Hello all! This fic was written for the 2017 H/D Career Fair on Livejournal. A huge thank you to the lovely mods for hosting another delicious fest for us this year! GO MODS, GO MODS, GO MODS! Thank you to my two most lovely betas, tdcat & Raven. Their help and suggestions were great. Any remaining errors are all my fault. Also, thank you to CL for her suggestions. And, of course, thank you to my wonderful prompter.

Settle down with a nice glass of rosé and enjoy!

Disclaimer - All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.

oOo

Vintage

oOo

The early morning sun broke over the horizon, casting everything with the perfect golden light that was the reason Draco had hauled his arse out of bed at far-too-early o'clock. The air was crisp and cool, and he rubbed his hands together before getting down to work. He wanted to get this assignment finished and get the hell out of there. Lowering his eyes to the viewfinder, he swore under his breath. Of all the vineyards in France, his blasted editor would send him to this one.

Château Pointu. Draco rolled his eyes at the pun.

Early morning sunlight shone through leaves, making them translucent and creating contrast to the dark, powdery blue of the grapes; a select few hit by the sun's rays transformed into a deep glowing pink like the rosé wine they would become. Perfect. He adjusted the focus.

Taking advantage of a rare moment free from the eyes of Muggles, a cup of tea hovered beside him, and he reached for it. Were this anywhere else in the world, it would be just the sort of place that would appeal to him to photograph. He moved on to a different spot and changed cameras. The ideas he'd had for the best shots were spot on. The golden light played up the greens and powdery blue-purples just right. At best, though, maybe one of these photos would make it into print as a small five by five centimetre inset. And that would be only if he were very lucky. His thrice cursed editor would want something flashier, something eye catching. Something commercial. His editor had all the artistic sense of a troll.

Draco stepped away from the camera and let his eyes roam over the landscape. Maybe something highlighting the château would have the best chance . . . He looked around the vineyard stretching out in all directions, and a memory washed over him.

"I'm going to France."

He lowered his eyes to the ground as he was once again taken back to that time just after the end of the war. Lying stretched out and sated across his bed, the words had been like a bucket of cold water dumped on him

"You're what?"

"Going to France."

He'd rolled onto his stomach and looked at the man lying so near by yet also so far from him.

"Why?"

"The Delacours, Fleur's family. They've offered me a place over there. They own a vineyard down south. I'm going to work for them for a while. Help harvest the grapes."

"You're going to France to pick grapes?"

"Er, yeah."

Draco hadn't answered. There had been things he'd wanted to say, but more things he hadn't.

"I just, you know, I thought you should know."

"Do you know any French?"

"Not a word. But Professor Flitwick's taught me a translation charm. And I'm studying up, too."

Draco had sat up and swung his feet over the side of his bed. He'd known all along he hadn't been living in reality, that what had so unexpectedly sprung up between them had been nothing more than a fragile bubble that could've popped at any moment. And that moment had come. The man sharing his bed had never intended to share anything more of his than the bed.

A bare foot had stretched out and nudged him.

"What do you plan to do?"

What had he planned to do? He'd had no idea. His father, dead—his health ruined first by Azkaban, then by that year from hell during the war. His mother, failing—sinking further into depression by the day. He hadn't been able to think beyond how he was going to coax her out of her room the next day—and what he was going to do if he couldn't.

Draco snapped back to reality and got back to work. Time was limited, and he was wasting it.

. . .

. . .

"How'd it go?" Julian asked, looking up from his laptop, his breakfast plate pushed off to the side as he worked on a draft of his article.

Draco nodded as he sat down and helped himself to a slice of baguette, still warm from the oven. All in all, it had gone as well as he could've hoped. He'd got plenty of good pictures, and he'd got out without running into anyone he'd not wanted to run into. That over, he could breathe easy and focus on the rest of the job.

"Gordes first," Julian said.

Draco nodded, familiar with his colleague's ways. Julian was the sort to make a plan then go over it twenty times. Spontaneity was for those who traveled for fun, not for those for whom travel was their job, and they had a long day ahead of them.

"Roussillon," Julian went on to say, recapping their schedule for the day, "and the Ochre Trail. Avignon." As Julian recapped the schedule he'd already recapped twice after they'd arrived the night before, Draco let his voice fade to the background, a comfortable and familiar backdrop after the seven years they'd worked together.

Seven years. Hogwarts.

Potter.

Draco's thoughts drifted back to places he normally never let them dwell.

