Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last chapter.
Chapter Six—What Draco WantsDraco had always preferred to use his wand to deal with troublemakers. The Muggle method was much less dignified, and you ran the risk of getting hurt, too. He had watched in confusion and irritation when some pure-blood wizards in school, even some in Slytherin, decided to roll around on the floor like dogs and punch each other.
But now he thought he understood why some of those wizards had chosen this method of payback, untraditional though it was: it felt so much more satisfying.
The crack as he punched Potter in the jaw echoed throughout the alley. Potter fell backwards, sprawling over Bellatrix's body for a moment. Several muffled, pained noises that Draco was not inclined to listen to burbled up from his mouth. Draco stalked closer, rubbing his stinging knuckles but more than ready to do that again.
"You fucker," he hissed. "Do you understand what you've cost me, in terms of time and worry and sheer fear, these past weeks?"
"Yes," Potter muttered. He sat up cradling his jaw, wincing with every movement, but he could still talk, and that was too much for Draco's peace of mind. "I had an excellent idea of what would happen to me, and to you, when I began this charade."
"Obviously not," Draco said coldly. "Or you would have realized that I have no intention of letting you emerge alive from this alley."
He had hoped the threat would scare Potter. And he certainly would have lashed out again if he had spotted a smile on the idiot's face. He didn't expect Potter to give him a long, keen look, and then to lay his wand down, next to the robes and mask he had worn when he pretended to be Prince, and spread his hands defenselessly.
Draco clenched his fists. He wanted more than anything else to kick Potter in the groin, or punch him again, or just fall on top of him and whale away with his fists until he heard bones cracking, but everything he had learned and internalized in the past few years told him not to attack a helpless enemy.
He didn't know how long he stood there, trembling from head to foot and wishing there was a harmless but painful curse that fit his mood. Then he turned abruptly away and said, "I reckon I should let you get on with transporting my aunt and Yaxley into the Ministry and taking credit for ending the Death Eaters. Again. It's not as though you need me there, is it?"
And he Apparated, hoping that the crack would startle Potter as much as the sound of Draco's fist slamming into his jaw had, and that it would prove enough satisfaction to have had the last word.
It didn't, of course. Irritation and curiosity corroded his resolve to have nothing more to do with Potter. He sat at home, staring into his Firewhiskey more than drinking it, and still wanted to know what the git had thought he was doing. He could have pretended to be Prince and worked out his brilliant plan on the remaining Death Eaters without irritating Draco. He didn't need to make efforts to involve Draco in the fights and captures at all.
He certainly hadn't needed to flirt with him like that.
No matter how he turned the facts around in his head, Draco couldn't get them to fit. Of course, if Potter was enough of a wanker, they didn't need to fit. He could have involved Draco just to taunt him with the thought of what he'd never have.
But those glimpses of unwonted emotion in Potter's eyes, in the Ministry and after they'd finished their duel in the abandoned house, meant that Draco couldn't think it was that simple. Maybe this was another game, to lure Draco into coming close again, but it seemed awfully complicated—and sophisticated—a game for Potter to play for a very small gain.
As much as Draco would have liked to believe otherwise, he knew he simply was not as important to Potter as Potter was to him. So he should have played one game, perhaps, with Draco, and then neglected to play others.
Draco wanted answers.
Tomorrow, he would get them if he had to Body-Bind Potter and keep him in one of the Ministry's unused storage rooms, sans food and water, until he talked.
He noticed a difference in the Ministry the moment he stepped into the Atrium. People glanced at him from the corners of their eyes and uttered small envious sounds. Then they mentioned his name loudly enough for him to hear, which wasn't that unusual, but in this case, the tones of the words seemed to be composed of awe and longing.
The same Ministry workers who had spat "Malfoy" as if the name were profanity for months now met his eyes and nodded, as though he had always been an honored colleague. More than one person insisted on stopping him to ask how his work was going. Draco answered politely—his mother had ensured he could answer questions like these no matter how confused he was—and felt his uneasiness grow as he took the lift up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Potter had said something, obviously. But what? Draco could hardly imagine that the anti-Potter feeling in the Ministry was so strong that he had gained everyone's admiration by punching the Savior in the jaw.
He stepped into the corridor that led towards his office, and froze. Minister Scrimgeour was waiting there, with an uncomfortable but resigned expression on his face, and behind him were at least several of the reporters who had accompanied him the other day when Potter and Draco returned from their capture of Rodolphus and Dolohov. They all focused their attention and their cameras on Draco. So did the selfsame Aurors who had sneered at him and glanced pointedly the other way only the day before.
