, urgent prelude that Draco was used to when he took men home from the bar. The heat simmered below Draco's skin, begging for an outlet, but he refused to rush. He wanted to savor this, to capture every moment in his memory. Potter's eyes were heavy-lidded now, and it wasn't just with desire. They were both a little tired, a little lethargic in a way that made Draco ache with the need to push Potter down onto the bed and explore him with unhurried ease. He wanted to take Potter apart until Potter's eyes were closed and he'd sunk back into the mattress with the blissful headiness of sex that was poised on the edge of sleep.

"How do you like it?" Draco asked, unable to keep from reaching out and running a hand through Potter's hair, caressing the thick strands. "A little rough? Slow? Kinky? Or are you a vanilla sort of man?"

Potter's eyes closed and he hummed in pleasure. "I'm flexible." His voice was already rough with desire.

Draco couldn't help but notice the familiarity of their actions, and it hit him with an ache so hard he nearly gasped. He'd barely even touched Potter before, but it was so easy. So easy to reach out and caress him, so easy to ask what he wanted—to give him what he wanted. Draco closed his eyes against the pain of it and counted to three.

Even in the darkness, his fingers kept moving, caressing Potter's face, his jaw. When Draco opened his eyes, he was struck by the fierce longing he saw on Potter's face, the white-knuckled grip of Potter's hands against his jeans.

"How do you like it?" Potter repeated Draco's question back to him, gaze steady as he watched Draco's reaction.

"Intense," Draco breathed, though he wasn't entirely sure if he was answering the question or commenting on the green eyes currently holding him captive.

Potter grinned, lips slowly curving upwards. "Good choice."

Then he stood, arms coming to wrap around Draco's waist and draw him closer. There was a moment where they simply stood and watched each other. Draco's fingers had drawn down to cup Potter's jaw, and every place where they touched burned with heat. Draco bent down, closing the distance between them, and pressed their lips together. He wondered if Potter could feel the thudding of his heart between their mouths, if his pulse really was bursting through every millimeter of skin. It certainly felt like it.

He counted the seconds, waiting for Potter to draw away in alarm—for the weight of Draco's emotions to ruin everything—but it didn't happen. Instead, Potter groaned and melted into him, his lips parting and his tongue coaxing Draco deeper into the kiss. Draco made an embarrassing sound and then tried to cover it by changing the kiss into something urgent and messy.

But Potter didn't let him. He met the feverish desire of Draco's lips with slow, deep kisses, pulling Draco down into the slow, intoxicating swell of emotion he was trying to avoid. With a whimper, he stopped trying to escape it and just gave in. Slowly, Potter stepped him backward, leading him from the kitchen to the bedroom across the hall.

Normally, Draco was the kind of person who tore clothing off in seconds. He loved the sheer beauty of the naked body. Man, woman, anywhere along the gender scale—he loved to admire the unique differences of the human form. The valleys and peaks, the beauty of shadows on skin, of sheets pooling around limbs. He loved it all. But tonight, he was so consumed by touch that he couldn't begin to think of what he might see if he opened his eyes.

But he'd said he would worship Potter—all of him. So he stepped back and ran his eyes over Potter's figure, relishing the hitch of breath he received in return, the strange hint of shyness. He put aside his feelings for the night and focused on the man before him.

Potter's shirt had already ridden up, exposing the fine hairs that trailed down his belly and below his waistband. Draco peeled the shirt over Potter's head and threw it behind them where it landed in shadow by the bed. His jeans quickly followed, landing on the crumpled pile of fabric and leaving Draco with the breathtaking vision of Potter's skin bathed in moonlight.

Potter laughed at the expression on Draco's face and then reached for him, tugging his clothing away with eager hands and replacing it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. They fell back onto the bed, naked except for their socks which had been too far away to waste time reaching for. Draco's heart still hadn't slowed, and he could feel a flush rising on his chest. It was almost embarrassing; they'd barely even started. He tried to hide it by pushing Potter down and pinning his wrists to the bed, writhing against him.

Between the slickness of precum and the smoothness of their skin pressed together, Draco was becoming quickly incoherent as he thrust into the hollow of Potter's hip. He reached between them, leaving one of Potter's hands free, and took them both in hand. Potter twisted his hand back to grip the headboard and ground upward.

