Archive of Our Own

A Working Title

"Have you seen this?"

A heavy book lands with a fwump on Harry's desk and he starts. Ron stands in front of him, arms crossed and a smirk on his face. Hermione is just behind him looking irritated.

His own face blinks up at him sleepily from the front cover. It's perhaps the most unflattering photo of himself he's ever seen. It was several years ago, if the length of his hair is any indication. It looks like it was after an all-nighter with an infant Lily.

This one is called, Harry Potter: The Official-Official Biography.

"Well, the official biography is already taken," Harry says. He rolls up the parchment with the notes for his upcoming column on the Clean Sweep 3001. "At least it's not some stupid variation on The Boy Who." Ron laughs and Hermione huffs. Harry changes the subject. "Where are we eating? I'm famished."

"Leaky?" Ron asks.

Harry shrugs. It's as good a place as any. One by one, they step into the Floo, but not before Hermione grabs the damned book.

They manage to get their favourite table by the bar and Ron goes to order food and drinks and chat with Hannah.

"What's up?" Harry leans across the table to ask Hermione. "You haven't said a word. It's not the stupid book, is it?"

"Harry," Hermione says, with a warning in her tone. "You and Ron joke about it because neither of you have read it."

"You have?" Harry asks. He has one eye on Ron, walking back to the table, balancing three plates of sandwiches in front of him with a hover charm. He resists going to help him because that is guaranteed to put Ron in a bad mood.

"Harry, it's the worst yet," she says.

"Here you go." Ron returns with three plates and drops them onto the table with a bump. A bit of tomato slides out of one, but they're otherwise intact.

Harry reaches for one. He forgot breakfast with his deadline looming and he's so hungry he could eat a hippogriff.

"Give me the highlights," he says. Hermione thrusts the book at him again. The sharpness of the cheese blends with the smoothness of the butter and the sweetness of the tomatoes and right now the worst sin of this newest account of his imaginary life is interrupting his sandwich.

"Turn to page 875," she says from between gritted teeth.

"875?" yelps Ron. "How bloody long is the thing?"

"About 875 pages too long," Hermione says.

Harry flips through the pages. He catches some words here and there, his heart sinking with every one. Other "unauthorized" biographies, and even one claiming to be an autobiography, have been ridiculous. One claimed he bought each of his children an Erumpent and set up a perpetual fair for them, with full time clowns, in the back garden. One claimed that the public Harry Potter was a hologram and the real Harry Potter had retired to Monte Carlo immediately after the war. One that had almost revived Ginny's and his failing marriage stated that she was a dominatrix and he was her slave -- including exclusive photos on page 113.

This one is different. He catches mentions of abuse, screaming matches, abandoned children.

On page 875 is a photo of him. It is, most unfortunately, a real photo. He remembers the night vividly. It was a couple of months before he and Ginny decided they'd be happier calling it quits. Saying that they loved each other, but weren't in love anymore, sounded like such a cliché that it probably took them a year longer than it should have for one of them to say it out loud. It had been Ginny who'd finally said it one night after the kids were asleep and they'd polished off a really good bottle of Elvish wine.

The photo is dark, but it's light enough to make out that it's Harry and another, very young, man in an alley. Without context, Harry's expression could be read several ways. All Harry feels when he looks at it is despair. It was probably one of the worst nights of his life, and that's saying something.

"I didn't know this existed," he says. His voice sounds as hollow as his stomach feels.

"Who wrote this fucking tripe?" Ron's face is glowing red.

"I'm sure it's a pseudonym," Hermione says quietly. "Could be anyone."
`
"I'm going to track them down and make them regret every minute of their bloody lives."

"Ron," Hermione scolds gently. Her eyes are on Harry. "Harry doesn't need you ending up in Azkaban for misuse of authority."

"If I can't misuse my authority for this, what good is it being Head Auror?"

Harry really doesn't want Ron to end up in Azkaban, at the same time, he could never tell him what his ready, righteous indignation on Harry's behalf means to him.

"What he needs is to write a real autobiography and steal the market right out from under these bastards. I've told you, Harry. If there's one really written by you, the others will have a much harder time claiming to be real. And, for a while anyway, no one will buy them."

"Yeah, you're a writer, mate," Ron says, clapping him on the shoulder. "You should do it."

"I've never written more than 800 words at a stretch."

"You have to at least give it a try," Hermione says.

Harry looks down at the photo. Fury that someone would take this low moment and profit from it roils through him. "I think you're right."

Harry fills a tumbler with Firewhisky. It's over hundred years old and smooth as can be - a bottle he found in Sirius' room. Sad as it is to say, he finds the smell comforting to this day.

He covers the awful photo of himself and tries to put all memory of page 875 out of his mind. He doesn't ever write well when he's angry. He considers pulling out his memories of that night and storing them in the Pensieve, but he tries to keep that to a minimum. It was too tempting after the war.

He takes a long sip of his drink, glances out the window at the stars and sends a silent plea to Sirius to give him strength. As much as he hates to give any credit to this author, it's quite a feat to have Hermione claim a book the worst one. There have been dozens - each more stupid than the next - and usually, he, Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Hannah end up laughing themselves silly over the idiotic escapades he's supposedly got up to.

The first chapter of this gem is entitled, "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished," and it expounds at length about how the Dursleys cared for him despite his constantly ungrateful attitude. He could nearly believe that the author (fake name for certain) had resurrected Uncle Vernon and bought him off with the promise of perfectly trimmed hedges.

"If this were all," Harry mutters, taking another sip of Firewhisky. He has no respect for anyone who would use his childhood to sell something, but he could let that roll off his back by now. He takes another, longer, drink and opens the book to page 875 despite himself. He skims it. Harry Potter, cheating on his wife again, drunken escapades, frequents underage male prostitutes, cruelty to his children, abandoned his family.

He smoothes the parchment and dips his quill in ink. The blank parchment glares up at him. He doodles a few words just so it isn't so bare. Sentences roll through his head, but none of them are right. He taps the parchment and it's clear again. Three sentences seem to flow from him. He reads them and scribbles them out. He's going at it all wrong. He's reacting. He's trying to contradict the arsehole.

The problem is, what the arsehole wrote is essentially true.

He downs the rest of the Firewhisky and refills his glass. The whisky in one hand, the quill in the other, he tries again.

Harry tries opening one eye and pain shoots through his head. He rolls over and covers his face with a pillow trying to get the room to stop spinning. He hasn't had this much to drink since the days and weeks after the actual events of page 875.

He forces himself from bed. Every step reverberates through his body and all he can think is that tea and headache potions are in the kitchen cupboard. If he can get there. The long roll of parchment is still spread across the table. He glances at what he wrote last night and, for a moment, hopes that he actually churned out something good in his drunken haze. No such luck. The words range from nonsensical to profane to illegible.