As Draco stood there, astonished, they brought their hands together and began to applaud him. Vaguely, somewhere, Scrimgeour was talking about "Draco Malfoy, the Hero of the Hour," and various people came up to pump his hand and explain how brave he was and how they had always known he would make someone of himself at last.
Draco held his smile, letting it grow as he realized he wasn't about to be attacked, and listened. He quickly gathered that they credited him with the capture of Yaxley and saving Potter's life during his duel with Bellatrix.
Exactly the way it had happened. This time, Potter had told the truth, and still made Draco out to be a hero.
Draco was sure that some of the looks he received were feigned, given the determination endemic to the Ministry to curry favor with whoever was on top at the moment. But in others, in certain stiff nods and firm handshakes and the way that his colleagues met his gaze, he sensed that he had passed a test and finally dispelled the suspicions that had kept them wary of him since he entered the Auror program. He didn't have the sincere respect of everyone in the Ministry. But he had it from most of the people who mattered, and even Scrimgeour didn't snap at him or make barbed remarks over the necessity of acknowledging the courage of a Malfoy.
It was all very nice, and when Draco let himself believe in and enjoy it, it let sunlight into a corner of his soul that felt neglected, dusty, disused.
But none of that lessened his resolve to get Potter alone. He had to. He had to know the man's motives for painting Draco to look so good—which was, after all, the way he always should have looked—after Draco had hurt him, and when he'd spent so much time in the last few weeks making trouble for him.
Potter was in his office, alone. He chewed the end of a quill as he contemplated the parchment in front of him, which Draco sincerely hoped wasn't a report. Potter's scrawl decorated it in a maze of black lines that suggested other Aurors had gone blind trying to read his script before now.
He didn't bother knocking, but strode in and locked the door behind him with several charms that no one else in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was likely to know, unless they'd been friends with Lucius Malfoy three decades ago in Hogwarts. He turned back around and found Potter staring at him with absolute surprise on his features.
Draco licked his lips and tried not to admit to himself how very good it felt to surprise Potter this way.
"I want to know why," he said. "The whole story. All of it. And if you don't give it to me, I sincerely hope that you don't need to sit down for the next week." He aimed his wand at Potter and held it steady.
Potter considered him with the same weighty gaze he'd given Draco during that moment in the alcove. Then he nodded and set his quill aside. He didn't make any sudden movements as he locked his hands together behind his head and crossed his legs in front of him, and that alone made it easy for Draco to put up with him adopting such a casual attitude. This wasn't casual for Potter at all, no more than it was for Draco.
"All right," Potter said. "I've been looking for a way to get rid of the Death Eaters for a while. The spells around the manor house, the ones that prevented anyone who didn't bear a Dark Mark from entering, were the biggest obstacle at first. It took intense research before I was able to figure out that the ward was actually a variation on an anti-trespassing spell, one that allowed the caster to set conditions on who could come in and who was kept out. And then I had to read the memories of one of the captive Death Eaters to learn the exact wording that Voldemort had used. 'Only those marked by the Dark Lord may enter.'"
Draco snorted. "You don't have a Dark Mark, Potter. That doesn't explain—"
Apparently Potter wasn't entirely cowed, since he was still able to interrupt. "The wording didn't specify the Dark Mark. It just said that the Dark Lord had to have been the one to create the marking. And, well." He lifted a hand to his forehead, knocking back the fringe to display his scar.
Draco narrowed his eyes, reluctantly impressed. "So that was the reason you came in alone?"
Potter nodded. "One of them, yes. By that time, there was a more personal reason."
Draco folded his arms. "Tell me."
"You'd been watching out for the remaining Death Eaters for years," Potter said quietly. "I didn't want to simply arrest them and steal the victory from under you. It would have made it look as if you couldn't do your job. So I made sure, when the Death Eaters attacked me, that you were there and could play the part of a hero." He grimaced a little. "That didn't work out right the first time. I tried to play up the fact that you'd saved my life in the pub, knocking me to the floor to avoid a curse, but no one else paid much attention. I made sure they had no choice but to acknowledge your heroism in the last two attacks."
Draco shook his head, so many questions crowding to the front of his tongue that he truly wasn't sure which one would emerge first. Finally, he said, "And why did it matter to you what other people thought of me?"
Potter's eyes became piercing. Though Draco knew he was the one in the right and Potter was the one on trial, he still shivered. It was difficult to face those eyes in their brightness and clarity.