"I'm going to France," Potter had said out of the blue as they'd lay in his bed. "I need to get away, you know? It's physical work, even with magic. I need to do something. I don't want to be an Auror. I don't know what I do want to do. But if I know if don't do something, I'm going to go mad."

Well, Potter'd found his something, it seemed.

"What do you plan to do?" Potter'd asked him, his foot pressing against Draco's hip.

". . . a personal tour of the vineyard," Julian said, pulling Draco abruptly from his memories.

"What did you say?" he asked, suddenly sitting up straighter, a cold dread gripping him. Château Pointu was the only vineyard on their schedule, and no one had said anything about a tour.

Julian explained that the owner of the vineyard Draco'd just photographed had agreed to allow them a private tour that evening with one of his employees. "Their man's British," he said, sounding relieved at not having to work around accents or language difficulties.

Lead settled in the pit of his stomach. Draco's eyes drifted away, and he sank back in his seat. "Their man's British." Of course he was. "But, you won't be needing me?" he asked hopefully, although he already knew the answer.

Julian's eyebrows drew together, and Draco knew there were questions on the tip of his tongue. "Of course I need you," he said, letting those questions go unasked for now and sticking to business.

"You're going to pick grapes?"

"Er, yeah."

"A behind-the-scenes tour of a French winery? You kidding?" Julian asked. "The readers will eat it up. And I'd have thought you'd like it yourself. You've got a wine cellar—like, seriously, a real wine cellar, in an actual cellar." He laughed. "What's the matter? You got some French bloke waiting?"

Draco tried to laugh, but it was a feeble attempt that made Julian's eyebrows draw together once again.

Not wanting to face the questions he knew his friend was about to ask, Draco jumped to his feet, almost knocking his chair over. "I need to get this morning's shots uploaded," he said before darting off.

. . .

. . .

Harry walked amongst the vines alongside Henri-Phillipe Delacour, the older man inspecting bunches of grapes every few yards and nodding his head in approval.

"Très bien," he observed.

"Oui, Monsieur," Harry agreed. After a few good seasons, last year's harvest had been disappointing, but this year promised to be the best vintage he'd seen.

Henri-Phillipe looked at him and smiled, nodding in approval of Harry as much as of the grapes. Since they'd opened their home to him as an escape from the near hysteria that had descended on him after the war, the Delacours had become as much like family to Harry as the Weasleys had. When he'd quietly left England seven years ago, he'd never intended it to be permanent. He'd never expected to fall in love with the vineyard, but he had. It had become home.

As they walked, Henri-Phillipe dictated notes, a quill and parchment hovering in the air alongside him, recording his words. He took a bunch in his hand and studied it. He tested a grape, plucking it and rolling it between his fingers. He crushed it, checking the colour of the meat of the berry and the seeds before tasting it. "Bon," he said. Harry watched and learned. "Nice. Sweet. Good skins," he said. "Still slightly acidic. Soon."

They continued their rounds, and Henri-Phillipe discussed preparations for the upcoming harvest. Scores of temporary workers would be needed to bring in the grapes, the very job that had brought Harry to the vineyard originally. It was hard, sweaty work. Long days that started in the pre-dawn hours. Magic eased the process, but since the vineyard was open to Muggles, appearances needed to be kept up and, therefore, spells and charms could only be used discreetly.

Henri-Phillipe inspected the canopy of vines, the wood and the leaves.

"This tour this evening, it will be good publicity," he said.

Harry agreed. The vineyard was neither as old nor as large as some of their competitors, but they'd produced some award-winning wines. He hadn't liked some stranger traipsing around unescorted, but the vines were warded against careless Muggles, and as Henri-Phillipe had said, being included in a major travel magazine's spread on Provence could bring them welcome publicity.

"Am I giving them the standard tour," Harry asked, "or did you want something in particular?"

. . .

. . .

Harry Potter.

In the car after their last appointment before the winery, Draco dropped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

So much had changed since the last time he had seen Harry. He'd built himself a life he was comfortable in. He was building himself a career as a photographer, and if he didn't get to focus exclusively on subjects that spoke to him as often as he might like, that was okay because he thrived on the times he did. And his friends, he'd made friends. Real friends, whose friendship he valued. Julian chief among them. Julian was the best friend he'd ever had, and his little girl had wrapped Draco around her pinky finger.

But the prospect of seeing Harry again. . . .

