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Good morning, kitten,

It was so hard to leave you this morning. I almost rang in sick to work just so I could watch you sleeping. You look like an angel when you’re asleep. So beautiful and peaceful and innocent. I wanted to wake you with the softest of touches and the tenderest of kisses.

My little lamb, I can’t believe I hurt you last night. Sometimes I think a daemon possesses me because what other explanation could there be? You are the light of my life, and I should cherish you every second of every day. It’s just that I want you all for myself. That’s how much I love you. When I hear that you talk with other men, something just snaps in my head. It’s not your fault, baby. It’s mine. It’s just that I’m so afraid I’ll lose you because why would someone as smart and beautiful and sexy as you want to be with someone as ordinary as me?

I swear to God and all His saints that I will never raise my hand against you ever again. I’m going to get help. When I see the bruises I leave on your heavenly body, I want to kill myself. I’m unworthy of your precious love.

Please let me make it up to you. It’s Beltane, a day of new beginnings, and this will be our new beginning. I’m going to wine you and dine you, and then I’m going to make love to you all night long. You deserve nothing less, my sweetest flower. If I could, I’d give you the world and everything in it. I love you so much that it makes my heart ache. Promise you’ll never leave me.

Your devoted fiancé

Draco reached out to caress a petal in the massive bouquet of fragrant Casablanca lilies on the credenza. They’re the most expensive flowers in the world, but they’re ugly compared to your beauty. Draco read the card and smiled. Marcus was such a sap.

In the dining room, there were hot coffee and warm apple pastries on the table and a plate with a lavender orchid resting on top of it. Every time it happened, Marcus’s gestures became more and more extravagant.

Draco raised a traitorous hand to touch his face without even realising he’d moved it. He’d healed the bruise when he got up, but his cheek was still tender. He’d deserved it. He never should’ve chatted with that man at the Kneazle Kafé . It was stupid. What had he been thinking? Marcus had a million friends, and there was bound to be one of them wherever Draco went. Sometimes when he was in a dark mood, he wondered if Marcus paid them to follow him. Or maybe it was a private detective. How else could Marcus have found out about an innocent three-minute conversation with an unattractive middle-aged wizard in a crowded coffee shop?

Marcus only did it when he got jealous, which used to be infrequently. But it was getting worse, and Draco didn’t know why. After all they were going to be married in August. Why on earth would Marcus be getting more jealous and possessive when Draco was wearing the enormous engagement diamond Marcus had given him? What man with half a brain could possibly think he was single? It didn’t make sense. The only answer was that Draco was doing something subconsciously. He’d have to be more careful. One day Marcus would go too far and then kill himself in remorse. Draco wouldn’t be able to bear that. Marcus was his whole world.

He was deep in thought, so when the Floo bell rang, he jumped, his heart suddenly lodging itself in his throat. But then his mother stepped out of the fireplace, and he released the breath he’d been holding. She cupped his face and kissed him in greeting, and Draco couldn’t help but wince with pain. He watched helplessly as her eyes filled with tears.

“Why, Draco? Why do you keep letting him do this to you? One of these days, he’s going to kill you. Sweetheart, you know your father and I would move heaven and earth to protect you if you leave him. He’d never be able to hurt you again . . .”

Draco pulled away from her caress and glared at her.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Mother? Marcus didn’t mean it, and he apologised.” He pointed at the lilies. “Do you think he would do something like that if he didn’t love me?”

His mother sighed wearily.

“I don’t question that he loves you. That’s not the problem. The problem, I think, is that he loves you too much. Just think for a second about what happened to his mother, Draco. A child doesn’t watch his father beat his wife to a pulp every other night and not be affected in some way.”

Draco felt the familiar chill in his blood at his mother’s reference to Matilda Flint’s violent death at the hands of her husband.

“Marcus is not his father,” he said angrily. “If anything he learned from his parents’ experience. His father never sought help, and Marcus has.”

“And how many therapists has he gone through? Last time I mentioned it, you said there’d been five. That is not the sign of a man who is sincerely trying to change.”

“They were all terrible,” Draco snapped. “None of them recognised that I was the root of the problem . . .”

His mother whirled away from him, drew her wand and pointed it the bouquet. He watched in horror as the flowers Marcus had given him began to wilt and decay.

“Mother! Stop it! Stop! What are you doing? He’ll kill me when he sees that!”

His mother slumped into a chair and stared unseeingly at the wall. Her face was ashen with despair. He hadn’t seen her look so defeated since the Dark Lord moved into the Manor. He couldn’t bear it and turned away. He cast every spell at the lilies he could think of, but they remained as dead as his mother’s eyes.

“Don’t make me choose,” he said hoarsely.

His mother didn’t reply.

“Mother,” he pleaded. “Please.”

She stood up slowly.

“I’m meeting Andromeda for lunch,” she said. Her voice was faint but resolute. “I’m already late.”

Draco glanced at the clock. It was half past nine. He watched her walk to the fireplace like a condemned convict walking toward the gallows. She didn’t turn around until she’d scooped up a handful of Floo powder.

“Good-bye, sweetheart,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t watch you kill yourself in slow motion. And I can’t let your father go to Azkaban for killing that . . . that monster.”

Draco’s eyes widened with shock. He’d never heard her speak in that manner in his entire life. He opened his mouth to call her back, but she was already gone.

It was mere minutes after Gringotts closed when Marcus stepped out of the fireplace and pulled Draco into his arms for a passionate kiss that sent the blood rushing to Draco’s groin.

“Baby,” he said, his voice gravelly with need. “I never thought this day would end. I’ve been hard and aching for you for hours!”

He stepped back, his hands still holding on tightly to Draco’s biceps.

“You’re wearing the robe I bought you.”

Draco smiled. “Of course,” he said and then lowered his voice seductively. “Do we have time to make love before we need to be at the restaurant?”

Marcus moaned and reached down to squeeze Draco’s cock.

“You’re hard for me,” he growled.

Draco started undoing the buttons of his robe. His cock hardened even more under Marcus’s devouring gaze.

Marcus unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers. His cock was rigid and already wet.

“Suck it, kitten,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Suck my big cock. I want to see you gag on it.”

Draco sank to his knees, and Marcus grabbed his prick, smearing his precome on Draco’s lips.

“Taste it. Stick your tongue in my slit. Worship my cock.”

He groaned when Draco obeyed his command.

“Now suck it. I’m gonna fuck your prissy noise-hole. I’m gonna come down your throat.”

Draco swallowed his cock to the root, and immediately Marcus grabbed his head and held it still while he thrust into Draco’s mouth, grunted obscenely, and then came. Draco couldn’t have been sucking him longer than thirty seconds.

Cold dread crept into the marrow of Draco’s bones.

Marcus looked down at his softening prick as though it belonged to someone else.

“You know I don’t like it when you do that, petal,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I thought I’ve told you a million times not to make me shoot too soon.”

Draco swallowed and looked down at the floor, praying that assuming a submissive pose would save him from being hit.

“What do you say, angel?” Marcus demanded fiercely.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Draco replied.

“Look up at me.”

Draco clenched his jaw and braced himself for the punch, but instead of hitting him, Marcus stepped closer to him and slapped his cheeks with his wilted prick, smearing Draco’s face with his own spit.

Draco felt himself shut down and float away from his body until he was looking down at himself.

“All right,” Marcus said. “I accept your apology, my sweet little lamb.”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief as Marcus tucked his dick back in his pants and zipped his trousers. He helped Draco to his feet and kissed the back of the hand that wore the engagement ring.

“I know you won’t do it again,” he said. “Now where is that lovely bouquet I bought you?”

Harry had heard that it used to be a sacred night celebrated in awakening fields with bonfires and dancing, but now it was just an excuse for young urbanites to get drunk and make gigantic arseholes of themselves. The unlit streets were littered with broken bottles, confetti and vomit. Revellers wearing tatters of bright-coloured cloth stumbled around drunk, whooping and chanting, and waving burning torches like lunatics. Walpurgisnacht. Along with All Hallows’ Eve, it was Harry’s most dreaded night of the year. Every last one of his Aurors was out on patrol and would be till dawn when all of these bloody idiots finally ran out of Maypole Punch and passed out in their beds.

He and Susan shoved their way through the boisterous crowd with their wands drawn, shouting “Aurors! Get out of the way!” and being blatantly ignored. The faces he looked into were slack with potions or drink, their cheeks ruddy and their eyes red-veined. “Harry Potter! The May King!” they bellowed, trying to grab Harry’s sleeves, not caring that he and Susan were obviously responding to an emergency. He was about to start throwing hexes when they finally came to the enormous glass doors of Malfoy Manor of London – Luxury Apartment Homes for the Discriminating City Dweller. They rolled their eyes at each other. Lucius Malfoy was such a snobby douche bag.