If they kept going like this, it was going to be over too quickly. Draco was more than up for multiple rounds, but he wanted to draw this out—to keep Potter on the edge as long as possible. He pushed backwards and let his hands fall to the top of Potter's knees, resting them there as he slid down and settled himself between Potter's thighs.

With his head tipped back, still grasping the headboard, Potter moaned. He was making a clear effort to stay still, to keep from thrusting his cock up to meet Draco's mouth; Draco smirked and wondered how long he'd remain still when he realised what Draco actually had planned.

He trailed his hands lower, running his fingers along the juncture of Potter's thighs and pushing gently until Potter was perfectly exposed. He felt the moment the atmosphere changed, the moment Potter realised what was happening. A faint whimper fell from his mouth and his legs opened wider still, knees falling back towards his chest and outwards while his ankles rested on the bed.

He hadn't been lying; he really was flexible.

Draco muttered a cleaning charm, taking a moment to enjoy the soft scent of mint that suddenly surrounded them, mixing with the heady aroma of Potter's sweat-slicked skin and their combined arousal. Then he lowered his mouth and traced a long line along Potter's crease with his tongue.

Potter bucked beneath him, surging forward to meet Draco's lips. Draco braced his hands against Potter's inner thigh and began to set a steady rhythm, laving the soft skin with his tongue again and again while Potter writhed beneath him. The sounds he was making had turned from rough and sensual to downright filthy—whines mixing with muffled curses as Potter turned his head and bit down on the pillow.

Draco grinned, speeding up a little and pressing deeper, firmer, until Potter gave up attempting to keep quiet and just gave over to the sensations Draco was giving him. Light traces around the hole made Potter squirm, pressing forward until he was practically fucking himself on Draco's tongue, while long, flat swipes made him fall back, loose, onto the sheets. His legs went slack, all the tension draining away, and his constant litany of swearing turned into something more languid—soft moans that vibrated through his whole body and made Draco's cock jump.

He drew back and added a finger, pressing inside and twisting gently until he landed on the place that made Potter's face twist into desperation, nonsensical pleas falling from his lips.

"Do you want another?" Draco probed gently with a second finger, and Potter nodded eagerly.

Draco dropped back down and mouthed gently at the tip of Potter's cock, tracing the head with his tongue and lips, coaxing Potter to thrust upward into his waiting heat. It was intoxicating. He was almost light-headed with disbelief, consumed by the force of his desire and the heady power he felt in bringing pleasure to someone he cared for. If he could, Draco would do this for hours just to see the expression of awe on Potter's face, just for the sweet reward of his pleas.

He could feel Potter getting closer, feel the soft twitches of his cock in Draco's mouth as it grew impossibly harder, seconds away from the edge. Draco drew his lips away, licking a final stripe up the length of it, and traded his thrusting fingers below for his tongue again. He gripped Potter's cock in his hand, circling it lightly and sliding his hand in a steady rhythm in time with his tongue.

Potter moaned, pressing forward into Draco's mouth, into the lips that caressed him, licking him over and over until he was begging for something more.

"Please," he moaned. "Harder."

Draco slid his lips up Potter's thigh and bit down, grinning against his skin. "Like it rough, do you? You should have said."

"I'm so close." His chest was flushed a beautiful red that rose high up on his cheeks, and his hands still gripped the headboard obediently, straining against the bars.

"Do you want my mouth on your cock?" Draco asked with a sly smile, pumping his hand slowly up and down Potter's length. "Or on your arse?"

Potter's eyes fluttered closed on a gasp, the whispered words lost in his uncontrollable pleasure.

Draco bit his thigh again. "I didn't catch that."

"Arse. Please. Please, Draco."

Draco groaned against Potter's skin and then dropped back down again. This time, he held nothing back, licking and pressing his tongue as deep as he could while Potter thrust up into his waiting fist. He felt Potter grip his hair in warning, and then his cock jumped, warm ropes of come sliding over Draco's fingers as Potter howled into the pillow.

Draco was only seconds away from coming, the softness of Potter's sheets having done wonders for the slow thrust of his hips into the mattress. He was intending to wait, to let Potter enjoy his orgasm, but a hand immediately gripped his and pulled him up higher, maneuvering him until he was sitting over Potter's face and his cock was sliding into the waiting heat of a mouth. He gasped, forehead falling against the wall with a soft thunk as Potter gripped his arse and guided him to start thrusting, fucking Potter's mouth in steady strokes.