Harry waits for the tea to steep until it's dark and strong. He stirs in sugar and milk, and between pouring it and the first sip, he decides to let page 875 and his fury at the cowardly liar go and just write his own story.

He sits and doodles a few words like he does when he's writing a column. He doesn't have to react to the stupid arse. He doodles some more and tries to think about what he wants everyone to know.

Two hours later he thinks back over how he's gone about this and can see where he made the error - there is absolutely nothing that he wants everyone to know.

"Fuck," he mutters, pushing the parchment away across the table. He lets his head fall into his hands.

The Floo glows green and Ginny's voice saves him from the torturous parchment for the moment.

"Harry," Ginny calls. "Can I come through?"

Harry stands. She rarely just stops by and almost never in the middle of the day unless someone is ill or has provoked a letter from school.

"Are the kids --"

"They're fine," she says, stepping into his living room. "You?"

"Been better."

"I can see that," she says coming closer. "You look like hell and smell like a distillery."

"Thanks for the kind words," Harry says. He covers the long roll of parchment with his arms. He hates for anyone to see unfinished writing, using the term "writing" loosely in this case.

"I saw the book," she says.

Harry groans. "You never read the books - not since - anyway, you never read the books."

She shrugs.

"Hermione," Harry says.

"She's worried about you."

"She sent you to check on me, you mean," he says. His headache's coming back. At least she didn't send Ron.

"Would you rather she'd sent Ron?" Ginny asks. She pulls out the chair next to him and sits. "I'm glad you're finally writing your own. I told you to do that years ago."

"I'm sorry," he says, and it feels like dragging something putrid up from the depth of his insides. Or maybe that's the headache potion wearing off. "I'm sorry you're dragged back into this shit. It's my fault, but you have to see your name all over the place again."

"I know what you're doing and you've to stop it." She frowns and shakes her head at him, looking so much like her mother it's startling.

"I thought you said you wanted me to write this?"

"Don't be dense, that's not what I mean. You're wallowing. You're going over what happened back then and deciding you're a terrible person and a bad father and you're believing some of what this arsehole wrote and you have to stop."

"You're the one who really knows," he says, his voice rising and he hates it because he can't stop the anger and he's not angry with Ginny. "Tell me what one fucking thing in that chapter isn't true."

"None of it's true, Harry."

"How can you say that?"

"It's completely out of context. That's like you writing a review of a broom before it was finished and saying it's shit. Those words might be true at the moment you wrote them, but they're meaningless."

"Still, I'm sorry."

Ginny gets up and comes to stand right in front of him. "If you say that again, you'll have bats for bogeys." Her eyes are blazing. "That arse doesn't know you, knows nothing about our family, doesn't know what happened. He took a difficult time and plastered it everywhere. I'd like to kill him. I hate it when you do this."

"What have I done exactly?" Harry says, his voice rising again.

"Harry, you're letting him win," she says softly, but in a tone that brooks no argument.

Her eyes are soft and kind and Harry feels something break loose inside his chest.

"I don't think I can write this, Gin. It all sounds like I'm reviewing a new gobstones set trying to make it sound better than it is."

Ginny wraps her arms around him and he sighs. He lets her hold him for longer then he thinks he should need. She pulls back and smoothes his hair. "You'll think of something. Now, I'm sending three young hooligans your way tonight for tea, if that's all right. I think you need a stiff dose of chaos to cheer you up."

"Thanks," Harry says. "Really. Thank you."

"Shut it."

He puts down the quill and rolls up the parchment. He's got more important things to worry about now - like making three different teas for three picky eaters.

Lee is probably the best Editor in Chief the Daily Prophet has ever seen. He's fair and fearless and a brutal editor of his reporters' and columnists' work. He's frowning, poring over what looks like a really long article. Harry stands outside the door for a moment before he knocks. Lee gets in a zone when he's like this and Harry could probably walk in completely starkers and sit on his desk and he wouldn't notice. He knocks firmly and clears his throat. Once he startled Lee and nearly lost most of his hair.

"I hope you're here to turn in a column on the opening of Quidditch season," Lee says without looking up.

"Not exactly." Harry closes the door behind him and waits for Lee to put aside the article before he tells him the whole pathetic story.

"Harry," Lee says when Harry finally takes a breath. "I couldn't agree more that you are well past due to have an autobiography, and as both your friend and a publisher who stands to bring in a pile of gold if you let him publish it, I fully support this endeavour."

"Okay - "

"But, I would never suggest you try and write it. It's not your style. You're too concise. You tell just the facts. This is going to be a long book and it needs someone who can tell a story."

"I'm gathering you have someone in mind."

"I do." Lee puts down the very long parchment and eyes Harry cautiously.

"Something in your tone tells me I'm not going to be thrilled."

"You really should have been an Auror, you know. Not that I'm thumbing my nose at the increase in sales when we brought you on, but, anyway."

"Who?"

"You might know his romance novels," Lee says. He looks away and tidies a stack of papers as he says this.

"You're joking. What's his name?"

"Well," Lee says. He fidgets with his quill. "He writes under a quill name."

"Who is it?"

"I'm not telling you."

"You're not telling me?" Harry is torn between being infuriated and being amused.

"It's in his contract. I can't tell anyone his real name."

"How exactly am I to find out who this mysterious yet perfect writer is then?"

"I'll check with him. I have an appointment with him tomorrow at 11. If he's interested, I'll ask him to stop by your place at half eleven."

"Why do I feel like I'm being set up for a prank?"

"Promise me you'll give it a chance before you send him packing," Lee says. He looks so earnest that Harry finds himself nodding and promising. "Seriously. Let him get started before you make any decisions. He really is the best writer I have."

It's 11:29 and Harry's not sure if he hopes there will be a knock at the door or not. He glances over his shoulder at the parchment littering his dining table and convinces himself that he hopes that the knock will come.

At 11:32, he checks to make sure his watch is working. It's getting on in years, after all.

At 11:35, he picks up a quill, only to put it down at 11:36.

At 11:37, there's a knock at the door and Harry jumps up, upsetting a pot of ink onto the parchment, obliterating most of it. It's just as well, he thinks, and he goes to the door.

Harry tried all night to imagine who he might find at his door this morning. He went through people he might know well who could possibly have a secret life as a romance writer; people Lee might know from the paper; people Lee might want him to meet before making a decision. By 2 am, he'd half decided it was Luna and become accustomed to the idea.

It's not Luna.

"Malfoy?" he says, and something in the pit of his stomach tells him he should have known, but that's absurd because how the fuck would he ever have guessed that Malfoy's secretly a romance novelist?

By 11:38, he's convinced that it's a mistake and Malfoy's here to tell him that Albus and Scorpius have set the school on fire.

"Hello, Potter," Malfoy says. "May I come in?"

"I don't know yet," Harry says. He makes a note to put puking pastilles in Lee's tea because Malfoy obviously knew where he was going this morning and why, giving him a distinct opening advantage.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "When might you know?"