"Because I've been attracted to you for an awful long time," Potter said calmly. His voice didn't tremble the way Draco's have if he were required to bare his heart. "I can't remember a time since we started Auror training that I didn't admire your looks. And then it became admiration for your strength, for the way you did the right thing even when people kept despising you for your name. There couldn't have been a clearer indication that you'd finally learned blood isn't everything, and you couldn't be a good or a respected person just because of who your father was. It drove me mad to see everyone else ignoring you just when they should have been supporting and helping you." Potter's fists clenched. "And unfortunately, by that time, I'd crafted my surface persona so well that no one believed me when I tried to support you."
Draco gave his head a little shake. "Explain that one, please." And then he was annoyed with himself, because he hadn't meant to add the "please."
It brightened Potter's eyes, though. He even gave Draco a small smile. Draco bit his lips so he wouldn't smile back.
"I've been acting for years," said Potter, with a slight shrug. "I learned the basics during the war, when I had to maintain my cheerful and confident exterior no matter how afraid I was of facing Voldemort. It was for the sake of other people. And when I tried to act like myself after the war, I found that no one wanted to listen. They wanted the hero. They wanted someone who reacted to his success the way they thought they would have reacted. So that was what I gave them."
"The playboy?"
"The result of rumor, strategic appearances at certain times, and a goodly number of friends." Potter sighed. "I could have acted like myself in spite of public disapproval, I reckon, but then I wouldn't have got nearly as much done. They listen to me this way. They're sure they're manipulating me, because a certain good-natured stupidity is part of the persona. So everyone accepts it when I do something that's slightly unorthodox or uncomfortable, because I present it in an orthodox manner." He glanced at Draco, and again a small smile quirked his lips. "So they accept you as a hero. They never would have if I'd shown that I wouldn't be their tool, and then tried to support your claim to respect."
Draco folded his arms. "And it never once occurred to you to drop the act and approach me like a normal person? Or accept my help in defeating the Death Eaters, instead of using Prince as a front?"
"As for the second question," Potter said, "I know I'm a good actor. I wasn't certain about you. You wore honesty on your face far too often that first evening I was present, didn't you know? The others didn't notice only because they really are stupid. I could have spoken to you, but that would probably have prejudiced your reactions. And that could have been deadly, at least until Dolohov and Bellatrix were under control."
"You trusted me to risk my life, but not yours?"
"Yes." Potter's gaze was placid, as if he had no idea why Draco might find that insulting.
And really, Draco reckoned, it wasn't as big a deal as it could have been. He would have done something similar if he had been in control of the situation. Certainly, Potter's public persona didn't make him seem trustworthy, and if Potter had admired his honesty and his conscience…
Yes, he might not have seemed like someone capable of playing adoring Death Eater and fellow conspirator, even for the few weeks it would have been necessary.
"That still leaves unanswered the question of why you never approached me before this," he said. "And why you flirted with me at all. If you wanted to make me look like a hero, you could have done it without that."
Potter's smile turned wistful. "There, I admit, I was purely selfish," he said. "I knew it was the only chance I'd have to kiss you or to touch you at all. I wanted that—more than is comfortable to admit, anyway." For the first time, a flush slid across his cheeks. "And a few years ago, I did try to approach you and drop the act as much as possible so that you could see I honestly wanted you. It didn't work."
"You didn't!" Draco said, startled. "I would have remembered that."
"You didn't even notice." Potter gave him a fond look. "You were too focused on your work. And so I gave up and contented myself with watching from a distance. Then I realized I had a way to destroy the last Death Eaters, give you the respect you wanted, and get a chance to touch you at the same time. It wouldn't be for long or be nearly enough. But there it was. And I'm not a saint, Draco, even if I'm a considerably better person than I was a few years ago. I couldn't resist the temptation. I told myself that, even though I was making you embarrassed and uncomfortable, it would be worthwhile because in the end I'd get you what you most desired."
Draco closed his eyes. He had not known what he expected from Potter's confession, but it not been that. He had never heard of a scheme so Gryffindor and so Slytherin at the same time. He had never realized that someone like Potter might pine after him.
And to hear that he had resigned himself to not having Draco…
"You could have tried flirting openly again," he said, staring at Potter. "I might have listened. You don't know I wouldn't have."
"Why would you?" Potter stared at him with honest surprise in his expression. "You hate me. I've accepted that. It's something I'm sorry for, but it's not something I can change. And after the stunts I pulled in the last few weeks, I know that you only have more reason to hate me." He flipped his hand off his brow, giving Draco a small salute. "I've made the best impact on your life I can, and I hope you'll consider the negative ones that came along with it a fair price to pay." He turned back to the report in front of him.