Potter looked up at him, green eyes piercing and dark with lust, and Draco knew he was gone. He pressed his face into the wall and shut his eyes, gripping the headboard so tightly he could feel the blood draining away from his knuckles. It was barely enough distraction to keep his movements to a minimum, to keep from letting go and just fucking Potter's face, hard and rough, like he seemed to want it.

It was over in seconds. Never one to shoot down anyone's throat without warning, Draco tried to pull back, but strong, insistent fingers held him there. And when he spilled over the edge, cock pulsing in the wet heat of Potter's mouth, Potter moaned with pleasure.

Finally, they fell apart and Draco dropped down on the bed while Potter leaned over to grab a handful of tissues and spit into them.

"Fuck," Potter breathed when he lay back beside Draco, a cleaning charm fresh in both their mouths.

"Fuck," Draco agreed, soft and a little wistful.

Potter looked over at him, eyes and face already soft with sleep. "You don't have to go home, obviously. Just stay here. No sense in running out the door; we're friends."

Draco blinked at him. He hadn't even thought about afterwards. Hell, he'd barely even caught up to the present. But if he'd had to think about it, it wouldn't have even occurred to him that Potter might kick him out.

The words "we're friends" echoed around in his mind, and a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. He shoved it aside; he'd known what was getting into from the start.

"Of course," he said lightly.

"Do you mind which side you sleep on?" Potter asked with a yawn, already fluffing up the pillow. "I usually take this side, but it doesn't worry me."

"No..." Draco stared ahead, eyes unfocused. "No, it doesn't bother me."

There was no reply. When Draco looked over, Potter was already asleep.

*

They spent two weeks working on Potter's proposal to Robards. It wasn't enough to simply protect at-risk families, not if they wanted to achieve Potter's ultimate aim. By protecting them, they would be singling them out for special treatment. Draco didn't have to think particularly hard to know how well that knowledge would be received by pure-blood families who believed they were entitled to something more.

Eventually, Draco had not only managed to tweak a proposal that satisfied the Ministry's budget by partnering with the Potion Mastery apprenticeships and using their projects as to supply the program, but he'd managed to think of a way sell it, too.

"You want to what now?" Potter stared at him, green eyes wide and guileless.

There was a Slytherin in there somewhere; Draco just had to find it.

"Pure-bloods won't let the program through if they believe it's giving preferential treatment to Muggle-borns and half-bloods," Draco reminded him patiently.

"But it is."

He bit back a groan. "Which is precisely why it can't. Come on, Potter, think about it for half a second. While there may be a very valid need to single this group out, you can't say that there aren't also pure-blood families in need of extra protection, too. Just look at the Weasleys."

Potter pulled a face and nodded, conceding the point.

"By focusing on Muggle-borns and half-blood families, you're inadvertently subjecting pure-bloods to the same stereotyped bias that you're trying to avoid." He held up a hand to stop Potter's objections. "I know that statistics show these families to be at a far greater risk, and I know that you've used every appropriate method to ensure selection of entry to the program is based on merit rather than sweeping generalisations. But if you want to introduce a program based on a system of equity, you must base it on a system of equity. Otherwise your credibility is lost before you begin."

"And how do we do that?" Potter asked, his face twisted into a slightly mulish expression.

"A rigid application program," Draco said, sliding a piece of parchment across the table for Potter to assess.

Potter frowned at the parchment, eyes scanning the lines quickly. He read it through, then went back to the top and read it again.

"But this is just going to filter all the Muggle-borns and half-bloods through anyway," he said, tone now confused instead of angry. "Look at these questions." He slid the parchment back and pointed. "Have you or your family felt unsafe going out in public in the last six months? Do you feel unequipped in magic ability to protect yourself in the event of a magical attack? Most of those are just going to filter through the Muggle-borns and half-bloods that we're trying to reach. It's just a more long-winded way of doing it."

"Take a second, Potter. Take a really long second."

Potter blinked at him, then looked back at the paper. "Oh."