They were sniggering and shaking the confetti out of their hair as they pushed through the doors, but as soon as they walked into the posh lobby, they could hear thumps and bangs and shouting, which the night watchman told them came from the third floor. Grim residents stalked by with their heads down and their hands in their coat pockets. Obviously this wasn’t the first time they’d heard such things. Harry didn’t even bother to stop them. He already knew what they’d say when he questioned them. It’s none of my business. I don’t want to get involved. He’d heard it before.

“Bloody serves him right for staying with that psychopath,” a passing man whispered to the pretty witch on his arm. “He must like having the shit kicked out of him.”

Susan glared at the man’s back.

“Would he say that if the couple wasn’t gay?” she said. “Arsehole. What’s the plan?”

“How do we know they’re gay?” Harry asked.

“One of the firecalls. The cow felt the need to tell us even though she wasn’t asked. As if straight couples don’t beat the hell out of each other. What’s the plan, Harry? Nothing good’s happening up there.”

“We’ll take the back stairs,” he replied. They weren’t in their Auror robes, but they had their wands drawn and people would recognise him. No good would come from starting a panic – or even worse, drawing a gawking crowd.

“Where’s Stavers?” he asked.

“Interviewing one of the people who firecalled. He said he’ll meet us up there. It doesn’t sound like we should waste anymore time talking about it though . . .”

Harry nodded. He wished he could be anywhere else at the moment. He hated domestics more than any other emergency. They were messy and ugly, and the victims always went back to their abusers. It was like stitching someone’s splinched limb back on and then watching them tear it off again. Plus domestics were bloody dangerous – both for the victim and for the Aurors who responded.

“Keep people down here till this is sorted. Tell them the lift’s not working,” he told the watchman, and then he and Susan sprinted up the stairs. When they reached the flat in question, Harry pounded on the door.

“Aurors!” he yelled. “Open up or we’re coming in!”

He waited for what he felt was a reasonable amount of time and was just about to cast Expulso when he heard a panic-stricken voice screaming frantically for them to go away.

“Don’t come in here! Leave! For God’s sake, I’m begging you . . . ! Please! He says he’ll kill me! He says he’ll kill me if you come in! Please, in Merlin’s name, go away!”

Harry froze. He knew that voice. He’d know it anywhere.

“What should we do?” Susan hissed.

“Is there another way in?”

She shook her head.

Fuck.

Harry was just about to ask if she knew who the flat belonged to when he heard a loud crash and a screamed plea for mercy.

“Isn’t it interesting how domestics rarely involve magic?” Susan said, pointing her wand at the door.

“Too impersonal,” Harry replied. “The bloke wants to use his hands . . .”

“It’s a kind of ownership,” Stavers broke in, panting from running up the stairs. He was the real expert on domestics. Harry and Susan were only with him because it was fucking Beltane and Stavers’s partner was eight months pregnant.

Suddenly they heard a strangled gurgle on the other side of the door and a sound like hands scrabbling at the floor. Harry couldn’t take it another second.

“I’m going in,” he hissed.

Stavers tried to grab his arm. “Don’t be a bloody idiot! We don’t know what we’re walking into!” he yelled, but it was too late. Harry had already blown the door off its hinges with a flick of his wand and a shouted Reducto. If anyone was going to beat the shit out of Draco Malfoy, it was going to be him.

The sight that greeted them was horrific. Splintered furniture covered the floor of the lavish apartment, and there was blood splattered on the walls. A fish tank had been shattered, and the bodies of exotic fish littered the wet carpet. Near the fireplace, Marcus Flint was kneeling on the floor as he choked a motionless Malfoy, who must’ve been in the process of trying to escape. There was Floo Powder dusting the hearth stones.

Flint released Malfoy when he looked up and saw Harry standing over him with his wand pointed at his face.

“Potter,” he panted, chest heaving from the exertion of beating up his lover. “So, it’s you then. I should’ve guessed. Fucking little slut!” He slapped Malfoy hard across the face and then looked up at Harry again. “Did he hump up and down on your dick like it was a fucking pogo stick, moaning like a whore? Feels bloody brilliant, doesn’t it?”

Ugh.

“Shut up,” Harry said dispassionately and cast Incarcerous with another infinitesimal flick of his wand. It was gratifying to see Flint’s eyes widen into saucers of fear before narrowing into a mocking squint again.

“Jesus,” Susan said. “The bastard was seconds away from murder.”

Harry turned around to see his partner on her knees casting the minimal spells to keep Malfoy breathing. He shouted Expecto Patronum and watched his stag leap through a broken window and disappear into the night. A team from St. Mungo’s would be there in minutes.

“He asked for it.”

Harry wheeled around.

“You bastards always say that,” he said. “Try to be more original, Flint.”

Flint grinned the kind of grin that Harry found hard not to wipe off arrestees’ faces with a good solid punch to the jaw. But he’d been warned that if he did that again, he’d be sacked, Harry Potter or not.

“Don’t try to tell me you’re not jealous,” Flint said with an infuriating Slytherin drawl. “You’ve always wanted to beat the hell out of Draco, haven’t you, Potter? Don’t try to pretend you haven’t.”

Harry turned away. Flint was a tosser and not worth the blush of shame that tinged Harry’s cheeks at his words. Yes, he’d wanted to beat the hell out of Malfoy, but that was years ago. And moreover his fantasies hadn’t involved an unarmed Malfoy with tears and snot slicking his bruised face.

Bloody hell.

“You’re an animal,” Harry said, turning to spit his words in Flint’s face. “You’re nearly twice his size. Proud of yourself, you fucking coward?”

Stavers untied Flint and then cuffed him none too gently.

“He’ll be paying my bail as soon as he comes to and then slobbering all over my cock as soon as we get home,” Flint gloated. “Just you watch.”

And he probably would. Harry had seen it a hundred times before. Malfoy, himself, had probably already done so in the past. Why else would Flint be so smug?

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Not this time, Flint,” he said coldly. “Not this time. You’ll be spending the night in a holding cell – and a lot longer if I get my way. Which, as you might imagine, I usually do.”

He smiled wolfishly as he watched Flint’s certainty falter and give way to fear – and then to panic.

It was a lovely sight. More than worth the hassle. He gave Flint a little wave and blew him a kiss as Stavers shoved the arsehole out the door.

Malfoy was still unconscious when Harry took him back to his place. The Emergency Healers had arrived at the crime scene and stabilised Malfoy’s condition. They’d wanted to remove him to St. Mungo’s, but Harry denied their request, much to their consternation. This wasn’t the first time they’d responded to one of his Patronuses. They knew to expect unusual demands and flippant reamrks. Harry knew he sometimes relied on his reputation to get what he shouldn’t have and do what he shouldn’t do, but he thought it was a fair exchange given all the fame shit he had to endure.

That said, Harry knew he probably shouldn’t have prevented the Healers from taking Malfoy to St. Mungo’s. His condition was still precarious, and Harry had no real medical training to speak of. But he’d rather be damned than see Flint’s prediction turn out to be right. He wanted Malfoy somewhere he could keep an eye on him. He’d dealt with too many victims of domestic violence to believe that Malfoy wouldn’t run to Flint’s side as soon as he could. He’d become Flint’s most passionate advocate and demand the prosecutor drop his charges. He’d claim that it was his fault Flint lost his temper and nearly killed him. Malfoy had money. He’d pay Flint’s bail no matter how high it was, and then he’d hire the best solicitor in the country. Flint would walk free, his arm circling Malfoy’s shoulders possessively, and smile for the reporters. They’d probably even kiss for a photograph. Just thinking about it made Harry gag.

Holding Malfoy against his chest, Harry Apparated to the roof of his building and opened the trap door. Malfoy wasn’t very heavy, but it was awkward trying to carry him down the narrow stairs to his flat. Harry managed it – only realising afterward that he could’ve used Mobilicorpus.

The Healers had cleaned the blood off Malfoy and put him in a hospital gown, so all Harry had to do was settle him into the bed in his spare room. When he’d finished, he went to the kitchen and retrieved a glass and a jug of water. He cast a cooling charm on the jug and placed it on the bedside table next to the lamp along with a note that read You’re in the home of a friend. There’s no need to be alarmed. You’ve been hurt, and you need to recover from your injuries. If you need anything, ring this bell, but be aware that I cast a reverse Protego Totalum, which means you can’t leave without alerting me. Harry placed a small brass bell beside the letter, fluffed Malfoy’s pillow, checked his pulse and breathing, and went to the living room for a much needed glass of whisky. He’d been tempted to add to the note something about Flint being a twat who should rot in Azkaban, but decided not to. It might have the unintended effect of igniting the fierce protective streak of a victim of domestic violence. Harry definitely didn’t want to deal with that. It was bad enough in a stranger, but coming from someone he knew would make him sick.

Harry heard nothing from Malfoy until about five o’clock in the morning when the tinkle of the bell drifted through the fog of an exhausted sleep. Harry got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, and tucked his wand into the waistband of his pyjamas. Who knew how Malfoy would react when he saw the “friend” whose home he was in?