Harry literally bites his tongue. He promised Lee.

"Now," he says. "Come in."

He escorts Malfoy to the living room and goes to make tea because he can't imagine starting this conversation. When he comes back in with the tray, he hardly recognizes his own living room with Malfoy sitting on the sofa.

"You write romance novels?" Harry asks as he puts the tea tray on the table. If he's going to have this conversation, he's going to start it.

"I think I'm here to ask the questions, according to Jordan," Malfoy says. He leans forward to look at the tea tray and Harry half expects him to say that the tea isn't up to snuff. "Assam. Very nice," he says.

"I have a few myself, first," Harry says. "Questions, that is."

"That's only fair, I suppose," Malfoy says. "You need to know how I work and probably extract a promise on threat of death that I'll keep your secrets."

"What's your pen name?"

Malfoy looks surprised. Harry takes small satisfaction that he obviously wasn't expecting that to be Harry's first question and reminds himself again to dismember Lee. "That's confidential. A condition of my contract."

"It's your information. You can tell anyone. The publisher just can't tell. I know enough about contracts to know that," Harry says.

"Bravo," Malfoy says. He takes a sip of his tea and Harry notices that his lips are rather pink where they kiss the cup. "All right then. You tell me your secrets, I'll tell you mine. But you'll start."

He smiles pleasantly - a look Harry's sure he's never seen on his face.

"I think I'd rather stick a hot poker in my eye than tell you my secrets. I'll tell Lee he's made a mistake."

"As you wish," Malfoy says, shrugging. "I have enough work to keep me in Assam. Good luck finding someone."

He nods and leaves and Harry finds himself feeling furious that Malfoy was so polite and then he's equally furious at himself for letting Malfoy knock him off kilter after all these years.

Just as Harry's sitting down to his tea, Lee's owl delivers a note that says simply, You need help and he's the best. Then there's the small matter of your promise.

Harry tells himself that he can't read anything into the three short, sharp knocks on the door. Even Malfoy can't infuse snideness into knuckles on wood. He repeats his promise to Lee, thinks of page 875, and opens the door.

He opens it quickly enough to see Malfoy shift from one foot to the other and Harry's a little comforted that he's nervous, too.

"Antonio Amore," Draco says. His arms are crossed over his chest.

"What?" Harry asks.

"My pseudonym," Draco says. "The name I write my books under."

"I know what a pseudonym is. I didn't know what an Antonio Amore is," Harry says. Despite himself, he steps back to allow Draco to come inside.

"I've told you something that three other people on this earth know. You could try and be civil." Draco frowns and crosses his arms.

"It's a reflex," Harry says. "And I was a little taken aback. Sorry and come in."

Harry makes tea, both because it gives him a minute to think and because he hopes it will make him seem less an arse. It feels a bit like reordering his view of the world to remember that he needs help from Malfoy, and that takes time.

He pours two cups of tea and hands Draco the milk. "I really think I should be writing this," he says almost without meaning to say it aloud. He quickly adds, "I write descriptions of things and events all the time. How is this so different?"

"You write critiques. Do you want people to critique your life story or fall in love with it?" Draco almost smiles and Harry never noticed how handsome his face can look without a sneer on it.

"Neither," Harry says. "God, absolutely neither."

Draco laughs lightly. "You had better want them to fall in love with it - no one pays good money if they don't get a little something to warm them at night."

"How much do you pay to get something to warm you at night, Malfoy?"

"I see your wit hasn't abandoned you. Pity you can't use it to write your own damn story."

"Shit, reflex. Sorry." Harry downs his tea and pours more from the pot. "Lee says you're the best." Harry rolls his eyes to the ceiling when Draco nods as if this couldn't be less news to him. "And I trust him and I'm convinced that I need to tell my own story and stop letting other people tell it for me."

"Ironic then, that you need me to write it."

"Now who's meeting an offer of peace with a lack of civility?" Harry asks.

"Reflex," Draco says. Harry can still see the ghost of his smile on his lips.

"Okay, I guess we should start if we're going to do this," Harry says. "Ask a question, I suppose."

"Try not to sound so enthusiastic. All right," Draco says. "Why is your slightly bumbling sidekick Head Auror while you're writing puff pieces for the Daily Prophet?"

"Not off to a good start, Malfoy," Harry says, reminding himself that he should always trust his instincts.

"I'll reword," says Draco. He purses his lips as if this takes great thought.

"That would be a good idea."

"As you surely know, there are many rumours about why you chose not to pursue the obvious career and now spend your days writing light, if highly informative, critiques of recreational equipment and activities. I think we should dispel those rumours. Better?"

"Marginally. Wait a moment. You've read my column."

"Research," Draco says. His face has that pleasant, almost distractingly handsome, look again.

Harry can think of several painful things he would rather do than share anything remotely personal with Malfoy. "I suppose this is a useful exercise. If I am really going to go through with this, I have to imagine anyone, even the person I trust least in the world, having this information."

"I'm touched that I can help you work through your legendary trust issues," Malfoy says. He dips his quill in his ink. His graceful fingers hold the quill in perfect balance and Harry finds himself wanting to see what happens next, if he can just get these first words out.

"James fell off his first broom."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When he was three, Ron bought him a broom. A toy Nimbus 2000. It was a replica of my first broom and called something ridiculous like Harry Potter's First Broom."

"Potter Training Broom," Draco said. He coughed. "Scorpius had one. Pansy bought it for a laugh. It was dreadful."

"I wasn't going to let him use it. I never said they could use my name. He loved it the moment he saw it and hopped right on it. It was frightening how he took to it." Harry couldn't help the smile on his face at the memory of James' perfect balance the first time he sat astride the tiny broom. "It was rubbish. On the second day he had it, the straw came loose and the stability charm crashed and it basically tossed him across the room. He landed on his side, hit is face on the table and had a huge bruise across his cheek. Thank goodness he was three and still made of rubber. I wrote a letter about it to the Prophet. I didn't want any other kids getting hurt. Then Nimbus redesigned it and asked me to do a review of the new one. I did and the Prophet published it. Lee Jordan had just become Editor and he was looking for some new features. He offered me a job."

"Merlin, I should have known you'd have some boring, noble reason. How am I supposed to make this exciting?"

"It was a very big bruise."

"Potter, really? No story about how you'd seen enough action to last a lifetime, how you wanted to give your children a life outside the public eye? How about that you'd already caught the ultimate dark wizard and putting together a coherent sentence seemed like a bigger challenge?"

"You asked me why I became a features writer, not why I left the Aurors after training."

"Well?" Draco shook his head, looking both exasperated and maybe a bit amused.

"Well." Harry shrugged. "I'd seen enough action to last a lifetime. I wanted to give my family a life outside of the public eye. I'd already caught the ultimate dark wizard and putting together a coherent sentence seemed like a bigger challenge. How's that?"

"This is going to take a very long time. Make us some sandwiches if you know how."