There were days Draco could hardly make himself believe those few weeks had actually happened. And there were other days when, before he opened his eyes, he swore he could still feel the other man lying in bed next to him. Days when if he stayed still enough, silent enough, concentrated enough, he swore could still hear him breathe. Those short few weeks had been years ago, and Draco'd had a good number of other men in his bed since then, but none of them had left a part of themselves behind like Potter had.

"Malfoy?"

In the years since the war, Draco'd built his life largely in the Muggle world. He rarely ventured into Diagon Alley, but there were times it could not be avoided. Those times when he had no choice, he kept his back straight and his hood up. Passersby glared, but did no worse. No one greeted him. No one stopped him to talk.

Until Granger.

Draco opened his eyes and stared at the back of the sun visor.

The last time he'd seen him, Potter'd been climbing out of his bed and already pulling his clothes on. Now, when Draco saw him again in just a short while, he'd be wearing a wedding ring.

"He's seeing someone," Granger had said in an oddly tentative voice after he'd got up the nerve to ask after Potter that day in Diagon Alley. "He's bought a ring."

Odd, really, that she'd told him. Merlin knew, other than to say he was alive and well, anyone known to be close to Potter had remained steadfastly tight-lipped regarding the Chosen One, no matter how relentlessly they were hounded. Why then, had Granger told him as much as she had? Draco'd never asked himself that question before.

"You're quiet today," Julian said.

"Just thinking."

. . .

. . .

Château Pointu

For the first time in his life, Draco wished he had one of those Skiving Snackboxes from Weasleys'. A bite of Fever Fudge, or whatever it was they had in those boxes these days, and he could plead unwell and escape back to their hotel.

Resigned, Draco shut the car door. He gazed up at the building that, prior to that day, he'd known only from the photograph on their labels. He'd never anticipated seeing the place in person at all, and now he was seeing it for the second time in one day and from much closer than before.

"Nice," Julian said approvingly. "Small, mediaeval castle—or looks like one at least, and for ninety-nine out of a hundred readers, that's good enough—complete with obligatory turrets with tall, pointed roofs, surrounded by a lush green vineyard. Very romantic."

Draco agreed. It was. As he himself had, Harry had built a post-war life for himself, and this was where he'd done it. Draco could see the attraction. The château, the vineyard stretching out around it. It really was an idyllic setting, like a dream to someone who'd known so many nightmares.

Julian grinned at him, and Draco could almost hear his friend mentally rubbing his hands together. "The readership will devour it."

"Right," Draco said in resignation.

"What's wrong?" Julian asked. "You've been out of sorts all day."

Ignoring the question, Draco retrieved his equipment from the boot. Two camera bags slung over his shoulder and carrying his tripod, he continued to ignore the looks he knew Julian was giving him.

"You know their wine?" Julian asked. "Oh, hell, it's not rubbish, is it? Tell me it's not rubbish. If we recommend a rubbish winery—"

"It's not rubbish," Draco snapped back in exasperation and more defensively than he cared to admit, something which Julian picked up on. Château Pointu made a very fine wine. Much as Draco hated to admit it, he was more than a little familiar with their product. The château standing in the distance was one that had graced his table frequently—or its photograph had, adorning the label of all their wines. "They make a nice white, which is very unusual for the region. Only a small percentage of Provence vintners produce whites."

"Provence whats?"

"Never mind."

"Whatever," Julian said with a laugh. "Give me a nice pint. Let's get this over with, and we'll go and get us a couple."

Draco set his tripod up and bent over his camera, adjusting his shutter speed for the light conditions. He'd got enough shots that morning, but the light was hitting the building totally differently now.

Besides, Potter would be out any minute to meet them, and Draco preferred to be busy when he did. It wasn't normal, being this out of sorts at the prospect of seeing a former lover again after so many years had passed, was it? He'd had other lovers. The idea of running into any of them again didn't stir a heartbeat. But Potter. . . .

Draco made himself focus on his work. The sun would be setting in under an hour, so for the second time that day, he was in the vineyard during the magical golden hour. The setting sun lit up the castle like a dream, the turrets created good contrasting shadows, narrow rectangular windows, dark and secretive, mysterious, provided more contrast—

Bloody hell, Draco swore in his head. Except for the one on the far side of the upper floor that some damned fool had gone and blocked with something large and brown. Likely, it was the backside of a wardrobe or some such thing. Whatever it was, in the direct sun, it stuck out like a sore thumb. He'd have to edit that window black like the rest.