Harry tiptoed down the hall and knocked on the door of the spare room. Malfoy croaked what sounded like “come in.” Harry took a deep breath and turned the doorknob, prepared to hear a screech or a curse or both.

But all Malfoy did was sigh a defeated sigh.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” Harry replied.

“Fuck.”

Malfoy was sitting up, which meant the Healers had successfully mended his internal injuries. He placed his palm against his forehead and closed his eyes for a second.

“You were one of the Aurors,” he said wearily.

“Yeah,” Harry answered.

Malfoy nodded, and a long uncomfortable silence spread between them.

“Are you, I don’t know, hungry or something?”

Malfoy shook his head.

“The why’d you ring the bell?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Because I wanted to figure out where the hell I was, you idiot. Although I probably should’ve been able to guess given your saviour-complex and your horrible taste in curtains.”

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, determined to quell his irritation. Malfoy worked for the Ministry, so it wasn’t as though they hadn’t seen each other since the day Harry had gone to Malfoy Manor to return Malfoy’s wand. They often rode in the same lift, sat at nearby tables in the Ministry’s canteen, and waited in neighbouring queues for the mass-commuting Floos. They’d long passed the point where they grunted grudging hellos. They now nodded and said “good day” and occasionally even chatted about Quidditch, but they certainly weren’t close enough that Malfoy might find it reasonable that he wake up to find himself in Harry’s flat.

“Marcus . . . ?”

Harry fisted his hands in the pockets of his robe. Here it came. He’d been expecting it, of course, but not so soon.

“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally. “What about him?”

“Where is he?”

Harry took another deep breath. He wanted to say where he bloody well should be, but that would only force Malfoy to defend his lover.

“He’s cooling down in a secure location.”

Malfoy inhaled sharply. “You mean he’s imprisoned?”

Harry could barely keep his lip from twitching with disdain. Intellectually, he knew why battered victims wanted nothing more than to be reconciled with their abusive partners, but that didn’t mean he coped with it graciously when confronted by actual real-life victims. He wanted to shake Malfoy’s shoulders and ask him what the hell was wrong with him that he wanted to stay with a man who terrorised and tortured him, but that would only make the situation worse. Malfoy would say that he loved Flint, that Flint wasn’t usually “like that,” that Flint had a “temper problem,” even that he, Malfoy, had provoked it and deserved it . . .

“Thank Merlin.”

Harry felt his jaw drop.

“What?”

Malfoy lay back and turned his head so he was looking up at the ceiling.

“I said ‘Thank Merlin,’” he replied with a passionless voice.

“You mean you don’t mind that he’s in jail?”

Malfoy closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

“No,” he said, and than after a long moment added, “He was going to kill me. If not tonight then someday soon.”

Harry took a deep breath and then released it along with the tension that had tightened his muscles when he’d first heard Malfoy mention Flint’s name.

“Well, he can’t find you here,” Harry said. “You’re safe.”

“My hero,” Malfoy said sneeringly.

That was the kind of remark that reminded Harry why Malfoy was not his favourite person.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Because if not, I’m going back to bed.”

“Nothing except a new jaw,” Malfoy snapped.

Not my problem, Harry wanted to say, but of course he didn’t. Despite Malfoy being Malfoy, Harry was heartened that he was relieved that Flint was in jail. That was an unmistakably good sign.

The following morning, Malfoy limped into the kitchen with a determined expression on his bruised face, and once again Harry steeled himself to hear that Malfoy was feeling better and wanted Harry to take him to DMLE headquarters so he could bail Flint out – and then slobber all over his dick, Harry heard Flint’s voice say in his head. He cringed and set down his fork. His fry-up didn’t seem as tempting as it had before.

But then Malfoy surprised him again.

“There are a few things I want from my . . . from the place where I was living,” he said shakily, not looking at Harry’s face. “Would you mind going with me to retrieve them?”

Harry started to ask why, given that Flint was still in jail, but he stopped himself. Malfoy must clearly want company if he was willing to ask Harry to go with him.

“What about Parkinson?” Harry asked. Last he knew she and Malfoy were still as close as they’d been at Hogwarts.

Malfoy pulled a chair away from the table, wincing as he lowered himself into it.

“I can’t face her,” he said in a monotone. He looked down at his hands where they lay in his lap.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s been through this a hundred times before.” Draco said with a heavy sigh. “She told me a couple of months ago that she didn’t want to hear from me unless I’d left Marcus.”

Ah. So this had happened before. And Malfoy had gone back. It really must’ve happened a hundred times if Parkinson had decided she needed to end their long-time friendship for the sake of her sanity.

Harry had no desire to take her place.

“Look,” he said, and Malfoy flinched at his brusque tone. “I’ll go with you, but you’re coming back here and staying with me until your injuries are fully healed. That’s the deal. After that, you’re on your own. I don’t have the time or the patience to try to keep you from going back to him. I’m not going to be a shoulder for you to cry on when he beats the shit out of you again.”

Malfoy lifted his head and fixed Harry with a resentful glare.

“Fuck you,” he said. “Why am I surprised you don’t understand?”

“If you were, then you shouldn’t have been. I’ll protect you from being assaulted or killed, but I’m not a bloody therapist. Want some breakfast?”

“I said I’m not going back! I told you that last night!”

“Hhm hhm,” Harry said. “Again, do you want some breakfast?”

“No!” Malfoy yelled, but then seemed to think better of his tone and meekly replied “yes.”

Hell.

“I’m not going to punch you in the face if you don’t want to eat my cooking,” Harry said. “Look what he’s done to you, Malfoy.”

Harry expected Malfoy to yell at him or even leap up and go to the fireplace, but he hadn’t expected Malfoy to put his face in his hands and start to cry quietly. He was at a complete loss as to how to respond, so he simply stood and went to get Malfoy a plate. He piled it full with eggs and beans and sausages and put a stack of buttered toast on a smaller plate.

“Marmalade or jam?” he asked.

“Marmalade” came the muffled reply.

Harry set the plates and silverware on the table and returned to his chair. Malfoy still didn’t lift his head, so Harry started eating again.

Malfoy had stopped crying while Harry was assembling his meal. After a moment, he looked up and stared bleary-eyed at his plate.

“I haven’t had a breakfast like this in ages,” he said. “You’re a disgusting peasant, Potter.”

Harry’s mouth was full, so all he did was shrug in reply.

Malfoy picked up his fork and took a tiny prissy bite. Harry was just about to say something cutting when all of a sudden Malfoy began shovelling down the food as though he’d been starving.

They ate in silence, and then Harry made them coffee.

“So,” he said cautiously. “When do you want to go?”

“As soon as possible,” Malfoy mumbled into his mug. “Even if I don’t pay to get Marcus out, someone else will – his friends or parents. I don’t want him to be there when we arrive.”

Harry heartily agreed. He was determined not to see Flint again until he testified at his trial. Another word from the bastard, and Harry would do something that would surely get him sacked. He may not particularly like Malfoy, but he disliked even more seeing someone hurting as much as Malfoy clearly was. Plus he knew Flint wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if he was armed and Harry wasn’t, Harry would annihilate him, and then it would be him, not Flint, in Azkaban. That is if a jury would ever convict him. Harry didn’t intend to test his theory, but he was pretty sure he could AK Mother Theresa and walk away a free man.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” he blurted.

Malfoy wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, hunching over it like a wet crow. So much time passed that Harry was sure he wasn’t going to answer the question.

“I did in the beginning,” he said eventually. “But it only made everything worse.”

“Then why didn’t you leave?”

Harry knew it was a stupid question – and even an offensive one. Most victims of domestic violence went back again and again until either they were killed or they finally hit their rock bottom. Maybe Malfoy had hit his.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Malfoy said curtly. He pushed his mug away and straightening. “Can we just go?”

Harry nodded and levitated their dishes into the sink. He’d do the washing up when they got back.

“Let me get dressed,” he said, “and then we’ll go.”

He was on his way to his bedroom when he heard Malfoy say his name. He stopped and turned around. Malfoy was staring unseeingly out the window.

“Thanks,” he said

Harry didn’t know how to respond so he simply nodded and left the room.

The doorway to Malfoy’s flat had been covered with a piece of plywood held in place by a sticking charm and marked with the words “CRIME SCENE! DO NOT ENTER!” Harry placed his palm against it and Banished it to the end of the hallway.

“Very impressive,” Malfoy drawled, but then he saw the inside of the flat and covered his face with his hands.

“I’d help put things in order,” Harry said apologetically, “but it’s a crime scene. It needs to stay as it is.”

Malfoy nodded and uncovered his face. His eyes were dead as he scanned the wreckage.

“Wow,” he breathed. “We really did it this time.”

“We?” Harry said sharply. “Are you telling me you did some of this?” He waved his arm in a gesture meant to encompass the whole apartment and its shattered contents.