"I spent much of my childhood making other people food," Harry says over his shoulder as he walks to the kitchen.

"I'll want to hear more about that," Draco calls to him, and Harry laughs.

Harry watches Draco add milk to his tea and give it two counter-clockwise stirs. He's grown up well, Harry thinks. The slight aging in his face counters some of the pointyness and he seems comfortable in his tall, thin frame.

He wonders if he should call this off. The idea that he'll ever be able to trust Malfoy enough to let him write the book that needs writing is as absurd as the idea that he'd bought each of his children an Erumpent. On the other hand, if Hermione writes it, it will sound like a legal brief. If Neville writes it, it will sound like an Herbology text book. Lee doesn't have time and Ron's writing extends to incident reports. No one will believe what any of them writes, in any case. Anyone who's paid enough attention to want to read this book will know that the last thing Malfoy would do is lie to try and make Harry look good.

"Several times, Lee has asked me to cover Magical Law Enforcement, go in the field with the Aurors. Because I completed training, they'd probably let me as long as I didn't divulge any sensitive information. I thought about it, but now that Ron's Head Auror, no one would trust anything I wrote."

Draco looks up from his tea. He seems to be holding his breath. "I wouldn't," he says, apparently recovering himself remarkably quickly.

"You are working hard to earn my trust."

"If I bowed and scraped like everyone else, you'd know I was having you on. Just like, if I write this, people will be more likely to believe some of it than if say, Granger, does."

"You might have a point, Malfoy," Harry says. "That's enough for today, I think. Now you tell me, how's the romance writing business."

"Lucrative," Draco says, smiling.

Nothing appears in the paper that evening and Harry doesn't hear from his kids that Malfoy's kids are spreading rumours about James' first broom. It's as if he never shared something personal with Malfoy. Harry sits in his chair by the fire, with a glass of wine, and notes that it's been several hours since he thought about maiming Lee.

Draco comes over the next day and the next. He asks questions and Harry answers. He can't quite see how Draco is going to turn questions about what he likes for breakfast and how late he usually works into anything anyone will want to read.

"That's why I sent you a romance writer," Lee tells him went he's at the office handing in a column about a new racing broom from Nimbus. He mentions to Lee that meeting with Malfoy doesn't make him want to bang his head against the wall as he thought it might, but he can't see how there's going to be a book. "He's pretty brilliant, much as I hate to admit it. Have you ever read any of his books? He can make gardening seem sexy. I wonder what someone who writes that much sex must be like in bed - ever wonder that, Potter?"

Harry decides he doesn't really need to answer that. He does need to ask for an extra week for the piece on a new wizarding holiday resort in border country, so that's what he does, and ignores Lee's raised eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject.

Harry misses his kids. He misses the noise and the mess and the stories and the hugs goodnight. He misses them, but as much as he misses them, he really enjoys the chance to stroll along Diagon Alley on a nice fall evening. He'll stop in the Leaky Cauldron for a pint. He doesn't have to worry that the kids will eat nothing but chips for dinner if he takes them there. He'll say hello to Hannah and maybe Neville will be there and he won't have to do any washing up when he gets home.

"Hello, Hannah," he says when he walks in. The place is packed and bright with conversation and laughter.

"Oh, hiya Harry. You just missed Neville," she says cheerfully. She's already pulling him a pint. "We've sausage stew or roast chicken tonight," she adds.

Her sausage stew is about the best thing he's ever tasted, so he orders a plate and takes it and his pint over to a table.

"Hungry, Potter?"

Harry reluctantly looks up from a perfect bite of sausage, carrot, and potato to a now very familiar voice. He registers with a little surprise that he doesn't feel his dinner's been spoiled.

"Starving," he says, continuing to eat.

He finds himself smiling at Malfoy and gesturing to the seat next to him. Draco's carrying a goblet of wine and a plate of cheeses. He put the plate on the table.

"Careful, Potter," Draco says. His grey eyes scan the room as he sips his wine. "Anyone watching might think we enjoy each others' company."

"Who'd be watching?" Harry laughs.

"You must be joking. You and I chatting apparently amiably? Everyone's watching." Draco doesn't look like this ideas bothers him in the least and he sits.

"We could talk about the kids," Harry says. "Our sons are schoolmates. No reason we can't be talking about the kids. That's a reason for us to be apparently amiable."

"I don't think it's so much what we're talking about than that we're talking at all."

"And neither of us have our wands drawn."

Draco laughs. A woman Harry vaguely recognises as having been at school with them walks by and he feels her eyes burning into him. Draco laughs again and Harry thinks how nice he looks when he laughs. He stops just short of telling him that.

"So, when are you going to let me read some of it?" Harry asks, leaning closer and lowering his voice. May as well give the busybodies something to talk about. He's thought about Lee's comment about Draco making gardening seem sexy. Not wondering as Lee seemed to have been suggesting, but thinking about how Draco might have made Harry's assignment testing out the latest gobstones set seem sexy.

"When I have something finished," Draco says.

"It's my story," Harry says. "What if I hate the way you're writing it and you need to start again? Better to know that sooner than later."

"No, if that's the case, you'll be most welcome to go and - "

"I'm speaking in hypotheticals, here," Harry says, smiling.

"All right," Draco says. "Seeing as you're so anxious, I'll work through some bits tonight and we can go over them tomorrow. I suppose that makes sense. Lee wants a holiday release."

"I can't meet tomorrow. I'm going up to Hogsmeade to spend the day with my kids," Harry says. He tries to go at least once a month. An entire term without seeing them, and he feels like they're strangers when they come home - especially since James turned 15.

"Perfect," Draco says. "The public wants to know about your spawn. You'll never know I'm there."

Harry's hand goes unconsciously to his wand. He grips it and turns to glare at Draco. When he realises what he's doing, he takes a breath and loosens his hand on his wand. He's not entirely comfortable that he thrills to see a tiny spark of alarm on Draco's face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. "My kids are left out of this. If you try and give the public even the tiniest crumb to use against them, this is over."

"Calm down, Potter," Draco says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I only meant that we should include something about you as a father. There won't be anything that could harm the delightful little moppets. I promise."

Harry hears himself begrudgingly concede. It's hard to argue when Malfoy says he'd like to see Scorpius as well.

Malfoy takes his leave, saying he has to finish up a chapter in his latest Curse-Breaker adventure. Harry returns home and tries to work as well, but the thought of Malfoy writing his romance novels keeps floating through his mind. He gives up at about midnight and slides into bed. He opens his bedside table drawer. The cover of The Secret of the Locket: Henry Mason, Curse Breaker by Antonio Amore is adorned with a gorgeous man and a beautiful woman endlessly falling into and out of an embrace.

Harry's on chapter 4 and Henry has just freed the village from the cursed statue in their town square. He sinks back into the story and turns page after page as Henry and Isabella dance around each other, finally falling into each other's arms. It's after 2 am before he knows it and the book lies dog-eared on the floor. The breathless superlatives of the sex scenes and the romance don't do much for him, although he can see their appeal and see that it's all well written.