"I'm not trying to change your proposal," Draco said gently. "I'm trying to sell it. And, truthfully, it's better this way. Now, you'll catch the wizarding families who didn't meet your initial criteria but still need the help you're offering. Families with disabilities and illness. Trust me; they exist."

Draco had spent a long time re-evaluating his internal prejudices. Years. You didn't go through a process like that and come out the other side without noticing a thing or two about the societal cracks you'd been stepping over.

"The key is to make sure that the group you're trying to help don't suffer for the inclusion," he continued, "because you're right—those crime statistics need to be addressed. We just need to sell it right so that the marginalized group is given preferential treatment without unfair bias. Preference, not bias. Make sense?"

Potter looked at him like his head was spinning. Draco thought about taking pity on him, but pity wasn't Draco's style. He slid another piece of parchment across the table.

"To that end, we need to consider the pushback once pure-blood families read between the lines and see that they're unlikely to gain assistance from the program if they're magically capable of providing the security the program provides."

Potter's face twisted into a glare. "But they don't need the assistance."

"Come on, Potter, you're smarter than this," Draco snapped. "Since when does that make a difference? So, what we do is we market it so that pure-bloods do get something in return. It's a partnership program, just like the supplies. Pure-blood families volunteer to work with the at-risk families to apply the potion-based wards and tailor a plan to suit their needs. All the Ministry needs to do is come by and approve it at the end, which will ensure no corners were cut in the application of the security spells."

Understanding dawned on Potter's face. "So it's not a government handout—it's a charity partnership program."

"Precisely." Draco smiled. "It costs the Ministry the bare minimum to run, and pure-bloods can use it to increase their charity portfolio."

Potter wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Their charity portfolio?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, grow up. If you want to take down a system, you have to be prepared to work it from the inside."

He settled back in his chair as Potter eyed the proposal, studying all the details.

"It could change their views," he said slowly, eyes still on the parchment. "They'll have to work with half-bloods and Muggle-born families, and they'll have to do it right or the Ministry won't sign off on their work. They'll have to get to know them."

Now he was getting it.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, somehow nervous to hear the answer.

Potter's eyes lifted to his, flashing with something fierce—burning with it. Draco hadn't seen that look for years.

"It's brilliant."

The simple statement sent a tingle running through Draco's body, leaving him a little breathless. He forced his face to act normally and smiled.

It was late, the lamp-light casting long shadows on the kitchen table between the two of them. Draco tried to ignore the way Potter's posture had shifted, the way he seemed to hover on the edges of the darkness like it was something he was itching to sink into.

"What if it doesn't work?" Potter asked, his finger tracing an idle line around the lip of his glass of scotch. "What then?"

"Then we find a new plan."

Potter snorted derisively and glanced up at him. "There's always a new plan."

Even with the cloud that had settled over him, Potter's eyes were suddenly filled with heat. Draco shifted back a little more, unsettled at the way Potter seemed to be straddling a knife's edge tonight. On one side was the familiar darkness; on the other, there appeared to be heat—intoxicating sensation. Draco wasn't sure he wanted to follow Potter down either path.

"This has a decent chance of working," he said lightly. "We might not need a new plan."

"Maybe," Potter echoed.

Then he leaned forward on the table and propped his chin on his hand. Draco suddenly felt like he was staring down a predator.

"Are you staying tonight?" Potter asked, his eyes dark. "It's late."

A thrill of hot desire coursed through Draco's stomach. Merlin, he wanted to. But... something wasn't right. He didn't like how quickly Potter had shifted from elation to cynicism to desire.

"I have to go," Draco said, a little harsher than he meant to. "Are you coming to Blaise's party on Saturday?"

Something dark flashed in Potter's eyes at the rejection, but it passed quickly. "Of course. I'll see you there?"

Dread sank in Draco's stomach, but he didn't know what else to do—didn't know what other options he had. He really needed to talk to someone, to get the advice that Blaise had insisted he get. But every time he went to get in touch with an old therapist, something sharp and bitter would overcome him and he couldn't do it. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.

"Of course."

He let himself out the front door to Apparate. The last thing he saw before he closed it behind him was Potter turning out the light, plunging the apartment into darkness.