“In a way,” Malfoy said quietly. “I provoked . . .”

“Oh, please just shut it, will you?” Harry barked at him. “Unless you put him in fear for his life, then hitting you was wrong, no matter how big of a prat you might’ve been.”

Malfoy looked like he wanted to argue, but Harry held up his hand.

“Get your things and let’s get out of here,” he said. “Just don’t remove anything broken or blood-stained. If I get the sense you’re trying to cover anything up, I’m going to arrest you for tampering with a crime scene.”

Malfoy scowled at him.

“You’re a real dick, Potter. I hope you’re not the one at the DMLE doing victim contact.”

“I’m not,” Harry said flatly. “I make arrests. I’m rubbish at holding people’s hands.”

“You don’t say.”

“Just get your stuff, okay?”

Malfoy sighed as though he was disappointed in Harry’s flawed character – which he probably was. Harry didn’t care

They moved gingerly through the rubble as Malfoy picked up and shrank a few intact decorative items. He was stoic and stone-faced until they reached the dead fish littering the carpet like exotic fallen leaves. Malfoy knelt to touch each of them gently as tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. It was so painful and pathetic that Harry had to look away.

“I’d had them forever,” Malfoy said, his voice cracking. “I began collecting them right after the War. I know you’ll laugh, but for a long time, they were the only living creatures that seemed to understand me. No one else did – not even my parents and my lovers – especially not my lovers.”

But Harry didn’t laugh. He’d found an old crup wandering homeless amidst the ruins of Diagon Alley and taken her back to Grimmauld Place. Like Malfoy’s fish, the crup had been the only creature whose company he could stand. When the crup died, Harry had finally come out of hiding, sold Grimmauld Place, bought a flat, and joined the Aurors. He would’ve never had the strength to do any of those things without the year he’d spent in the quiet company of the crup, taking her for long walks through London’s parks and sitting with her peacefully by the fire as he started to imagine how he would live the rest of his life now that Voldemort’s shadow had stopped stalking his dreams.

Without pausing to think about what he was doing, Harry walked over to Malfoy and knelt beside him close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The detectives wouldn’t need the fish. One by one, he carefully Transfigured them into small glass sculptures exactly replicating, down to the tiniest detail, each fish they replaced. It took a long time, but Malfoy neither moved nor said a word. He just watched Harry’s wand hand as though its movements soothed him. Every time one of the fish shrank and turned into glass, Draco gasped so quietly, Harry almost didn’t hear him. But he did, and it triggered complex, but not necessarily unpleasant, emotions that Harry didn’t feel he had to hide from immediately – maybe he’d need to later but not in that moment.

When Harry finished the Transfigurations, he and Malfoy wrapped them carefully in the gauze Harry carried in his Aurors’s first aide kit and put them in a wooden box Malfoy retrieved from the study. Neither of them spoke, but there was something nice about working side-by-side with Malfoy on a common project. When they were finished, Harry shrank the box and put it in his inside breast pocket for safe keeping.

Afterward, they continued walking through the flat searching for Malfoy’s things that were still intact.

“Anything in the bedroom?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head vehemently.

“Not even your clothes?”

“I’ll buy new ones. I’m done here.”

Harry nodded. He was intensely glad he didn’t have to see the bed on which Malfoy and Flint had been fucking for two years. He felt queasy at the mere thought. He hated going into other people’s bedrooms in general, but he liked the idea of going into Malfoy’s even less. Ugh. He walked gratefully down the hallway and back into the spacious front room.

“It won’t stay like this for long,” he said. “We’ll have the place cleaned up in a couple of days so you can move back in – with 24-hour Auror protection, of course.”

“Can’t,” Malfoy said.

Harry looked at him.

“Why not?”

“It’s not mine.”

Harry frowned. It certainly couldn’t be Flint’s. Maybe Flint had people who could bail him out of jail, but there was simply no way he was wealthy enough to own such an opulent home.

“I gave him the title,” Malfoy said, returning to the monotone he’d used at breakfast.

“You what? Why?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I thought we were going to get married, so when he asked me to, it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

Oh, Merlin’s saggy tits. Who on God’s green earth would want to marry Marcus Flint – especially someone like Malfoy?

“Stupid, I know,” Malfoy said. “You don’t need to say it. I already know.”

Good.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry growled, summoning the plywood that had covered the door. Instead of using a light sticking charm like the detectives had used, he cast a permanent spell. When Flint came home, he’d have to saw a hole to get in.

Life with Malfoy in his home wasn’t nearly as distressing as Harry had feared it might be. For the most part, Malfoy was quiet and unobtrusive, and although he wasn’t cheerful, he wasn’t morose. Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t sometimes a prat. Malfoy complained about Harry’s “untidiness” and choice in music. He also didn’t like Harry’s brands of soap and shampoo and insisted Harry buy “something less plebeian.” But that was pretty much the extent of Malfoy’s gripes. He ate Harry’s meals without complaint even thought they were usually made from tinned or frozen ingredients. Nor did he complain about Harry’s choice in television shows. In fact, Malfoy seemed to enjoy them as much as Harry did, and they spent the evenings sitting on the settee engrossed in Torchwood and Doctor Who.

Harry also appreciated Malfoy’s lack of curiosity about his rather strict daily rituals. He didn’t remark on the fact that Harry left his bedroom precisely at five after eight every morning or that Harry went to his bedroom at precisely five after eleven every night without exception. He also never teased Harry about locking his bedroom door with security spells that rivalled those on Gringotts’s vaults. Overall, Malfoy seemed benignly indifferent to Harry’s habits – a fact for which Harry couldn’t be more grateful. It reminded him of the daily rhythm he and Hermione – and eventually Ron – had fallen into during their hunt for Horcruxes. Each let the others be and didn’t ask personal questions. They’d sometimes gone for long stretches of time without talking, but that’d been okay. It was the same between him and Malfoy.

For the most part, Malfoy slept, ate, read, watched the telly, and took hour-long baths. The eating and baths and telly weren’t a problem, but Malfoy’s reading was. He vehemently disliked Harry’s few books and voraciously consumed every word of Harry’s magazines and newspapers in an hour or less. To stop his grousing, Harry went to Flourish and Blotts to buy Shakespeare, Homer, James Joyce and some bloke named Rumi. They’re all wizards, you git, Malfoy had replied when Harry had teased him about reading Muggle books. Otherwise F&B wouldn’t sell them. Merlin, Potter, educate yourself. You’d think that at least some of Granger’s sensibilities would’ve rubbed off on you by now.

But despite his bravado, Harry could tell Malfoy wasn’t happy. Sometimes when Harry glanced at him without Malfoy realising it, he noted a stunned shell-shocked expression he knew Malfoy would never reveal if he thought he was being observed. It was as though “shattered” was his default setting. It made Harry angry and sad in equal measures. Even though in his heart he knew it was unrealistic, he wished he could make Malfoy just a little bit happy. After all, Malfoy was safe with him, and Harry was doing everything he could think of to make him feel comfortable. Other than his bedroom, Harry gave Malfoy the run of the flat. He could use Harry’s Muggle computer in the study and Harry’s Muggle treadmill in the box room. He could watch the telly even when Harry was trying to get work done in the lounge and make anything in the kitchen if he wanted to – Harry would even buy all the ingredients he needed. But none of it really seemed to matter. Malfoy’s eyes were often red and puffy, and he spent hours in his room writing. Harry was willing to bet they were letters to Flint. It made Harry want to go to the holding cell where Flint was still being held on Harry’s orders and beat him to a pulp just like Flint had done to Malfoy.

Because Harry suspected Malfoy was pining for Flint and despite the reverse Protego, Harry rarely left Malfoy alone. The only time he left the flat was to go to Flourish and Blotts. He even had their groceries delivered by the nearby Tesco. Fortunately he had a load of paperwork to get caught up on that he could easily complete at home.

“I don’t need to be guarded like I’m the suspect,” Malfoy said late one afternoon when he walked into the lounge and saw Harry sitting in his usual place on the settee with his files covering the coffee table.

Harry didn’t bother to look up.

“Actually, I think you do,” he said, pulling his quill from behind his ear and scribbling down a description of a recent flying accident that may or may not have been caused by Oppugno Avis. It depended on which eyewitnesses you believed.

“Have I even argued with you about wanting to leave?”

“No, but that’s because you’ve probably lost your ability to argue with anyone.”

Malfoy had brought a quilt from his room, which he wrapped around himself as he curled up in an armchair, tucking his feet under him. He seemed more like someone suffering from flu rather than a victim of . . .

“He raped me that night.”

Harry threw down his quill.

“He what?”

“I said he raped me,” Malfoy said irritably. “Why don’t you ever hear things the first time I say them?”

Harry stared at him.

“Why didn’t you say so before? You’ve taken a million baths. I’m sure the evidence is gone by now.”

Malfoy scrunched his face with disgust.