What does stick in his mind as he sinks back onto his pillow, is the thought of Draco, his strong, elegant hands gripping the quill, the story rushing through his head, filling roll after roll of parchment with Henry's desire for his lovers. He wonders if Draco imagines himself as Henry, and if he gets hard when he writes him. Does Draco's mind wander at boring family dinners - plotting out Henry's next affair? He imagines Draco slipping into bed after writing a steamy scene and taking his stiff cock in his hand. Harry wraps his own hand around his cock and he strokes, thinking of Draco doing the same.

Harry watches the kids go up the broad front steps and through the heavy doors. James takes the steps two at a time. Albus and Scorpius walk more slowly, their heads inclined to each other, whispering. Lily seems almost to be walking backward. She turns to wave and he'd love to gather her in his arms. A few other little girls appear at the top of the stairs and she gallops up. He's pleased she has friends that make her want to gallop and he can almost see 11 year old Ron and Hermione up there waiting for him. Memories wash over him every time he's on these grounds. He's always pleased to find that they're at least as often good as bad.

"That was a surprisingly painless day," Draco says.

Harry turns to look at him. His pale hair glows in the twilight. He looks happy and relaxed and Harry feels the warm glow of the sun inside he chest.

"Come and have a drink," Harry says. He stops in surprise, not quite certain what possessed him.

Draco blinks at him, equally nonplussed. "All right," he says. "We can get some work done, perhaps. You're in a pleasant mood." He smiles at Harry and Harry notices the way his pink lips brighten his pale face. "Maybe you'll talk."

"Maybe," Harry says. "Or maybe we can just have a drink and you'll tell me how on earth you ever ended up writing books that young women keep under their mattresses."

"Not here." Draco touches Harry's upper arm. The touch tingles through his robe. "May I?" Draco asks.

Harry feels heat flood his cheeks until he realises what Draco's asking. "Apparate?"

"You've never been to my place. Wouldn't want you to Splinch yourself and ruin a perfectly good day."

Harry nods. He takes in a shaky breath, unsettled by the fact that he almost hoped Draco was asking for a different sort of permission when he touched him.

Harry has never got quite used to the feeling of having his navel turned inside out and his body squeezed through a vortex that feels the size of a pinhole. Once when he was a kid, the Dursleys took Dudley to a fair. One of Mrs Figg's cats had been ailing, so they'd had no choice but to take Harry along. He'd been allowed one ride because Dudley didn't want to go on it alone. It spun faster and faster until everyone's body was plastered to the wall and then the floor fell away. Apparition always brought that memory back and today, with Draco's nice smile, tall, graceful body, and irritatingly perfect hair, the last thing he wanted to be thinking about was any outing with the Dursleys.

He lands in Draco's flat and thankfully manages to keep his balance. The flat is bright and beautifully decorated with high ceilings. Large, dark green, leafy plants fill the corners and colourful paintings of serene landscapes adorn the walls.

Draco looks around as if seeing the place for the first time, through Harry's eyes. "I need a peaceful place to write," he says, waving dismissively at the lovely flat. "I have some exquisite, beautifully aged cognac, and I'd be willing to share a dram or two."

He swishes his wand and summons two crystal glasses and a bottle. The liquid is deep amber and Harry can smell the warm aroma the moment Draco pours some into each glass. He nods his thanks and sips. The complex flavour spreads over his tongue. It's astringent and rich at once and Harry feels its heat - pleasant and relaxing - on the way down.

"This must help get the words flowing," he says, lifting his glass. "Put you in a romantic mood?"

"You know, Potter," says Draco. "You're quite ready to poke fun at my books. Have you ever actually read one?"

Harry feels a flush crawling up his cheeks. One summer he and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, and the kids had gone on holiday together. It was a little seaside house with a wonderful view and someone had left a small stack of what he now knew were Malfoy's bodice rippers. They'd read them aloud to each other after the kids had gone to bed and with copious amounts of wine. Not one of them would admit to really enjoying them, but they read them every night and when they got home, Harry had found one by Ginny's side of the bed. He'd finished it when she was away at a game - he'd only wanted to know how it ended. And then, of course, there was the one he'd been reading since he found out who Antonio Amore actually was.

"You've read them," Draco says, with something bordering on glee. His smile crinkles the corners of his grey eyes and Harry has to admit he rather likes Draco looking at him like that. Or maybe it's the cognac.

"Ginny liked the one about the Curse Breaker," Harry says. He doesn't attempt to hide his smile.

Draco has drained his glass and he refills it, offering to do the same to Harry's now empty glass.

"How much of the stuff do you have?" It seems to Harry that Draco is being awfully free with a bottle that must have cost dozens of galleons.

Draco downs half of his glass and Harry follows suit. It occurs to him that it might be fun to see who can drink whom under the table.

"I said it was beautifully aged. I didn't say how. I'm rather skilled at potions. I can make five knut swill taste like it came from my grandfather's cellar."

"Neat trick," Harry agrees. "You could make that lucrative." Harry takes another sip and appreciates the mellow heat all the more. "How do you write the sex scenes?"

"What?" Draco laughs.

"I mean, do you just put words on parchment or do you imagine --" Harry trails off, not willing to finish the sentence, even as he finishes the thought and another drink.

"Your mind would dash straight for the gutter," Draco says. He turns and looks at a landscape done in shades of purple and blue.

"The gutter? That's what you think of your writing, then?"

"If I can find the right words to make the images in my head come alive," Draco says. He looks at Harry. His eyes are bright. "It's like flying. It doesn't matter the topic, really. It could be dialogue or the character piecing together a puzzle. It could be a description of a room or the way a lover's hand feels on the character's skin. I always fall just a little in love with my characters."

Harry swallows. He's pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and he releases it to take another sip of the cognac. He's very aware of Draco's eyes on him.

"And when you finish and you send it in," Harry says. "What's that like?"

"When you roll it, tie it, and give it to the owl - " Draco says.

"Or walk it into your editor's office - "

"You have a moment of utter panic - " Draco shudders and drinks deeply from his glass.

"Terror, more like, that it's complete drivel." Harry leans forward and catches himself on the arm of the sofa as he loses his balance. "But you write books. I just write down some words." Harry moves his hand to show writing words.

"Books are words."

"But so many words. And whole stories and the sex."

"Potter, you seems a little obsessed with the sex." Draco stands. His robe falls open and Harry notices the way his pale grey shirt is still tucked neatly into the waist of his trousers. "Why is that?"

Harry stands as well. He had a point about words and sex, but Draco's grey shirt is fitted and Harry looks at how it clings to his stomach and chest and ends at his neck, just below where his pink lips sit slightly parted as if waiting for something to happen. He smiles.