*

The sounds of guests laughing and music thudding through walls surrounded Draco until he found it hard to concentrate. The week had passed in a blur full of meetings and overtime to the point that Draco was genuinely glad to have an excuse to let off steam. The uncomfortable exchange with Potter the other day was already out of his mind, and he found himself eager to find him. The last party they'd spent together had been fun; he was looking forward to doing the same again.

The crowd parted and there he was—a solitary figure leaning against the side of a curtained alcove that led to a separate drawing room. Draco's whole body relaxed at the sight of him, his lips curving into a soft smile of their own volition. It was disgusting. He shook his head—still unable to get the smile off his face—and walked over.

"Still hiding in the corner?"

Potter regarded him, green eyes piercing in the low light. He'd watched Draco the entire time he'd walked over, barely moving at all except for his eyes which tracked Draco's slow progress through the crowd.

"The corner's where all the action happens," Potter said, his voice loaded with meaning.

A sharp jolt of desire shot through Draco's stomach. He willed it away.

"How did the proposal go?" He asked instead of responding.

Potter shifted against the wall, finally looking away from Draco and relaxing the intensity he seemed to embody with every breath. "Terrible."

The word fell like a stone between them. Draco winced.

"How so?"

"Robards didn't even read it properly. Just kept going on about the budget and how the Ministry can't be seen playing favourites."

"The man's a moron." Draco was surprised at the venom in his own voice. "Did you tell him you'd addressed all his issues?"

Potter stared out at the party, eyes strangely unseeing. His hands shifted by his sides, like he was itching to reach for something. Draco wondered how far Potter's wand was from his hands.

"Yeah," he said finally. "But the thing with Robards is, if he doesn't want to hear it, he doesn't. He's got too much on his mind to think about a new program. He'd rejected it before he even knew it existed."

"Then go higher."

"Can't get an appointment for two months."

Draco took a slow breath and let it out through his nose, strangely relieved and yet filled with a tension he couldn't place. "Two months isn't very long."

Potter tipped his head back to lean against the wall and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "I guess."

The noise of the party swelled, the distant laughter washing over them and making the silence of their little corner stand out with stark contrast. The smell of hot pastries being offered as entrées on floating trays overwhelmed Draco, making his stomach turn. This wasn't how it was meant to go.

"Seen any crazy exes?" Draco asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Potter snorted. "No, thank Merlin. Though I think I caught sight of one of yours." He raised an eyebrow at Draco.

A jolt of heat rushed through him. Potter almost looked like he was jealous. His jaw was set firm and his eyes were piercing as he stared at Draco, challenging him.

"Which one?" Draco asked.

"Nathan."

"Ah." Draco stepped a little further into the shadow of their corner.

Nathan had been wonderful, but they'd ended on bad terms. Nathan had insisted Draco was using him as a "fill-in" for what he couldn't have. Draco had called him a self-obsessing idiot, and that had been that.

Potter seemed to relax at the clear sign of dismissal. He shifted to face Draco more directly, a genuine smile beginning to appear on his face. Draco's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. Maybe tonight was salvageable. Maybe it wasn't going to fall apart.

An unfamiliar face appeared by Draco's side—bright eyes and lips stretched over white, white teeth into what was obviously meant to be a smile.

"Mr. Potter," the man said, extending his hand and beaming. "Miles Winter at your service. You contacted my department just the other day regarding the Potions Apprenticeships."

Potter straightened up and took the man's hand, smiling politely. "Of course. Good to meet you, Miles."

"May I just say, Mr. Potter, your proposal was outstanding. We're more than happy to partner up with the Aurors in pursuit of such a charitable cause."

The smile became real, just for a second. "You have Malfoy to thank for that, actually." He nodded to Draco. "He made it work."

Miles blinked in surprise, but covered it quickly by shaking Draco's hand. It was a distinctly clammy experience. "A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy."

Potter shook his head. "Don't get too excited. It's been knocked back at the first stage."

Miles' face fell. "Knocked back?"

"Robards won't approve it. We'll try again at a different level, but it's not looking good."

"But the proposal was excellent!"

"You're telling me." Potter's lips pressed together into a thin line.

Miles gaped at the two of them for a moment before shaking his head and speaking eagerly. "If there's anything at all I can do—put in a good word, add a recommendation, anything—just let me know. I'm Muggle-born myself. Would have loved the chance to be a part of the wizarding world before stepping foot on that train, you know? And, ah—" his eyes flicked to Draco and back, "the extra security wouldn't have gone amiss either. Just let me know! Both of you!"