“Your partner photographed every last scratch on my body,” he snapped. “Do you think I relished the idea of her photographing my bloody arsehole?”

Harry leapt up.

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy!” He started pacing. “This isn’t a joke!”

“I wasn’t joking. Believe me. Can I get a cup of tea or something?”

Harry was glad to have an excuse to leave the room. Merlin, Flint was a sick bastard! If he’d known at the time, Harry might’ve Crucioed him. Who rapes and then tries to kill the person he’s supposed to love? Harry knew it happened – he’d been an Auror for years – but violence between lovers would never make sense to him. He more–or-less understood child abuse. He’d been a victim of it himself (a fact he’d only recently accepted), but why choose someone to “love” only to savage and terrorise them?

He carried a tray of tea and biscuits back to the lounge and set it down on top of his files. He poured Malfoy a cup and levitated it to him.

Malfoy took a long sip.

“Merlin, Potter! You buy shitty tea . . .”

“Why?” Harry barked at him, not interested in hearing Malfoy critique his taste in beverages.

Malfoy frowned. “Why what?”

“Why the fuck did you stay? Why didn’t you leave the first time he hit you? After all, you’re not a child who has no choice. You left the flat every day to go to work. He wasn’t keeping you a prisoner.”

Harry stuffed a Custard Cream in his mouth to shut himself up. Malfoy glared at him.

“I don’t have to answer those questions,” he said. “I’m the victim, not the . . .”

“This isn’t a forensic interview,” Harry replied, spraying crumbs all over his files. “I just want to know. I just want to try to understand because I don’t, Malfoy. I just don’t fucking get it.”

Malfoy set his teacup down so hard it cracked. It seemed to deflate him. He put his face in his hands.

“It’s impossible,” he mumbled.

“What’s impossible?”

“Getting you to understand?”

“Well, then at least try.”

Malfoy looked up and fixed Harry with the fiercest gaze Harry had seen from him since he’d brought Malfoy home to live with him.

“You won’t understand because everyone loves you and always has . . .”

“Bollocks,” Harry said angrily, “you have no idea what . . .”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Do you want me to talk? Because if you do, then you’d better be ready to listen. Despite the fact you obviously need to be told everything twice, I’m not going to.”

Harry sat fuming while Malfoy drank from the new teacup Harry had summoned. When he began to nibble on a biscuit Harry couldn’t contain his impatient sigh.

“Christ, Potter. You are such an arsehole,” Malfoy said, putting down his half-eaten shortbread.

“News flash, is that?”

Malfoy looked like he was going to get in another snit, but then he laughed. As soon as he did, Harry realised it was the first time Malfoy had laughed since he’d been there.

“No. Not at all.”

Harry smiled at him. “Well?”

Malfoy took a deep shaky breath and let it out in a rush.

“I . . . I guess I was . . . well, I guess I was looking for someone strong. Because back then, I thought I was too. He . . . I mean, Marcus, was amazing. He adored me, worshipped me even. I fell hard for him, fast, which I guess means you’ll think I’m pathetic, but whatever. I don’t really give a shit what you think.”

Harry rolled his eyes and reached for another Custard Cream.

“It was great at first. He moved in right away. I was madly in love with him, so when he started losing his temper . . . All I wanted was for things to stay the way they were, so every time he got upset at something, I’d make sure I never did it again, but after a while I couldn’t seem to do anything right . . .”

“Ah, it makes perfect sense now,” Harry said sarcastically. “Sounds lovely. You do realise nothing you’re saying helps me understand why the fuck you stayed with the berk?”

Malfoy sighed and shook his head.

“You probably can’t understand,” he said. “Your life’s been perfect. You didn’t have to beg and plead for your father’s love . . .”

“You’re right,” Harry said icily. “Because my father is dead. I’m surprised you forgot given how often you taunted me about it at school.”

Malfoy inhaled sharply and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Shit,” he murmured. “I did, didn’t I?”

Harry nodded, shocked Malfoy could’ve forgotten.

Malfoy covered his face with his hands again.

“I was as bad as he is,” he said, his voice muffled.

“I don’t know about that,” Harry replied. “But you certainly were a right little shit.”

“It’s Karma,” Malfoy said flatly.

“Pardon?”

“I said ‘it’s Karma.’ Merlin, Potter, maybe you should get your ears examined.”

“My ears work just fine; I just don’t know what the word means. Sounds like a kind of biscuit.”

Malfoy actually laughed again.

“I’d always assumed Aurors were thick. Now I know they are. Karma is basically the same as ‘what goes around, comes around.’”

“Ah, so you think you deserve getting the shit beat out of you.”

Malfoy was quiet for a long time.

“Maybe,” he said weakly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I did . . . I did some pretty terrible things during the War . . .”

“We all did,” Harry interrupted. He’d had this conversation a billion times with a billion people, and he was sick of it. “You were under Voldemort’s command . . .”

“Exactly!” Malfoy exclaimed. “Exactly. First it was my father, then Voldemort, and now Marcus. Clearly I need a man in my life to abuse me.”

“Voldemort was not a man.”

“You know what I mean.”

They sat for a long time in silence. Harry’s thoughts were whirling with nausea-inducing speed, bumping into each other like the balls in a Muggle arcade game. He, too, had been abused as a child and then manipulated by an adult he’d trusted . . . If Malfoy’s theory was right, he too should’ve gravitated toward an abusive partner except . . . except he’d never gravitated toward any lover. Not even Ginny. There was no need for romance. He had a tonne of friends and wasn’t at all interested in sex. Why take on the unnecessary burden of a romantic relationship when he neither wanted nor needed one?

“Maybe you should try being celibate,” he said without subjecting his remark to the rigorous mental review that he should have.

Malfoy snorted. “Who’d ever want that?”

“Who’d ever want to get the shit kicked out of him every time his partner came home in a bad mood?”

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy didn’t respond.

They were quiet again. It’d started raining while they’d been talking, and the sound of the drops pelting the windows was the only noise breaking the silence.

“So,” Malfoy said eventually, “should I take it from your remark that you’re celibate?”

“That’s none of your business,” Harry replied. He’d never talked about his . . . sex life or lack thereof with anyone, and he didn’t want to start with Malfoy.

“I just told you why I keep going back to Marcus.”

“It’s not the same,” Harry mumbled. “Being celibate is really bizarre . . .”

“And going back time after time to someone who rapes and beats you isn’t?”

Good point.

“If we’re going to talk about this, then I need something stronger than tea.” Harry summoned a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He filled them both and levitated one to Malfoy. Harry stared into his and then started to talk. “Sex has always grossed me out . . . to the point of making me ill.”

“Always?”

“Shut it or I’m not saying another word. Yes, always.”

“So you don’t wank?”

“Jesus, Malfoy, I thought you’d know what ‘shut it’ means considering Flint’s probably said it to you a thousand times!”

Ouch.

Harry heard Malfoy inhale sharply.

“Shit,” he said sincerely. “I’m sorry. That sucked. But, seriously, Malfoy. You’ve got to stop interrupting me.”

Harry looked up, and Malfoy nodded.

“Of course, I wank,” he continued untruthfully. He’d only wanked a couple of times in his whole life and didn’t plan on doing so again in the future. “I’ve never had sex though. I’ve never even wanted to. Ginny . . . touched me once, and I almost threw up. She thinks someone abused me when I was young, but if they did I have no memory of it. All I know is that I don’t want to kiss and touch and all of that. I’m fine with the way things are. If I find that I want children someday, I’ll have plenty of godsons and goddaughters to spoil. I won’t need my own.”

He drained his glass and set it on the table.

“Plus, it makes life a hell of a lot easier.”

“It also makes life pretty fucking lonely.”

Harry looked at Malfoy’s face and found no trace of irony. Was he joking? Was being alone worse than being slapped around? If so then maybe that was a big part of Malfoy’s problem.

Malfoy must’ve read his mind.

“There’s no greater joy in life than waking up beside someone who loves you.”

“So that’s why you go back? Because you think Flint loves you?”

“I don’t think, I know he does,” Malfoy snapped. “That’s one of the reasons he hits me. He loves me so much that he can’t help being jealous sometimes.”

Malfoy had got a far-away look in his eyes as he talked about Flint, and for the first time since the morning Malfoy said he’d never go back, Harry realised that he would. That it was only a matter of time. Despite never voluntarily touching anyone who wasn’t Hermione, Ron or Susan, he reached out and grabbed Malfoy’s hand.

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice rough and urgent. “Don’t do it, Malfoy. He’ll kill you next time. I won’t be called to the scene of an assault – it’ll be a homicide. Don’t do it.”

Malfoy snatched his hand back and glared at him.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not going back?” he growled.