Draco panned the camera left then right, changing up the composition. He adjusted the zoom, focusing in more on the château itself or panning out to include varying degrees of the surrounding vineyard. It was when he was zoomed in rather closely on the château, that he saw a door open through his lens. A second later, Potter appeared. White, tailored button down shirt, black trousers, running his hand through his hair . . . Draco's breath caught in his chest, and his finger still on the button, he snapped the shot as he straightened up. He dropped his eyes to the ground and swallowed. Taking a breath, he looked up.

"I'm going to France."

"You're what?"

"Ah, good. Here comes their man now," Julian said. "Let's get this day over with."

Draco wasn't ready for this. He was not ready to face Potter. Heart thundering, he snatched up his equipment and hurried back to the car, hiding behind the open boot.

He's seeing someone. He's bought a ring.

He should not be this worked up at seeing the other man again. It had been seven years, and there had never been anything between them but sex.

That's not true, a voice said in the back of his head. They'd talked, too. Granted, only in bed, and only in the dark, not looking each other in the face. But, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to foot, they'd talked, some nights until the sun came up.

The gravel crunched under under foot as Potter walked toward them. Draco closed his eyes.

He listened as Harry introduced himself and talked with Julian, telling him what he planned to show them, asked if there was something specific they wanted. Draco drank in the sound of his voice, even as he considered Apparating away right then and there.

"I really appreciate your fitting us in on such short notice like this," Julian said. "I know these aren't your usual hours."

"Not a problem," Harry said. "We're glad for the publicity."

"You been here long?" Julian asked, making small talk as he waited for Draco to join them.

Seven years, Draco answered in his head as Harry answered out loud.

"Weather's rather better," Harry said with a comfortable laugh.

"Well, we don't want to keep you, so if my photographer's ready, we can get started. Draco, you about ready?"

"Draco?"

. . .

. . .

There were moments in his life that would be preserved in Harry's mind for as long as he lived—and the moment that boot lid closed revealing Draco Malfoy standing there looking back at him would be one of them. He felt like he could've been knocked over with a feather. Speechless with surprise, he could only gape at the man standing there. The shock of seeing him again was like taking a Bludger to the chest.

From seven years without a single word, to standing a only a few short yards apart without warning.

"Potter," Draco said with a slight dip of his head.

Silence stretched out, until a voice asked, "So, er, you two know each, then?"

Harry'd forgotten the other man was there. Still gaping helplessly at the sudden arrival of Draco Malfoy at Château Pointu, Harry's eyes snapped to the man and followed him as he moved to stand next to Draco. He watched as the man put a hand on Draco's shoulder and slid it around to the back of his neck possessively. The simple gesture knocked Harry back a step—or felt like it had, at least. Draco must've been surprised by the open display, too, if the way his eyes had popped open wide was any indication.

"I—You're—I didn't know you were in France," Harry said, stammering stupidly. Not for the first time, that last conversation replayed in his head.

"I'm going to France," Harry had said.

"You're what?"

"Going to France."

"Why?"

At Draco's incredulous tone, the shadow of a hope he'd harboured had withered and died inside him.

"The Delacours, Fleur's family. They've offered me a place over there. They own a vineyard down south. I'm going to work for them for a while. Help harvest the grapes."

"You're going to France to pick grapes?"

"Er, yeah."

Draco had said nothing, and Harry was glad he hadn't said more than he had.

"I just, you know, I thought you should know," Harry'd said.

Draco had sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Harry'd known that what had so unexpectedly sprung up between them after the Death Eater trials wasn't rooted in reality. He'd known it would've collapsed at the slightest gust of wind. It'd had no foundation under it.

But he'd thought maybe they could try to build one.

One last ditch sliver of hope, with Draco's back turned to him, Harry'd stretched his foot out out and nudged him.

"What do you plan to do?"

Now, seven years later, Draco had come to France—not just to France, but to the very village, the very winery where he'd known Harry would be . . . and he'd said nothing. It felt to Harry like the last question he'd asked the other wizard all those years ago had been answered with silence and a turned back for a second time.

. . .

. . .

"Right then, shall we start?" Harry asked, turning and walking toward the vineyard after recovering from the apparent shock of seeing him again—just how much of a shock it was had been perfectly clear in his face, and it left Draco feeling a twinge of guilt.

Then there had been Julian with that shoulder, neck rub thing. Where the hell had that come from? The man was as straight as they come.

With his mobile out, Julian followed Harry. "Mind if I record you?" he asked, the mobile already recording the audio.

Visibly disconcerted by the request, Harry's eyes sought out Draco's, and without the need for words, he understood.