After a painful few seconds of overly-genial goodbyes, Miles left them to it. When Draco turned back to Potter, the expression that met him was dark and brooding.

"Snap out of it," Draco muttered, his eyes searching Potter's for any sign that the man was fit to be in public. He didn't find it. "You're going to cause a scene."

"What kind of scene?" Potter leered at him, the anger melting away to leave heat in its place. "I mean, if you're offering. If I'm going to cause a scene, there might as well be something in it for me."

Draco wasn't offering, but his body betrayed him all the same, his cock already stirring with interest. He knew all the hidden alcoves of Blaise's house, knew exactly where to go to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed.

"You're using me to avoid your emotions," Draco protested quietly. "I rather think we should talk about it."

"Talk about what?" Potter asked, leaning into his space. "What I'm going to do to you the second you say yes?"

Draco shivered at the words, unable to fight it back in time so Potter wouldn't notice. To the untrained eye, it would appear they were simply having a conversation, pressed close together to be heard over the sound of the music. Bloody ironic, really, since that was exactly what Potter was avoiding.

"Come on, Potter," Draco breathed, his voice a little shaky. "You're all over the place tonight. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Potter reached forward and brushed a strand of Draco's hair back from his forehead. Draco had never felt more hopeless than he did in that moment where he had everything he so desperately wanted, and none of it in the right way.

"I think it's a fantastic idea." He was closer now, his breath ghosting across Draco's skin. "I think we could find a nice, quiet little corner, and I could show you exactly why I don't want to waste time using my mouth for talking."

"Fuck."

It was more of an exhalation than a word, and Potter's face lit up at the sound—smug and sure.

"What do you say, Malfoy? Want to get out of here?"

Draco did. He really, really did.

"There's a hidden balcony up the stairs and down the end of the corridor," he whispered, hating himself with every word he spoke. "I'll meet you there in two minutes."

Potter paused, a small frown marring his features. "Malfoy... Are you all right? We don't have to if you don't want to."

Draco studied him, taking in the concern on his face—the sudden softness to his eyes. He took in the lines on Potter's face, some of them from laughter but many of them from weariness. He noted the darkness beneath his eyes and recalled the way that had evaporated in the blissful afterglow of their single night together.

"I want to." The words came out several notes lower than his normal speaking voice, a thick rasp to his tone that would have embarrassed him if he wasn't so fucking turned on.

Potter's eyes darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I'll see you soon," he murmured then disappeared.

Draco took a moment to collect himself in Potter's absence, glancing around the room to see who was looking his way. Several eyes watched Potter as he left the room, but none of them seemed concerned with where the Chosen One was going. No one made a move to follow.

After an agonizing two minutes, Draco fled the room.

He barely made it through the glass doors before Potter had grabbed him and shoved him up against the side of the building. His hands roamed across Draco's body like it was new, like it was perfect. Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the brick. The cold of the night surrounded him, making Potter's warm hands feel feverishly hot against his skin.

When he felt Potter grow hesitant, pulling back with a question in his eyes, Draco gave himself over to the sensation. He reached for Potter's shoulders, gripping them almost like he was about to shake reason into him, and pulled him into a kiss so violently they nearly head-butted. Potter laughed against his mouth, surprise and pleasure and desire all wrapped up in one small, breathy sound.

Draco's lips parted on a moan, the sounds of the night fading around him as his focus narrowed to the warm, sweet taste of Potter on his lips. He must have accidentally shut the balcony door on the curtain, because the thin sheet of lace whipped around their knees, caught in the fierce wind that had sent most sensible party-goers inside seeking shelter. It flew up on a mighty gust and wrapped around them, shielding them in flower-embossed gauze.

Potter made a half-hearted attempt at batting it away, but they were too far gone to really care. The hard length of Potter's cock was pressed against Draco's thigh, his own quickly swelling in response. He tugged at the front of Potter's trousers, pulling at the buttons until they burst open and he could slide his hand down into the intoxicating warmth of Potter's boxers. It was an awkward angle, made more difficult by the way Potter immediately ground against him without giving him space to adjust.

Draco palmed him loosely, moaning into Potter's mouth as the slick slide of Potter's cock met his skin.