But something had changed while Harry had been talking. There’d been a kind of horror in Malfoy’s eyes – and even worse, pity. Malfoy didn’t want to turn out like him. He didn’t want to be alone and sexless. He’d rather take the risk of being pummelled to death than strike out on his own into a world that’d never been particularly kind to him in the past. It was the classic devil you know situation. It was so textbook, in fact, that it made Harry want to puke.

“You’re sleeping with me tonight,” Harry said so suddenly he even surprised himself.

Malfoy gawked at him.

“I thought you said you were celibate, that you hated even the idea of sex?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “When I said ‘sleeping,’ that’s exactly what I meant – sleeping. Not fucking. Sleeping.”

“Because you’re afraid I’m going to run off.”

Harry didn’t nod, but neither did he shake his head. He couldn’t believe he’d all but ordered Malfoy into his bed! Merlin, what was he thinking? He was just about to back down when Malfoy stood up.

“I’m tired,” he said with what was obviously a fake yawn. “Let’s go to bed, Potter.”

Harry gaped at him, completely confused. “We haven’t even had dinner,” he said.

“Not hungry,” Malfoy replied, already heading down the hall with his quilt dragging behind him.

Fuck.

“I meant it!” Harry called after him. “I’m not trying to get you to have sex with me! Now, come back. I’ll make us something to eat, and then we’ll watch some telly. Your favourite show’s on tonight.”

Draco returned reluctantly. He really had expected something to happen between them! And what’s more, he obviously wanted something to happen. Harry’s heart started pounding, and he ran to the loo. When he got there, he slammed and locked the door and then leaned against it, breathing hard. Fuck. What’d he been thinking? Of course Malfoy would interpret his words as an invitation to do more than just sleep! Clearly Malfoy never got into someone else’s bed for any other reason. Shit. Why had he done this to himself? There was only one solution. Under no circumstance could he allow himself to fall asleep . . .

“Potter, I get it! You can stop hiding in the bathroom!”

Harry splashed his face with cold water and opened the door. Malfoy was in the kitchen pulling pots and pans from the cupboards rather too forcefully.

“I’ll cook tonight,” he said. “Go back to work.”

“You don’t have to . . .”

“I know I don’t,” Malfoy said angrily. “Piss off. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Feeling at a loss, Harry drifted back to the lounge and turned on the telly. The less he thought about his predicament the better. After all, this wasn’t about his . . . issues. It was about keeping Malfoy from running back to Flint. Surely Harry could go one night without . . . After all, he’d shared a tent with Hermione and Ron for a year. But back then, all he’d done was suck his thumb. After teasing him a couple of times, Ron had given up, and nobody mentioned it again. Ron and Hermione had obviously come to the conclusion that Harry had done it since he was a child and had never given up the habit. But that was it. They were his best friends. They didn’t want to hurt or humiliate him. Plus, that was before he’d started living alone and discovered want he really needed . . .

“It’s ready!” Malfoy called from the kitchen in a voice that sounded far too cheerful.

Harry took a deep breath and stood up from the settee. Obsessing about it was only going to make things worse. He went to the kitchen and sat down at the table, which Malfoy had actually set. Harry had never eaten at a properly set table that wasn’t at a restaurant.

“Is this what you did for Flint?” he asked.

Malfoy frowned questioningly.

“Did what?”

Harry gestured at the silverware and serviettes and his heretofore unused candle holders.

“You mean set the table? Merlin, Potter! You’re a barbarian. This is how normal people eat, not sitting on the floor in front of the telly with their plate balanced on their knees and a serviette tucked in their collar.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but it was hard to stay irritable for long when Malfoy filled his plate with food so good it matched the formality of its setting.

“What is this?” he said between bites.

“Lemon chicken,” Malfoy replied, shaking out his serviette and placing it on his lap. Harry quickly followed suit.

“It’s brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there more?”

Malfoy laughed. “Of course,” he replied. “I’m proud enough of my cooking to know you’d want seconds.” He paused. Harry, thinking he’d done talking, turned his attention back to his food.

“Plus,” Malfoy said in an almost inaudible voice, “it’s nice to see someone enjoy it for a change.”

He looked away quickly when Harry looked up at him, frowning angrily.

“Flint.”

Malfoy shrugged as if what he’d said was no big deal.

“He’s a picky eater. It’s not always easy to know ahead of time whether he’ll like something or not.”

“And if he didn’t like it?”

Malfoy’s face darkened, and he looked away.

“It’s better than not cooking for anyone,” he said cuttingly.

Harry set his silverware on his plate with a clatter.

“I see,” he replied just as cuttingly. “Getting shoved around is better than getting a takeaway and eating it out of the carton while lounging on the settee watching ‘Life on Mars’?”

Malfoy sighed exasperatedly.

“You make it sound like we were always fighting. It wasn’t like that. Do you honestly think I’d still want to be with Marcus if . . . if the kind of thing that happened the other night happened all of the time? You may think I’m pathetic, but I’m not that pathetic. Marcus has been working really hard on controlling his temper. He even went to a therapist for a little while. We only fight when he’s under a lot of stress or I do something really stupid to piss him off.”

Harry stood up abruptly and started piling his silverware on his empty plate. He couldn’t sit still and listen to this bollocks.

“He’s a brilliant lover!” Malfoy called after him. “But then I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that!”

Harry wrenched on the tap and started washing up as loudly as he could. He never should’ve told Malfoy anything about himself. He couldn’t trust the prat not to be a complete arsehole about it.

He was scouring the pots and pans so hard his arm was getting sore when he felt a presence behind him.

“You don’t use magic when you’re angry,” Malfoy said.

Harry heard the apology in his voice. He paused in his maniacal scrubbing. He’d never thought about it before, but Malfoy was right. He shrugged without turning around.

“I spent a lot of time doing the washing up when I lived as a Muggle with my aunt and uncle,” he said. “And most of the time I was angry while I was doing it. Habit, I guess.”

He didn’t feel the need to explain what he meant. The unauthorised biography Skeeter wrote had exposed several sordid details of Harry’s first ten years, and Harry was pretty sure that Malfoy, like everyone else, had read it. Somehow she’d managed to track down Dudley and his mates and paid them handsomely. The only comfort Harry had taken in being so terribly violated was that Dudley was clearly ashamed and regretful and angry at his parents for the way they’d abused Harry.

Malfoy walked over and stood beside him.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the pot Harry had just scoured within an inch of its life. Harry clutched it defensively until Malfoy grabbed it and tugged it out of his hands.

“Where’s the tea towel?” he asked, and Harry handed it to him.

They stood quietly completing their tasks until the washing up was done and the kitchen sparkled.

“Thanks,” Harry said gruffly.

Malfoy shrugged. “I can see how doing the washing up like a Muggle could be cathartic in a way. Although if I do it when Marcus is around, he’ll think I’ve been fucking a Mudblood.” Malfoy laughed as though what he’d just said was funny.

There were so many things to take exception to in Malfoy’s remark that Harry just let the whole bloody thing go. But he hadn’t missed the clear implication that Malfoy was starting to picture himself going back to Flint. Harry felt suddenly tired and defeated and headed for his bedroom and the comfort it provided without another word.

“Aren’t we going to watch ‘Causality?’” Malfoy called after him.

“You can watch it,” Harry replied. “I’m going to bed. Come join me when it’s over. If you take this opportunity to leave, I will stalk you down like a rabid dingo.”

“I’ve told you a million times that I’m not going back to him,” Malfoy said angrily. “Why can’t you believe me?”

Harry didn’t want to have this discussion again.

“Just join me later,” he said wearily. “After the show is over.”

He wandered back to his bedroom only vaguely admitting to himself that his retreat wasn’t all about being tired. The show lasted an hour, which meant he had only a brief moment of privacy before Malfoy joined him.

As soon as he entered his bedroom, he closed and locked the door. Moving quickly, he whispered Finite Incatatum at the bureau in the corner and disabled its protective charms and locking spells. The drawer where he kept his bottles had been enchanted with a permanent cooling spell. He didn’t have enough time for a big bottle, so he retrieved a smaller one and cast a warming spell – just strong enough to bring the milk it contained to just a few degrees above room temperature. He placed it on his bedside table and undressed as quickly as he could, tangling himself in one of the legs of his jeans and having to hop around ridiculously for a moment. Once he was undressed, he Banished the nappy he’d been wearing since noon and pulled a fresh new one from another drawer. He raised it to his face and breathed in its lovely sweet plastic smell. He rubbed a dollop of lotion into the crack of his bum and sprinkled on a dusting of powder. He usually took up to fifteen minutes putting on a new nappy, but he didn’t have enough time for his usual rituals. He hated feeling rushed and regretted even more his insane demand that Malfoy sleep with him.

He put on his nappy and retrieved a clean t-shirt and pair of pyjama bottoms from his “normal” chest of drawers. As soon as he was dressed, he put his hand between his legs and cupped the crotch of the nappy through the fabric of his pyjamas. He loved the slight rustling sounds the nappy made and the way it felt between his legs – plumb and dry and snug.