"It's just notes for the article," he said. "No one else will ever hear it."

"Er, okay," Harry said.

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Julian cast him a questioning glance. He responded with a minute shake of his head. It was as obvious as the horn on a unicorn that Harry was still not comfortable with the idea of being recorded, and it touched Draco that regardless of his misgivings, he had taken his assurance so immediately.

"So, you just want the highlights, then?" Harry asked in an unsteady voice Draco'd only ever heard from him in the dark of night.

"That should be good enough. You produce white wine, I understand?" Julian responded indifferently, getting back to business. "That's pretty unusual for Provence, isn't it?"

His manner once again polite and professional, if flat, Harry answered Julian's question with an obviously high level of knowledge.

Draco followed a step behind, unobtrusively carrying his equipment. That Harry was not happy to see him again was obvious. Draco hadn't expected him to be, but acknowledging it stung far more sharply than he cared to admit. For his part, seeing Harry again was like having the ground knocked out from under his feet. He felt like he'd been flattened onto his back and was looking straight up into the sun. Just like when you look at too bright of a light, then look away and see spots, wherever Draco looked, he still saw Harry.

Harry was and always would be the one he never quite got over, never quite got out of his head—likely because he was the one who never should've been in the first place. If ever there had been a forbidden fruit. . . .

Grape picking had treated Harry well, just how well he had the perfect opportunity to observe, trailing behind as he was. His shoulders were broader than they'd been seven years ago, and Draco would bet a vault full of Galleons that the chest and stomach hidden beneath the crisp white button-down he wore untucked would be perfectly toned. He wore black trousers that fitted his bum perfectly—and that thought took Draco back to memories best not revisited at that moment. What he did not wear was his wedding ring, which surprised Draco. He would've sworn Harry would be the type to never take it off. Draco was glad for it, though. Having to endure seeing a ring on Harry's finger would be like one of those Muggle neon signs declaring, "NOT YOURS."

They walked through a section of vines, Harry telling Julian about the vineyard as if he were reading from a script. Draco remembered what Harry's voice had sounded like when it was full of animation. He remembered how his eyes had lit up, and his smile . . . Harry's smile was more magical than any spell.

Draco exhaled, and as if the soft sound had been the banging of a drum, Harry stopped and turned to look at him. His memorised speech interrupted, he lost his place and stammered for a moment until he found it again,

"All our grapes are grown organically," Harry said. "And we are an exclusively hand-pick vineyard, every last hectare." His eyes slid back to Draco, then returned to Julian. "It's almost that time again," he said. "Les vendanges is the busiest time of the year. It's a lot of hard work and long days, but there's an excitement in the air you have to have been part of to understand."

And there it was—the animation Draco remembered in Harry's voice beginning to creep back in. Harry's eyes returned to his, but this time, they didn't look away.

"Les ven—what?" Julian asked.

Released from Harry's eyes when he turned to answer Julian, Draco blinked. He felt almost drunk, and as they began walking towards the château again, his steps felt off balance.

"Les vendanges," Harry repeated. "The harvest. It's an important tradition, and the timing is crucial. It's—It's what brought me to France in the first place."

"The Delacours, Fleur's family. They've offered me a place over there. They own a vineyard down south. I'm going to work for them for a while. Help harvest the grapes."

"You're going to France to pick grapes?"

"Er, yeah."

"Could you spell that?" Julian asked.

Draco swallowed. He should've Apparated away while he'd had the chance.

. . .

. . .

Casting Draco surreptitious glances over his shoulder the whole while, Harry'd led them through the rooms where he explained workers would inspect the grapes before they passed through a machine where they were de-stemmed prior to being crushed by different machines.

They proceeded down long corridors lined with large fermentation tanks. Standing in front of a two metre tall wooden barrel, Harry explained, "We grow several varieties of grapes, and different varieties have different properties." He placed his hand on the barrel. "We have wooden fermentation tanks, and," he gestured down the corridor, "we also have concrete tanks." The walls were lined with huge, stainless steel vats with taps and Muggle controls. "The wooden tanks are only used for two varieties, Syrah and Mourvèdre. They have a higher oxygen requirement for the fermentation process, and the wood allows oxygen to pass through and into the tank. All the other varieties are fermented in the concrete tanks."

With a grin, Julian commented that he'd always thought wine was made in small wooden barrels. He turned the smile on Draco and winked, "Great industrial-looking vats aren't nearly as romantic an image as wooden barrels." He reached out and ran the tip of his finger down Draco's arm.