"I need to feel you," Potter rasped.

"What the fuck do you think we're doing," Draco snapped back.

Potter laughed—a genuine, throaty sound. "Not like this."

He pulled away and spun Draco around until he was pressed face-first against the wall. Draco's heart sped up, thumping madly in his chest as he pressed his forehead against the coolness of the brick and tried to focus on breathing. He propped his hands against the brick on either side of his chest and collapsed there, waiting.

"I need to feel you," Potter repeated, his voice lower than normal, soft with intensity.

Potter slid his hands beneath Draco's shirt, pulling it free from his trousers before drawing Draco's tailored jacket slowly back down his arms. Draco heard the sound of fabric being folded and slung over the rail of the balcony, and then Potter's hands returned to his skin, moving around to his front and undoing his trousers button by button.

Draco pressed into the wall and bit down a whimper. When Potter slid his trousers and boxers slowly over his arse and he felt the cool kiss of wind against his skin, he couldn't help but let out a gasp. Potter smiled against his shoulder, warm lips pressed into the hollow between his neck and collar.

"Is this good?" His fingers drifted lower, tracing a line down between Draco's thighs.

"Yes." Draco panted, struggling to maintain any dignity at all and failing magnificently.

"How about this?" A slickness appeared on Draco's skin everywhere Potter's fingers pressed.

Through the haze of lust, Draco could hear that something was off about Potter's voice. There was a darkness there, more than just the heady tide of desire. Potter was losing himself in this, giving over to the need, the want. But emotions are like a bottomless pool; once you've given over to one, the others will follow. There was a rage simmering below the thickness of desire in Potter's voice, an anger that Draco couldn't predict.

Draco shivered, equal parts fear and desire. What was he walking into? What had he already walked into?

Potter's fingers slid against him, firm between the cleft of his thighs. Every time they passed over him, they would press a little deeper until Potter was knuckle deep inside him and Draco was writhing against the cold wall. Any thoughts of trying to salvage their relationship into something verging on healthy disappeared; if it was healthy, he wouldn't have this.

"Are you sure—" Draco began, but he had to pause to regain his voice, make it sound like he wasn't falling apart at the seams. "Are you sure you want me like this? You could have me on my knees again."

The thought of taking Potter in his mouth made him weak, but at least he would feel as though he had some measure of control over the situation again. At least when it was Potter writhing like this, Draco could feel like he wasn't losing it.

Potter twisted his finger deeper, slid another one in alongside it. "I'm sure."

Draco gripped the wall and shut his eyes. The lace of the curtain fluttered around him, twisting around his fingers as he flexed against the brick, desperate for something to hold onto. He clenched it beneath his fist, turning his face slightly and opening his eyes. The world passed by through the hazy material—dark shadows in the night, twisted trees, and the pale shadow of Potter moving behind him, adjusting his trousers and bringing the hard weight of his cock to line up between Draco's thighs.

"Can I?" Potter asked, his voice breathless.

"Please."

Potter thrust inside. It was a slow slide to the base, but once he was in he quickly began to move, reckless and unsteady. The distant sound of laughter and voices drifted up over the balcony; the wind was easing and people were braving the elements once more. But up on the second floor, it was still just as wild as before. The doors of the balcony rattled in the breeze, the curtains pulled taught in Draco's fist.

He could still see Potter moving, a dark shape behind him, the two of them in shadow. Draco's cock was hard, so hard, and he didn't even care anymore about trying to keep it away from the rough slide of the brick wall. The pain was grounding, matched by the rough thrusts of Potter behind him. His arse was so full, Potter's cock dragging over the sweet spot inside him until he could hardly feel anything else.

They stopped trying to be quiet. Potter's moans had an edge of violence to them, though his hands on Draco's skin were gentle. Distantly, Draco could hear how his own voice sounded—weak, lost. The conversation below them stuttered into silence for a fraction of a second before the sound of incredulous laughter floated up around them; they'd been heard. Draco didn't care.

Where they stood on the balcony was shrouded in shadow, and Blaise's party was huge and full of Slytherins. No one in their right mind would think it was the two of them up here.

"Do you want me to slow down?" Potter asked, the words rough, whispered into Draco's ear.

Draco shook his head. "Faster."