He glanced at the clock and panicked when he realised he had only a half an hour left. With his bottle clutched in one hand and his baby blanket in the other, he got into bed and snuggled beneath the duvet. As soon as he was comfortable, he put the nipple of the bottle in his mouth and began drinking. The milk was so sweet and warm that he hummed happily as he drank. Immediately, the peace and security that he craved crept into his body and began to relax every muscle and sinew. He was safe and cared for and loved. His chaotic thoughts dissolved as pleasure filled his belly along with the milk. As he always did, he began to move his hips just a tiny bit, rubbing his penis against the intimate padding of the nappy. Slowly, he became aware of the building sensations he didn’t have a name for and moaned softly. He wasn’t entirely naïve. He knew he was pleasuring himself sexually, and his penis would always swell and stiffen slightly, but it never got hard, and he never ejaculated. He didn’t want to. He sometimes ejaculated when he slept and was upset by the overwhelming sensations and strange smelling mess. Ejaculation wasn’t his aim when he nursed. He just wanted that slightly full feeling that rubbing his penis against the snugness of the nappy gave him. Anything more was intensely unpleasant.

He closed his eyes and started to drift into a sweet doze when suddenly he heard footsteps in the hall and remembered with a jolt that Malfoy would soon be joining him. Reluctantly, he got out of bed and put his bottle and blanket back in their respective drawers, but before casting Protego Totalum, he took a moment to hold and caress his plush toys, giving each of them a tender kiss and a whispered apology for leaving them in their dark lonely drawer all night. Then he touched his teething rings and counted his dummies. In the back of his mind, he knew no one could steal them, but counting them every night relieved some of the anxiety that’d built up over the course of the day. They were all there. Harry was about to close the drawer and get back into bed, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have at least one of his dummies near him even if he couldn’t use it. He chose a pastel pink one that was deliciously plumper than the others and put it in his pocket.

The night was going to be long and stressful. He cast a repelling charm on his thumb. Not only could he not use a dummy, he couldn’t even suck his thumb. Panic started to erase the beautiful peace he’s been able to achieve as he fed. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself he could do this. It was only one night out of the rest of his life. He could do it. He could pretend to be normal and comfortable. How hard could that be?

But he knew he was fooling himself. The night would be one of the longest and most difficult in his life.

Just moments after he’d got back into bed, Malfoy knocked and came in without waiting for Harry to answer. He was already dressed in his pyjamas. Harry was relieved that Malfoy wouldn’t be naked in his vicinity.

“Wow, this is quite a bed,” Malfoy said as he pulled the duvet over himself and lay down. “Seeing as you’re celibate and all, I’d expected a single bed, not a queen-sized one.”

Harry merely grunted. He didn’t want to talk, and besides, how was he supposed to respond to a remark like that?

“You missed a good episode.”

“Was tired,” Harry mumbled. “Am still tired. Go to sleep.”

“Wow, not much for pillow talk, I see.”

“Malfoy. I sleep by myself. I’m not used to having little nighty-night chats.”

“You’re missing out. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been pillow talks . . . but then again, they’d usually been preceded by sex.”

Jesus. Fuck. Ugh!

“I wouldn’t know about that, and I don’t want to,” Harry grumbled. “Go to sleep.”

Malfoy sighed into the dark.

“Hearing you say that makes me feel sad for you.”

“Well, don’t be. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”

“That’s just because you haven’t known anything else.”

“Don’t want to know anything else. Want to sleep.”

Malfoy’s chatter was erasing the blessed relief Harry had got from his bottle. He was beyond grateful he at least had his nappy. He probably would have a panic attack if he didn’t, which would be beyond humiliating.

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” Harry said sharply. “I want to sleep. Now shut it!”

“Gheesh. Fine. Have it your way. Your bed, your rules.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Good night.”

Malfoy turned his back on Harry with a huff, and Harry breathed a deep long sigh of relief.

Harry could tell from the silence that it was probably early in the morning when he slowly slid blissfully into gentle tender wakefulness. He was wetting his nappy, and there was no better feeling in the world, except for maybe the rubbing. But the two sensations were too similar to be considered separately. He sighed deeply and slowly opened his eyes . . .

. . . only to find another pair staring back at him.

Suddenly Harry was awake – violently terribly awake. He squeaked and sat up, clutching the duvet to his chest. What the fuck?! And then he remembered. He sat blushing with horror.

“Merlin, Potter, relax,” Malfoy said in a rough sleepy voice. “You’re not the only bloke in the world who has wet dreams.”

“What? I didn’t . . . I . . .”

But then it occurred to Harry that going along with Malfoy’s wet dream theory was a hell of a lot easier than telling Malfoy he’d just pissed in a nappy.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Sorry . . . I’ll be right back. Go to sleep. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Malfoy’s eyes were dark and hooded when he looked up into Harry’s.

“No problem,” he said. “I quite enjoyed it, actually. You made such soft lovely sounds. You come beautifully, Harry. Why do you want to hide that part of yourself in a locked drawer?”

Harry snorted at Malfoy’s drawer metaphor. If only Malfoy knew how apt it was.

“I’m not hiding,” he said. “I’m living my life the way I want to live it.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Well, it is. Excuse me while I visit the loo.”

He pretended he didn’t feel Malfoy’s hand touch his back as he stood up and walked out of the room as fast as he could without seeming weird. Once he entered the bathroom, he closed and locked the door and then cast a security spell just to be safe. He pushed down his pyjama bottoms and Vanished his wet nappy. Usually he wouldn’t change before morning because the nappies he bought were extra absorbent. But that wasn’t an option tonight. And neither was putting on a clean nappy.

Fuck. He hadn’t considered that. If he had, he would’ve stashed one in the bathroom.

He turned on the shower, trying not to panic. He could do this. He defeated Voldemort. He was the DLME’s top field Auror. Finding and arresting violent criminals was his job. He was an expert at wandless magic. He’d been hexed countless times and even Crucioed. He could throw off an Imperious for Merlin’s sake!

He could live without a nappy for a couple of hours.

He turned off the shower and dried himself. You can do this, he told himself when it was time to pull on his pyjama bottoms. God, he felt so vulnerable! His penis and testicles just dangling in the chilly air! How did people live like this?

Malfoy was on his side and breathing evenly when Harry returned to the bedroom. Harry lay down beside him and pulled up the duvet. He usually only wet himself once during the night, so he wasn’t worried about it happening again. . . .

But he’d forgotten about the dummy in his pocket. He must’ve instinctively reached for it in his sleep. He hadn’t been without one for years, but none of those details mattered when he heard the sound of a sharp inhale.

“Potter. What. The. Bleeding. Fuck?” Malfoy hissed.

This time Harry’s eyes didn’t snap open even though he was so wide awake that he was trembling. He was terribly aware of the dummy in his mouth. It was too late to spit it out. Malfoy had seen it. All he could do now was play dead like a possum and pray that Malfoy wouldn’t be an arsehole.

But what had he been thinking? If someone surgically removed Malfoy’s heart, it would have a big puckered arsehole right there in the middle of it.

When Harry didn’t respond, Malfoy hooked his finger through the dummy’s handle and tugged. To his horror, Harry instinctively bit down on it to prevent it being taken away, which resulted in a mortifying little struggle that Malfoy finally won.

“Potter,” he said low and clear. “You are a bloody fucking pervert!”

Harry still hadn’t opened his eyes. He would only make things worse if he did. Malfoy’s words dripped with revulsion. Harry didn’t need to see it in his eyes. He got the point.

“Merlin! No wonder you live alone! Have some respect for yourself! Bloody hell! You are a freak!”

“And you aren’t?” Harry said. Unlike Malfoy’s shrill words, Harry’s were a knife carved from glacial ice. Malfoy wasn’t the only one who knew how to cut to the bone. “You stay with a man who rapes and beats you and then suck his cock and grovel on the floor, licking his feet like a kicked dog. You’re a pathetic waste of space, Malfoy.”

He finally opened his eyes. He knew what they looked like. He’d once watched Hermione’s memory of his battle with Voldemort. He knew how cruel his eyes could be.

Malfoy gasped and clutched his t-shirt as though he could protect his little shitty black heart from Harry’s gaze. Harry had never hated anyone so much in his life as he hated Malfoy at that moment.

Malfoy scrambled out of bed and grabbed his wand. He was shaking all over.

“How dare you say such things to me!” he shouted. “You don’t even know what it’s like to be in love! Hell, you don’t even know what it’s like to be normal for five seconds, do you? What else do you do? I bet you drink from a bottle and wear nappies . . .”

He paused and his eyes grew impossibly wide.

“That’s what happened earlier,” he said. His voice sounded incredulous. “You didn’t come. You pissed your nappies! Jesus Christ, Potter! I don’t even have words to describe how sick you are! I always knew there was something deeply wrong with you, but never in a million years would I have guessed this! You’re positively grotesque!”