Harry falls against him. It seems inevitable. He's pulled in by Draco's stupid, pink lips and the tilting and swaying of the room. It's not like Apparition, but he feels just as dizzy.

Draco's lips are coated in cognac and Harry licks, trying to get every last bit of the flavour that Draco created himself. The rooms sways again and Harry grips Draco and Draco's suddenly closer and pressing against Harry's body as his tongue presses inside Harry's mouth.

Harry slides his hand down Draco's front. His slim, firm body feels as good as it looks in that silky, tight shirt. He feels the outline of Draco's hardening cock under the fine wool of his trousers. Draco makes a soft sound that goes right to Harry's cock. He rolls his hips and moans in relief when he presses against Draco's thigh.

Draco steps back, gasping. Harry's dizzy and disoriented and Draco blinks at him in surprise.

"I have to - sorry," Harry says, not sure if he's apologising for kissing him or for not doing more. "Go. Thanks, for the drinks. I mean."

Draco has been trying to get something interesting out of him about his current personal life since their first cup of tea. He's not putting it that way, because he never asks that directly. He can't believe that Harry sees as little action as he does and is wondering when Harry became a maiden auntie. He doesn't actually say that because he doesn't pass judgment that directly.

Harry's about to tell him again that he sees the kids as often as he can and sometimes he meets his friends for a drink or has dinner with Ron, Hermione, and the kids. He sees Ginny now and again, mostly about the kids.

"We're going to have to deal with this," Draco says to him. "You're going to have to talk about what happened." He looks at Harry earnestly, holding his quill and looking more fresh and gorgeous than anyone who was pissed out of his gourd last night has any right to.

Harry thinks for a second he means the drunken kiss, and while Harry very much wants to deal with that - he is also not entirely sure he remembers it. He's also not sure that Draco remembers it and he doesn't want to bring it up in case he doesn't. And if he doesn't, if neither of them remembers it, does that mean it ever happened? Harry rubs his head and wonders if perhaps he's still a little drunk.

Draco summons the hated book and taps it with his wand. It flips open to page 875.

"You read that fucking thing?" Harry says, swallowing hard. He feels a jolt of betrayal that takes him by surprise. Then he wonders if Draco was drunk at all last night and he feels even worse.

"Of course I did," Draco says. "I read them all and most of it is so ridiculous that we can ignore it, or what we're writing now contradicts it directly enough that we don't need to go any further. This, on the other hand, unless you are going to let me write that the photo's a fake--"

"It's not."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Draco says. He puts down his quill. "Then we have to deal with it."

"How do you propose we do that? It's real." Harry looks at it again and feels it heavy in the pit of his stomach. "A picture's worth a thousand words."

"Not a thousand of my words," says Draco. He sighs and his eyes seem kind. "There are more than two sides to every story, Harry. Tell me yours, nothing held back, and I'll decide what everyone else gets to hear."

Harry's fingers touch the side of the book. He'd like for this to all just go away. "I have final veto."

"Goes without saying."

"No. It doesn't."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Right, Potter. You have final veto." His face is set with determination. "But I say when we're finished and you let me write it before you say a word."

"Fair enough." Harry watches the way Draco waits, completely still yet utterly ready to act. His lips are just as pink as they were last night. Harry can remember them on his. That's the memory he'd much prefer to revisit.

"It was taken about eight years ago. I had no idea that anyone was about. Obviously. Ginny and I had a terrible night. We'd argued."

"What about?"

"The kids, work, sex. Everything. I was angry and confused and I walked out," Harry says. He hates to say it out loud. He'd known he wasn't leaving for good, but even the memory makes him feel like an utter shit. "I walked out and left her with three little kids because I was confused about what I wanted."

"Are we talking sexual orientation or marriage or kids? Work?" Draco asked. Harry bristles. It feels like Draco's old, combative tone sneaks in for a moment. "Look. I know this isn't easy. Be that as it may, you are going to have to tell me some specifics if you want me to do my job."

"Generally? All of it. Specifically that night? Sexual - " Harry trails off. His voice seems to die in his throat. There's no way he can make Draco understand why that night was so awful. As much as Ginny's accused him of the opposite at times, he's self-aware enough to know that many people would not see this as a worst memory. "Come here," Harry says.

He stands and walks to the back bedroom. Draco raises one eyebrow as Harry steps through. The way he looks at Harry as he follows him makes Harry wonder if he does remember that kiss, but Harry can't read him. He taps a large, ancient, beautifully carved wardrobe with his wand. It had been in Sirius' room and was one of the few things he kept from Grimmauld Place, after he cleared it of Doxies. He taps it again and a shelf slides slowly out. The Pensieve casts a sliver glow on Draco's already silvery hair. Harry doesn't own many very expensive things. He doesn't use his wealth that way. This is an exception he could easily justify in the years immediately after the war, when he'd had to find a way to get away from the memories.

Harry holds his wand to his temple and concentrates on that night. For a moment, he feels the despair and self-loathing he always does if he really thinks about it, and then relief and the memory is pulled from him in a silver strand.

"You're going to show me?" Draco says, staring at Harry with something close to awe. He places his hand on Harry's shoulder and Harry pulls him with him, forward into the memory and backward in time.

They land in a bar. Harry in the memory is dressed in jeans and a fitted, button-down shirt. He glances at Draco and tries to read if the intense gaze is appreciative. The younger Harry leans against the bar in the low light and tries to look more confident, and much less guilty, than he feels. He scans the room, draining his glass and calling to the barkeeper for another.

A gorgeous and very young man sidles up to the bar and leans against it, right next to Harry. Harry can remember the racing of his heart. Harry at the bar glances at the ceiling and then drums his fingers on the bar. The young man turns and smiles at him and looks him up and down. They exchange a few words and Harry leans closer. He smiles.

"There's a back room," the young man says. He nods toward the back of the room. "I'm game if you are."

Dream Harry shakes his head. The young man looks down, his confidence shaken. Harry watches himself rush to take that look off the lad's face. He remembers thinking he should go home and talk to Ginny. He should tell her how unhappy he's felt. They should work it out. Anything but this with three kids sleeping at home. Then the young man runs his hand up Harry's leg and Harry remembers feeling all the longing he'd been feeling for years come together in that touch. "Not there," Harry in the memory says. He'd thought they were less likely to be seen somewhere out of the way, somewhere no one was looking for a couple who had no business being together. Idiot.

"I don't care if you're married," the young man says.

"That obvious?" Harry asks. The young man shrugs and Harry takes his hand.

Harry glances at Draco. He looks impassive, as if he's waiting for the action to start.

"What's your name?" The younger Harry asks.

"Alex," says that young man, smiling.

Draco and Harry follow the two out of the bar and into the alley. The alley behind the pub ends in a brick wall at one end and the street at the other. Harry backs Alex against the wall and he winces now to see how eager and forceful he was. He watches himself press his body against Alex and lean to kiss him. The light from the streetlamp at the end of the alley falls across Alex's face. Harry in the memory freezes. Even from here, he can see how young Alex looks. Harry in the memory reaches to touch his face and feels the smooth cheek.