Draco shook his head. "You're an idiot, Potter," he whispered.
One corner of Potter's mouth twisted up, though he kept his eyes on the parchment. He had already dipped his quill in the ink again and begun to write. "I know that," he said. "A smarter man would have figured out a way to approach you years ago. But I've laid out the truth, Draco. I swear that that was it, it should explain everything, and that I'm not holding anything back. Go away now, please?"
Draco crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized Potter's shoulder. The green eyes that looked up at him were hard, hiding the vulnerability that had shown in them a minute before.
"I let you punch me yesterday," Potter said lowly, "because I knew I deserved it. But healing that cost me enough problems. If I let you punch me again, I stand a good chance of making other people wonder, and—"
Draco kissed him.
He took good care to make it a kiss as hard as the punch, to show that he hadn't forgiven Potter so much as accepted that his motives were utterly different from what Draco had assumed they were. The man was still an idiot for not approaching him openly from the beginning, and making more of an effort to gain Draco's attention. He was an idiot for deciding that he should act like a fool instead of like himself, no matter what it won for other people. He was—
He was a bloody good kisser, now that he seemed to have decided some significant time period had passed and he could return Draco's snog with interest instead of sitting passively under his tongue and teeth.
Potter surged to his feet, his hands making their way to Draco's shoulders. Draco gripped back, keeping up the intense pressure, the demand for an honest response. And Potter gave that to him, with a tongue that scraped places in Draco's mouth he hadn't known existed, and little moans and sighs that sounded delicious. He was gasping by the time the kiss ended. His mouth was wet and swollen, and his eyes looked dazed.
"You're giving me a second chance," he whispered.
Draco nodded, taking one of Potter's hands between his own.
"Why?"
"Because I want to," Draco said fiercely. "And I'm tired of denying myself things I want. Do you know how many times in the past few years I've wished you were different, that you didn't act like the world worshipped you? I wanted to share conversations about spell modification with you. I wanted to be someone you trusted and talked to, because I assumed that your friends knew the better you. I wasn't wrong about that, was I?"
Potter shook his head with a frown. "But I still can't give you everything you want, Draco. I can't give you public acknowledgment or—"
"Yes, you can," Draco said, and his tone made Potter shut up and listen to him. "Because that's part of the second chance. You'll show the world what you really are. The intelligent, determined, focused Auror. The amount of energy you put into playacting should go into solving crimes and persuading allies instead. And you don't seem to enjoy the pretense anymore."
Potter ran his free hand through his hair. "I don't. But—"
"You'll be what you are openly," Draco said. "The Savior of the Wizarding World. The Auror." He brought Potter's knuckles to his lips, watching him intently. "My boyfriend. That's what you give me, or I walk."
Potter's eyes blazed. "There was never a choice," he said, his voice fragile with hope. "Draco, I—I never asked for this because I thought I wouldn't get it. And there's no point in reaching for the utterly impossible. But if you're willing to give me a chance to earn it, then there's nothing I wouldn't do to show you I want this."
Draco let his triumphant smile work its way across his face. "Then, Harry Potter," he said, and kissed his cheek, "shall we go show the new you to the rest of the Ministry? I'll enjoy the expressions of shock on their faces."
"It could lessen the respect you've won," Harry warned. He was holding back still, hovering, darting little glances at Draco as if he expected Draco to announce this was a joke any minute.
"In the places where that respect is real, it won't," Draco said. "And I want this more."
An expression of incredible tenderness overcame Harry's face. He reached out, took Draco's jaw in his hand, and kissed him again. This time it was only a chaste brushing of lips, but it set Draco on fire anyway, made him want to dance and sing and shout.
"Let's, then," Harry said. "And you can go back to being the only Slytherin around here. You'll probably do it better, anyway."
"I don't know," Draco said. "I might just have learned the virtue of simplicity."
Harry grinned at him and firmed the clasp of his hand. They crossed to the door of Harry's office side-by-side.
For the first time in more years than he could remember, Draco was gleefully anticipating what would happen next—both in the corridors of the Ministry and when he got Harry home. It was a vast improvement on the gray boredom and sharp worry and cynical amusement he'd drifted through so many of his days in.
When I grew a conscience, I forgot to have fun.
It's a good thing I'll soon have a lover who's experienced in both.
Finite.