Jaw dropped, Draco gaped at him. "Would you excuse us for one second?" he asked Harry, never shifting his glare from his friend. Not giving Julian a chance to speak, Draco grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt and dragged him down the corridor.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he hissed.

"Why didn't you tell me the bloke was an ex of yours?" Julian asked.

"I—He—We—That's not the point! What the hell are you doing?"

Julian rolled his eyes dramatically before walking away from him and back to Harry.

"So sorry, you were saying?" he said to Harry.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you where the wines are aged," Harry responded through what sounded to Draco like clenched teeth.

They proceeded down the corridor of stainless steel fermentation tanks to another corridor, this one lined with wooden barrels. Two rows of barrels each spanned both sides of the corridor, each barrel a metre and a half in height resting on its side.

"Oh, now this is much nicer. Just what a winery ought to look like." Julian winked at him, and Draco winced. "Don't you think?"

When Draco glanced at Harry, his lips were pressed firmly together. Needing to do something to get out from under his glaring disapproval, Draco busied himself with his camera, adjusting the settings for the lower light. He was a photographer, after all, and he was on assignment. Whether or not Potter approved of his presence, he had a legitimate reason for being there, he reminded himself.

"After the fermentation tanks, the wine is transferred to these oak barrels," Harry said, "where it will stay for anywhere from one to two years. During that time, the wines are sampled frequently, testing that we have the blend exactly how we want it."

Draco stalled, getting more shots than he needed and taking his time about it. He'd toured enough wineries before to know they were almost finished. This would be the last time he would ever see Harry, and as much as he had been dreading the meeting all day, the closer the end drew, the more he found he wanted to delay it. As obvious as Harry was making it that he wanted nothing more than for Draco to be gone, pathetic though it was, Draco wanted to hang on to every minute he could.

"That's Draco," Julian said with a purr in his voice. "So thorough."

Harry made a non-committal hum in response, and again, Draco wished he'd Apparated away when he'd had the chance.

"Shall we continue?" Harry asked.

The cellar at Château Pointu was a dark complex of corridors and chambers with arched ceilings and walls lined with wine bottles stacked two metres high.

"We bottle upwards of two hundred thousand bottles every year, and after bottling, the wine will stay here for another year to age further before it is ready to be sold. There are over four hundred thousand bottles stored in the cellar right now, including older vintages, some going back to the beginning of Château Pointu over fifty years ago."

"Maybe we should pick up a bottle or two to take back to the hotel," Julian suggested.

Draco thought he heard Harry's teeth snap together.

"So, unless there was something else—" Harry began to say until Julian's mobile rang and interrupted him.

"Oh! So sorry," he said, his face and voice changed from teasing to sincere. "She's early tonight. I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me, I really have to take this. My daughter's good night call."

The silence between Harry and Draco was so heavy, Julian's footsteps echoed around them as he stepped down the corridor.

"He seems charming," Harry said stiffly.

Draco stammered. "We're not—He's not. . . ."

Harry wrapped his arms around himself.

"Julian's a friend and a colleague. That's all. I don't know what all that was about," Draco insisted. "Bloody hell, the man's as straight as a wand." It was almost as if—

Oh, Mother of Merlin. He was. Julian—straight Julian—was pretending to flirt with him. He was trying to make Harry think they were a couple.

Harry kept his eyes on the ground, but Draco could see from his profile that his jaw was set hard. If Julian was trying to make Harry jealous, it was backfiring. He was only hacking him off.

"I'm sorry for showing up out of the blue like this," Draco said. Seeing Harry so obviously not wanting to see him made his chest hurt. "We don't get to pick where we're sent. When I saw the name Château Pointu on the assignment . . . I had hoped I could just get the job finished this morning and get away—I'd no idea Julian was trying to set up a tour—"

Harry looked at him so suddenly, Draco took a step back.

"You were just going to come here and leave without a single word?"

"What did you expect me to do? Write and suggest we have dinner?" Draco asked incredulously. His nerves had been fraying all day, and they were at risk of snapping under the strain. "Tell me, who should I have addressed the letter to? Mr and Mr Harry Potter? Or did you take his name when you got married? Maybe hyphenate both your names? Mr and Mr Potter-Somebody or—"

"I'm not married."

"—is it Somebody-Potter?"

"I said, I'm not married."

Draco'd had more he wanted to say, but Harry's words stopped his in their tracks, and they piled into each other on the tip of his tongue.