His younger self clenches his fists at his sides and steps back away from Alex. The boy looks up at him and Harry can see from here what he didn't see in the light of the bar and with the adrenalin rushing through his body - the vulnerability and fear. He's a terrified, excited kid finally letting himself go after what he wanted.

"What?" Alex asks. "Why'd you stop?"

"Not tonight," Harry says. "Not me." Right then, right there in the alley, they're not so different in their fear and hope and feeling of jumping off a cliff - except that Harry had a first time many years ago with someone important to him. "Find someone your age, someone you care about. Don't do this in an alley."

The memory dissolves around them, Alex's crestfallen face the last thing they see.

Back in the guest room, Harry turns away from Draco and looks at the window. "I wandered around for the rest of the night. I couldn't go home to Ginny and the kids. All I could think was that my family was falling apart and that in my selfish desperation to get off, I'd almost - well, I won't tell you how many times I'd tried to guess how much older Alex was than James."

His face burns with it. He'd felt like he'd turned into someone else. Someone he never wanted to be.

"I'm sorry," Draco says. "And thank you for showing me that. It certainly explains the photo. But, I'm sorry - that was your worst night? Given what I know of your youth, I find that a little surprising."

Harry feels the energy drain from him. He had thought Draco was starting to understand. He sighs.

"I've got it wrong," Draco says.

"I went to Ron and Hermione that night. I told them - I was pissed out of my head or I would never have told Ginny's brother. Ron thought I wanted him to investigate me for kissing the boy. He started going on about how I didn't really know he was that young. Hermione told me I hadn't done anything, that I'd stopped. She told me to talk to Ginny, but to stop beating myself up."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Granger may have had a point."

"You're being kind," Harry says. "I never - I appreciate that."

"But I've missed the mark," Draco says. His eyes search Harry's face and Harry feels like Draco's looking right through him. "You stopped, but you stopped for the wrong reasons." He moves next to Harry. Harry can feel his closeness on his skin. "You stopped because you thought he might have been underage, not because you thought of your family."

"If the light hadn't hit his face, I wouldn't have stopped," Harry says. "I didn't want to stop."

"So you're human after all."

"I let them all down," Harry says. "It doesn't matter that I stopped. I became someone else that night and I only thought of myself. The outcome was the same."

"Don't you think the outcome would have been the same regardless?"

"No."

"If you had told your wife you thought you might be gay before you went looking for a man to prove it to yourself - "

"Don't."

" - you would have your Gryffindor honour intact and you would have dragged her through the whole thing with you. Merlin, Harry. No wonder you live the life of a monk." He puts his hand on Harry's knee and Harry forces himself not to flinch away. "You're still punishing yourself."

Harry can't look at him. Draco touches Harry's face with the back of his hand. Harry raises his eyes and looks at Draco's mouth. Those pink lips curved into a gentle smile. Harry leans close.

Draco's lips touch his. Harry leans in and presses into the kiss. Relief and desire wash over him. Draco pulls back much too soon.

"Not tonight, Harry," Draco says. His hand is back on Harry's knee. Harry wants to say something, but the words stick in his throat. "Not that I want to go. I - have to write. Now, I think. I think I have all of the raw material I need for the book. I think I have the ending."

Harry opens his eyes as the light filters in. They feel sandy and dry. He's tossed and turned all night, and although he must have slept because he dreamt about Draco, he feels as if he hasn't slept at all.

He expects it before it taps at the window. Draco's owl arrives, carrying a thick envelope. He takes it, and wonders if he's still dreaming. He can't believe he's holding the book in his hand. The envelope is filled with leaves of parchment with Draco's handwriting all over them. It's messier than usual. He must have been up all night.

The note is in the messiest script of all and reads, You'll have to read this sometime, so here it is. Let me know if I got it right.

Harry stumbles back to his bed and perches on the side. The envelope falls to the floor by his feet and he turns the first page. A Man of Deeds: A Working Title is scrawled at the top.

The writing is effortless to read. The story doesn't start where everyone else starts it - in a cupboard. He starts with who Harry is now. Harry blinks and he's finished the first chapter.

When his fingers begin to ache, he realises it's nearly lunchtime and he's never had his first cup of tea. He carries the manuscript with him to the kitchen and fills the kettle. An hour later, the tea is cold and Harry turns over the last page. He still has trouble imagining allowing the public to read this, but not because it would embarrass or shame him or his family. There is nothing that isn't true and Draco has somehow managed to paint a fairly positive, yet honest enough picture, of Harry that he doesn't feel ill reading it. It doesn't glorify him. It doesn't glorify battles and death, and Harry can see how it might actually, if people pay attention, help history not to repeat itself.

Above all, however, one thought keeps running through his mind. This is a love story.

Harry Apparates to Draco's doorstep and knocks before he knows what he's going to say.

Draco opens the door and beats him to it. "I've given the manuscript to Lee. It's in his hands, on his desk. Right now," Draco says. There's a little line between his eyebrows and Harry wants to reach out and smooth it.

"You're panicking," he says, feeling a smile form on his lips.

"Of course I am." Draco frowns at him. His eyes dart to the book under Harry's arm. "You read it."

"You sent it to me. With instructions."

"When have you ever done what I say? Why did you choose now to do what I say?"

"Draco," Harry says. He finally steps across Draco's threshold and into his home. Draco doesn't move back and their bodies brush against each other as Harry enters. "The book. It's really - " Harry stops. He bites his lip and Draco seems to be holding his breath. "It's not what I expected."

"I do try and defy expectations when I can't exceed them," Draco says, quickly. "How did I surprise you? I'd quite like to know that. You hate it more than you expected?"

"Merlin, calm down," Harry says. "No. I don't hate it. It - it was much easier for me to read than I expected. It doesn't make me want to hurt someone."

"I won't pretend I wasn't hoping for a slightly more positive reaction than that." Draco crosses his arms over his chest. Harry notices that Draco's just an inch or so taller than him and that he likes the way Draco has to look down a little when they stand this close. "At least it doesn't make you want to hurt me. That's something."

Harry reaches and touches the back of Draco's hand. "Quite the opposite."

The tension drains from Draco's face and the line between his eyebrows softens. "I told you. I always fall a little in love with my characters."

"Invite me in for a drink," Harry says, moving into Draco's living room. "We should celebrate with some of that cognac."

Draco follows him inside and Harry's aware of how close he is. His pulse races with anticipation.

"Here's to you not hating it," Draco says. He hands Harry a glass and raises his own in a toast.

"Draco," Harry says. The words stick in his throat. There are only a few people with whom he's ever shared this much. There are even fewer who ever seemed to really hear him. "I would never have imagined that there would be a biography that I'd want to put my name on. This is it."