Potter groaned and obliged, his hands gripping Draco's hips so hard he was sure to leave bruises. Draco dropped a hand down between the wall and his cock, gripping himself and sliding up and down in smooth strokes. He was close, and judging from the urgent sounds behind him, Potter was, too.

Potter dropped his head against Draco's back, soft whimpers falling from his mouth as he stuttered, rhythm failing him in the moment of ecstasy. Draco bit his lip, jerking himself off faster as Potter moaned against his shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses onto his neck and whimpering with each final, weak thrust. In seconds, he was coming too, covering the wall and part of the curtains in white.

They stayed there for long moments, their breath a visible white mist that mingled together. Draco turned his head, reaching for Potter's mouth with his own until they were kissing again, languid and slow.

When he drew back, Potter's face was caught in the light from inside. Draco's breath hitched—at first in pure surrender, but then he saw again the lines on Potter's face, the dark shadows beneath his eyes that were still visible, even in the afterglow.

"Are you all right?" he asked, the words dropping from his lips before he could rethink them.

"Never better," Potter murmured with a wicked grin, doing up his trousers and leaning back against the railing.

Anger rose in Draco's chest, banishing the lingering peace of his orgasm. "I'm not talking about the sex," he snapped. "Something is wrong."

Potter's expression shut down, his eyes turning instantly cold and distant. "I'm fine."

"And puffskeins fly. Stop closing off and fucking talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about!"

"Bullshit. If you won't talk to me, you should talk to a professional at least."

Potter froze, and a cold trickle of dread ran down Draco's spine. "A professional what?"

Draco swallowed and made sure to hold Potter's gaze. "A Mind Healer. There's nothing shameful about it."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "And why do I need to see a Mind Healer, exactly?"

Draco stared at him incredulously. "Because you need help."

Something shattered. Draco whipped his head around to see the glass all along the balcony doors was lined with cracks. When he turned back to Potter, Potter's fists were clenched with rage and his breathing unsteady.

Seconds ticked by slowly. Draco was unwilling to break the silence, not sure what he could say that wouldn't make it worse but not wanting to leave Potter alone like this. He didn't know why Potter remained silent, still. Didn't know why he didn't just leave or hurl some hex at Draco and turn this argument into something real.

Potter's chest heaved and his eyes had turned slightly glazed. After a moment, Draco realised he wasn't looking at Draco; his eyes were fixed at some distant point Draco couldn't see.

"Potter," he said softly, carefully. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I've seen plenty of them. They really do help."

He wasn't sure Potter was even hearing him—was even capable of hearing him. He kept speaking, saying useless words that meant nothing, everything. He wasn't even sure what he was saying, knew that he wouldn't be able to recall it once it was over.

Suddenly, Potter's gaze refocused and he looked at Draco properly. "I'm leaving," he said, the words flat and toneless.

His shoulders were rigid with tension. Draco thought he could hear the stones in the balcony floor creaking in protest, like some unknown force was shoving them apart.

Then, Potter was gone. The balcony was colder without him, the wind racing through Draco's hair with an icy touch. He retrieved his jacket from the handrail, where it had been folded with unexpected care. He hooked it over his arm and just stayed there for long, long moments, staring out into the night.

The noise of the party still surrounded him, the music thudding through the walls and from the garden below. He'd never felt more removed from his surroundings.

A footstep landed behind him, but it was too light to be Potter's.

"Draco?" Pansy's voice was hesitant.

"It's nice out here," Draco lied, clenching his knuckles against the frost of the wind.

"I suppose," she said after a pause. Then, "Your hair is ruined."

The footsteps came closer and then light fingers ran through his hair, adjusting it, smoothing it back into place.

"There. Good as new." There was a smile in her voice, but it was tinged with anxiety.

"Good as new," Draco echoed.

A face came into view—worried eyes and a fierce black bob. Pansy reached out and smoothed the lines of his cheek with her fingers.

"Come on," she said finally. "We're going back inside."

She didn't know what had happened; Draco could tell as much from her confused expression. She guessed, maybe. But for some reason, she didn't bring it up, didn't probe him for answers. He was grateful for the space.

Draco let her link arms with him and lead him back to the party, the sounds of the night fading behind him until it was nothing but a distant howl of wind whistling through shattered glass.