"You're . . . not married?" he said after what he'd been going to say untangled itself.

"No."

"But—Granger said you were seeing someone. She said you'd bought him a ring."

Harry sighed, and his shoulder sagged.

Draco had a dozen questions he wanted to ask. He opened his mouth, but closed it. As badly as he wanted to, he had no right to ask any of them.

"Michel," Harry said. "I did buy him a ring."

"What happened?" Draco asked, unable to stop himself.

Harry licked his lips. He looked away and shrugged.

"Didn't give it to him."

"Why not?" he asked, not caring whether he had the right.

"I just . . . didn't." Harry waved his arm through the air. "Had it all planned out, this big, special night out in this posh restaurant in Paris he loved."

Funny, that. Draco would have said Harry would be the sort to do something simple. Spread out a blanket on the the living room floor on a rainy day and have a surprise indoor picnic . . . A bottle of wine he'd produced himself. . . .

"But when the time came, I just didn't do it." Harry shrugged again. "He'd found the ring looking for something in my things—I don't remember what—and when I planned a special night for us, he knew it was coming. But then I didn't do it.

"We split up a few days later. Hard to explain to someone why you didn't ask him to marry you after all." Eyes down, he said, "Second time I'd wanted to ask someone something, but didn't. That time, I don't regret not going through with it."

The way Harry looked at him up through his lashes, so intently—so much like how he'd looked at him for the first time seven years ago—made Draco's mouth go dry and his stomach feel like he was on one of those Muggle roller-coasters.

"What do you plan to do?"

The air emptied from Draco's lungs. "And the first time?" he asked, gasping. When was that time?, he wanted to ask, but he couldn't draw enough breath. He remembered the feeling of a foot nudging his bare hip.

He felt his lips part.

"I don't know," Harry said.

"Sorry about that," Julian said cheerfully, returning from his phone call like an alarm clock shattering a dream.

Instantly, Harry's face closed off, and Draco wanted to scream.

"Not at all," Harry said.

"I think we got everything we need," Julian said. "Hey, thanks again. I hope we didn't ruin any plans."

"No," Harry said.

Draco was reeling. Merlin, he wished Julian hadn't interrupted them. He wished he had a time turner. He would give every last Knut he had to go back just a few minutes.

"Draco?" Julian asked. "You, er, you ready?"

When Draco didn't answer, he repeated his question.

"Your '02 and '03 vintages were very good," Draco said suddenly, blurting it out in a rush.

Harry's face showed open surprise, and Draco could feel heat spread across his checks, but then the corners of Harry's lips slowly curved upwards.

"Last year was a disappointment. Too much rain at the end of the season. The grapes didn't like it," he said. "But everything's looking excellent this year."

"Something to look forward to."

"I could," Harry licked his lips, "maybe, send you a bottle or two." He looked tentative, but hopeful. "If you'd like."

Draco's pulse filled his ears. "I'd like that."

"So, er, Muggle photography," Harry said. "How'd that come about?"

Draco started, and Harry's eyes widened in realisation of what he'd said. They looked at Julian, but he was studiously reading something on his phone and doing his best to fade into the background. Draco dropped his eyes; he couldn't help but smile.

"I . . . Like you said, I had to do something, else I'd go mad. When one door closes. . . ."

"And you like it?"

"I do."

Julian cleared his throat. He gave Draco a sympathetic but pointed look.

"I, er, I guess we should be going," Draco said almost as if it were a question.

"I'll walk you out," Harry said.

Reluctantly, his feet feeling far too heavy, Draco turned to go. Julian walked alongside him quietly. Outside, the sun had just dipped below the horizon. The sky above was a deep shade of purple streaked with dark clouds rimmed with glowing pink; a thin strip of gold lingered over the horizon.

They stopped at the door.

"It was—It was good to see you again, Harry."

"Yeah. Yeah, you too."

After offering Harry his thanks again, Julian gave Draco a look with one raised eyebrow and beat a hasty retreat to the car. Draco lingered. There was so much he wanted to say, and just as much as he wanted to ask.

"How's your mother?" Harry asked.

"Well. She's well," Draco said. "It was a long road. But she's—she's well."

"Oh, good. I'm—I'm glad."

"She's, er, she's writing a book."

"Is she really?"

"A history of what happened, of how it happened from . . . well, from the point of view of the wrong side. With the idea of trying to keep it from ever happening again."

"That's very brave," Harry said.

"Xenophilius Lovegood is publishing it and writing a foreword."