"Autobiography, Harry," Draco says. "I'm a ghost, remember? Besides, I doubt you want Antonio Amore to author the one you give your seal of approval." He laughs softly and takes a long drink from his glass.

The warmth of the cognac spreads through his body and, with another sip, relaxes his racing mind. "I want you to put your name on it. Draco Malfoy, I mean," he says.

Draco blinks at him. The surprised, almost delighted, look makes him even more handsome and Harry wants to kiss him as much as he's ever wanted anything.

"A publicity stunt seems rather out of character," Draco says. He tilts his head and his hair falls across his face. Harry brushes it aside so he can see Draco's eyes.

"It's not a publicity stunt. It would be wrong, dishonest, to claim that I wrote this. I could never write this," Harry says. He steps closer so he can feel the heat of Draco's body.

"Ah, now that's in character."

Harry kisses him. Draco's lips press back against his and Harry twines his hand, finally, in Draco's soft hair. Harry feels dizzy and a little drunk. He licks over Draco's lips and his knees nearly buckle when Draco parts them and the tips of their tongues touch. Harry curls his tongue around Draco's and pulls back. Draco is flushed and his lips are kiss-stung. He exhales sharply and reaches for his glass.

"Not like this," Harry says, stepping back from Draco so he can think.

Draco frowns. "I am well over seventeen, I assure you." Draco says. "You're only problem would be not continuing what you've started." Draco swirls the cognac in his glass. "Mine is that I feel like I've written myself into one of my own novels."

He takes the glass from Draco's hand and puts it on the table. "Don't - I want to know that this is not because we're drunk."

"I wasn't that drunk before," Draco says. "I thought you were."

Harry places his hand flat on Draco's chest and moves so their bodies are nearly touching. "I wanted you when I first saw you at my door. It just took me some time to sort out that it was more than my cock reacting."

"Touching, Potter," Draco says.

"You're the romance writer, not me."

"Clearly," says Draco. He mirrors Harry's movements and places his hand on Harry's chest. "I did refer to you being a man of action in the title, not words, for a reason. Stop talking."

Harry slides his hand down Draco's body. He can feel the sharp intake of breath when he smoothes over Draco's stomach. He leans to kiss Draco's jaw and moves his hand lower. He brushes his hand over Draco's half-hard cock and Draco sighs and rolls his hips.

"You're gorgeous," Harry murmurs against Draco's neck.

Draco's hands thread through his hair and Harry's scalp tingles where the pads of Draco's fingers touch him. Harry moves his shaking hands to Draco's clothes and pushes his robe off his shoulders. He has thought again and again over the past few weeks about how Draco's long, slim body might look under the perfectly tailored clothes. His cock fills as his fingers touch Draco's smooth skin.

Draco trails his hands over Harry's jaw and neck and works quickly to pull his robe and shirt from his body. "Come here," Draco says. He pulls Harry to the sofa, leaving their discarded robes and shirts in a pile by the fireplace.

The backs of Harry's legs hit the sofa, but he doesn't sit. Draco's mouth is on his chest, pressing open mouthed kisses to his skin. When Draco's tongue laves over his nipple, Harry gasps and grabs the back of Draco's head, pressing his mouth harder against him.

"Harder," he groans.

"Yes," Draco hisses.

His mouth continues to drive Harry mad and he reaches to unfasten Harry's trousers. Harry feels lightheaded and his heart is racing.

"In your novels, this is the point where the character is transported to another plane on a wave of pleasure," Harry says, just to slow this down.

"Give me a moment," Draco says, with a crooked smile. "Sit." He pushes Harry and Harry falls to the sofa. "I've wanted to do this for a long time," Draco whispers.

Harry wants to ask what he means and how long. He can't speak because Draco's pink lips are sliding over his cock, sucking the head into the tight heat of his mouth.

"Fuck," Harry groans. He rolls his hips and Draco sucks harder. "Fuck," he groans again, watching Draco's head move in his lap.

Draco's hand is on his balls, squeezing lightly and his tongue presses against the underside of his cock. Harry clenches his hands in Draco's hair, probably too tightly, but Draco moans and pulls Harry deeper.

"Ah, yes, Draco, no," Harry stammers. "Come here, fuck, come here."

He tugs on Draco's hair and then his shoulders, pulling him up and onto Harry's lap. Draco's hair is a mess, something Harry has never seen. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright. Harry can't take his eyes of his swollen, wet lips.

"I don't like being interrupted," Draco says, but he looks down at Harry hungrily and grinds down into Harry's lap. He unfastens his own trousers and stands to toss them in the pile by the fireplace.

Harry palms Draco's hip and pulls him to him, back into his lap. "Sit," Harry says. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."

Draco sits and slides forward in Harry's lap, his knees pressing into Harry's hips on either side. Harry licks a stripe up his palm, and never looking away from Draco's face, takes both of their cocks in his hand.

"Harder," Draco says, before Harry's completed two strokes. He rocks in Harry's lap, pressing down on Harry with a heat that envelopes him.

"Yeah," Harry moans. He squeezes harder, pressing the soft heads of their cocks together at each pass. "I want to fuck you."

"Yes," Draco says. His hand joins Harry's moving faster. "Yes, fuck me," he moans, but he doesn't stop and his hand is over Harry's guiding him, taking them higher and closer.

"I'm going to," Harry gasps. He thrusts sharp and hard into their hands.

"Come," Draco moans.

Harry watches Draco's face as he feels the hot come spill over his hand. Draco's mouth opens and his face crumples in bliss and Harry's never seen anything so gorgeous. Draco doesn't stop stroking, doesn't stop moving.

"Come," he says again.

"Draco," Harry moans. His orgasm pounds through him and he digs the fingers of one hand into Draco's thigh as the other moves on their cocks, taking them through the last shudders of their orgasms.

Draco laughs, shivers, and pulls Harry's hand away. His head falls to Harry's shoulder. Harry lets him breathe for one moment before he pulls his head back up and kisses him long and slow until his heart slows and his breathing is back to normal. Draco presses his forehead to Harry's.

"Does this change the ending?" Harry asks. The tips of their noses touch and Harry can't remember when he was this close to someone.

"An epilogue, perhaps," Draco says. Harry can feel his smile.

"No," Harry says. "On second thought, this, and what's going to come next, when you take me into your bedroom, isn't for anyone else's eyes."

"I agree completely. And that means Lee Jordan was right, which is something I despise," Draco says. He stands and takes Harry's hand.

"About what?" Harry asks. He lets Draco pull him up, and overbalances a little so their bodies press together.

"When I told him he was insane to ask me to do this, he told me he had the feeling that if we spent enough time together, we'd find we didn't actually disagree about everything," Draco says. "I wonder what else we can agree upon."

"We'll see," Harry says, following him into his room. He sinks with Draco into his big bed. "So, tell me," Harry says. "When you write those sex scenes, do you base it on anything?"

Draco pulls Harry to him. "We'll see," he says, moving on top of Harry.