"He's a good man."

"How—how are the Weasleys?" Draco asked.

"Good. They're good."

"Oh, good. And, and Teddy?"

"Teddy's good. Getting big."

"Do you get to see them often?"

"Fairly often. Everyone's busy, of course."

"And your life is here," Draco said.

"It is."

"I suppose it had to be," Draco admitted. Even after seven years, the public still clamored for the latest gossip on Harry Potter. "You'd not have got a moment's peace in Britain."

"I manage to get back once in a while. Quietly."

Harry hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say, and Draco waited.

"I—I've always—If I had—asked you to come with me that day," Harry asked, "what would you have said?"

The ground shifted beneath Draco's feet. Memories and emotions swarmed inside him. The idea of Harry and him. Sneaking away. Making a real go of it. Waking up and being able to linger, no need for either to rush off for fear of being discovered. Spending the day together, just lounging. Finding somewhere they could walk down the street without anyone throwing themselves at Harry or throwing curses at him. How many times had he imagined it?

"No," he said with a deep sigh. Rubbing his forehead, Draco looked at the ground. "No," he whispered. He would have said no. Merlin, it was a lovely dream, though.

Harry nodded, understanding.

"I thought not."

Seven years ago, they'd both been only just turned eighteen. They'd both just been through a hell neither one had truly expected to survive. They'd neither one of them been in a place to build a relationship.

But that was then. Harry was the one man Draco had never got over. He had one chance, and he'd never forgive himself if he let it slip away.

"Maybe you could deliver that wine you promised in person," he said.

Harry's chest rose and fell with deep breaths.

"I could do that."

The way it had felt the first time Harry had touched his face, the first time they'd twisted their fingers together, the first time they'd pressed their lips together . . . The memories were so vivid. Some of the most vivid of his life, certainly the most vivid of his good memories. This felt like that had. Exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

"Where are you staying?" Harry asked.

Draco named the hotel, and Harry nodded.

"There's a nice little place, just down the street a bit, if—if you've not eaten yet. . . ?"

Anticipation tingled through Draco, from his head to his feet. "I haven't eaten," he said.

Harry took a step towards him. "Maybe we could. . . ."

Mesmerised, memories swirling with possibilities in his head, Draco ran his eyes over the simple white button-down. He remembered Harry's far too thin body from seven years ago, the feel of ribs under far too pale skin. Ribs that today were covered by a layer of toned muscle, Draco would bet. He lifted his hand and let his fingertips slowly skim down the other man's stomach. The muscles he was picturing in his mind twitched under his fingers, and Harry's breath shuddered in just the same way Draco remembered it doing the first time he'd touched him all those years ago. The tips of his fingers grazed the waistband of Harry's trousers, drawing an audible gasp from Harry and making the green of his eyes darken. Draco's blood raced through his veins.

"Maybe we could," he said.

"Oy," Julian called out from the car, "don't mean to cockblock whatever you got going on over there, mate, but we've got an early morning tomorrow, you know? You coming or not?"

Draco stepped closer to Harry, looking at him with one arched eyebrow. Harry mimicked Draco's action, letting his fingers trail down Draco's stomach. One corner of his lips curling upward, his fingertips lingered below the waistband of his trousers, and it was Draco's turn to twitch and gasp.

"I think not," he answered Julian, angling his head an inch in the direction of the car without breaking their eye contact.

Harry turned the full force of his magical smile on him, and Draco fell under his power.

Julian laughed. "Nine o'clock, remember," he said.

Pushing the door open, Harry led Draco back into the château.

"I want to hear how you came to be a photographer for a Muggle travel magazine," Harry said. "I almost fell over when I saw you standing there."

"I could tell," Draco said. "I'll tell you all about it, but first—Château Pointu?" he asked pointedly and with a grin. "Really?"

Harry laughed, closing the space between them further. "The Delacours have a sense of humor."

"So, this place you mentioned," Draco said, standing toe to toe with Harry, "they closing soon?"

"Sun's just set. About eight thirty. Least a couple of hours."

Draco grabbed a fistful of the fabric of the white button-down that had been driving him half mad and pulled Harry against him.

"Good."

Author's Note: To bring everyone in on the inside joke with the name-the name of the vineyard, Château Pointu, is a play on words with the French name for wizarding hats, chapeaux pointus. The vineyard is a castle with towers with pointed roofs, which resmeble wizarding hats. I thought it was a cute little pun, et merci a mon ami CL for suggesting it.

My first one-shot! Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!