He held up the pastel-pink dummy.

Harry couldn’t catch his breath. His heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. He was drowning in shame. And grief – grief that his one means of comfort and pleasure had been discovered and shit on. Could he ever go back without remembering the sheer agonizing horror of this moment? He’d cut off a limb if it meant he could go back in time and prevent it. He wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere!

And suddenly he was.

He was on his knees in nothing but pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt by the edge of Hogwarts Lake. He recognised the spot immediately. It was where he used to go when he needed to be alone.

He must’ve spontaneously Apparated! He hadn’t even known such a thing was possible!

Early May in Scotland was not July in the Maldives. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in the sharp wind. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe everything had been a dream. Maybe Malfoy hadn’t discovered him sucking on a dummy. Maybe he’d never even brought Malfoy to his flat in the first place. Maybe all of it had been a monstrous nightmare . . .

His mind was blank with shock as he knelt in the cold grass and watched the dark water clutch glints of moonlight in its waves like greedy hands. Maybe if he just lay down, he could die there. He was so so tired.

But he couldn’t. He had to go back. He was pretty sure Malfoy would be gone, but if he wasn’t, Harry needed to chuck him out. There was no way he could bear to look at Malfoy again. Fuck him. Let him go back to Flint and get his face bashed in. Given what a bleeding wanker he was, it didn’t seem all that surprising that Flint would want to punch him in the mouth now and then just to shut him the fuck up.

Harry took a deep breath and stood, but he had to reach out and brace a hand against a nearby tree to keep from falling again. He was weak and practically choking on shame and hatred and fear. Would Malfoy keep his mouth shut? Do fish wear top hats?

Fish.

Harry gave up and dropped back down on his knees as he remembered Transfiguring each of Malfoy’s fish into glass. He’d felt so full of emotion, so filled with the need to try and make it right again for Malfoy. He thought that maybe – just maybe – there’d been a moment of connection . . .

Idiot. That was precisely the reason he kept people at arm’s length. They made your heart as fragile as the glass fish had felt in his hands.

Mercifully, the moment passed, and he stood again. He closed his eyes and imagined his blood turning to molten lead and his muscles to cogs in a machine. It was what he used to do to manage his terror during the endless hunt for Horcruxes when at any moment they could’ve been ambushed by Death Eaters or Snatchers.

Snatchers. Yet another trail that led to Malfoy.

Harry did his best to shut everything out of his mind. He envisioned a circle in the grass, stepped into it and found himself in his front room. He summoned his wand and listened with all his Auror instincts on high alert.

Silence. Harry didn’t have to conduct a search. He would’ve sensed a human presence, but there was none. Malfoy was gone. Harry released the breath he’d been holding, but he didn’t lower his wand as he walked from room to room making sure that Malfoy hadn’t decided to trash his flat before he left. The kitchen was just as clean and orderly as they’d left it last night. The lounge was a tad messy, but that was nothing unusual. The dining room, which Harry never used, looked as it had for years, including the fine layer of dust on the table. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the hallway and the rooms it led to. He looked in the study. Nothing. He looked in the spare bedroom. Besides Malfoy’s things being gone, there was no sign of destruction . . .

. . . and then he went to his bedroom.

Every drawer had been opened and emptied on the floor. Filling slowly with the drip, drip of cold dread, Harry looked at his bed.

Malfoy had found everything and laid it out on the mattress like artefacts at an archaeological dig. There was Harry’s collection of different sized bottles. There was his blanket and toys. There were his children’s books and dummies and Francis the Frog doll.

And there were the nappies and the training pants and the baby wipes and the nappy cream.

There were all his deepest most precious secrets along with words burned into the plaster above the headboard:

Call the prosecutor and tell him to drop Marcus’s charges.

Instead of cleaning up, Harry Vanished everything. He Vanished the bureau and the bed and the bedside tables and the armchair near the window. He even cast Evanesco at the curtains. He’d spend the night at Ron and Hermione’s house and then tomorrow he’d buy another flat as far away from his present one as was reasonable. This flat, which had once felt like the only safe place in the world, had been violated beyond hope. One by one, he walked through all the other rooms and Vanished every last thing he owned. When he finally stepped into the fireplace and threw down the Floo Powder, his flat looked like no one had ever lived there.

June was a pain in the arse. It was the start of Quidditch playoffs, which meant crowds of ruffians drinking beer and taunting his Aurors. It was also the first real glimpse of summer. More people were out and about later and later into the night. Reports of every type of crime went up during the warm months of the year. Plus Harry had been keeping a close eye on the owners of a suspiciously busy kabab stand – suspicious in the sense that he’d tried their kababs, and they definitely didn’t warrant the enthusiasm they appeared to generate.

To Susan’s obvious chagrin, Harry spent increasing amounts of time in his office. She loved the field as much as he did and didn’t understand Harry’s sudden passion for paperwork. But Harry never responded to emergencies when he was tired. And he was always tired these days – tired to the point of exhaustion.

He’d moved and bought new furniture. He’d even bought new clothes – his old ones felt dirty no matter how many times he laundered them. He’d bought a new telly, new dishes and silverware, new mugs and pots and pans – even a new kettle. His razor was new, his toothbrush was new, his towels were new. He’d even traded curtains for shades and Gryffindor red sheets to tartan. Whereas his former house had been cosy and full of rooms, his new flat was a studio loft with only two enclosed spaces – a bathroom and a bedroom. There was no spare room. He planned never to have another guest ever again as long as he lived. He bought lamps, sofas, chairs, tables and of course a new bed . . .

. . . the only things he didn’t buy were more of his . . . private things. They’d become associated with excruciating shame and humiliation – and the sense that Malfoy was right when he’d called him a freak. Harry was sick of being a freak. He may never want a lover, but that didn’t make him as deviant as dressing and acting like a baby did. That was beyond the pale.

But now he couldn’t sleep. The only place he could doze off was on the lumpy settee in his office between meetings, memos and firecalls. At night, he paced his new flat, frightened and gutted by an unendurable loneliness. He even thought about killing himself. Sometimes he’d nod off in front of the telly, but he could never stay asleep for long. He ached for comfort, for the snug safe feel of a nappy and the taste of warm milk from a bottle. He missed his blanket like it’d been a dear friend who’d died unexpectedly, and his teeth ached without his teething toys. What was worse he sometimes wet his trousers. He’d been wearing nappies for so long, he occasionally forgot he couldn’t just urinate anytime he felt the urge. So far, it’d only happened in private, but it seemed only a matter of time before it happened in front of people. He wouldn’t be able to bear that. His reserve of strength was as empty as his heart.

But as intolerable as all of these things were, the flashbacks were a thousand times worse. He’d be falling asleep or listening to a presentation or conducting a stake-out when suddenly he’d be thrust back into his early childhood. He could smell the mustiness of his cupboard and feel the spiders in his hair. He could hear the click of a lock that meant if he had to go to the bathroom during the night, he’d have to clutch his crotch till dawn. Pissing the thin mattress he slept on was not an option. He’d done so once and been whipped with his uncle’s belt until he bled. He could taste the bitter tea (milk and sugar were for Dudley) and smell his Aunt’s favourite brand of washing up liquid. He felt soreness in his knees from scouring the kitchen floor all afternoon, and the wrench as his thumb was yanked from his mouth accompanied by a hard slap and a look of loathing and disgust on his Aunt’s face.

And then he heard Dumbledore blithely tell him that he had to return to number four, Privet Drive for the summer. Nobody had given a shit about how he was treated. Yes, he understood now why he’d had to stay with his Aunt and Uncle, but that knowledge couldn’t erase the terror and shame and helpless rage that still haunted him – now even worse than ever. He mourned night and day for his lost contentment. Despite the spaciousness of his loft, he felt like he was back in the cupboard under the stairs clutching the ragged dingy tea towel that’d been his only comfort – until that too had been taken away and torn to pieces in front of him.

But he couldn’t return to the way things had been. He was sick . . . and even worse, he was pathetic and contemptible. He didn’t even allow himself to suck his thumb. The repelling charm he put on his hand was strong enough to make his lips bleed if his thumb got anywhere close to his mouth. He had to change. He had to let go.

He heard a knock on his office door one afternoon in the last week of June. He leapt up from his settee and took a swig of cold tea to clear the croak from his voice. He’d been asleep for longer than usual.

“Come in,” he said, sitting down behind his desk and opening a random folder.

Susan walked in looking . . .

“So, partner,” she said, “remember that kabab shop?”

. . . mischievous.

Despite his exhaustion, Harry felt curiosity flutter in his brain like a trapped moth. He sat of straighter. Perhaps a bust was exactly what he needed.

“Well, I doubt you’ll be surprised when you hear the owners’ speciality isn’t gyros.”

Harry grinned, tucking his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair.

“You’ve got my attention,” he said. “Tell me more.”

Susan returned his grin, obviously pleased by his reaction.

“A certain Auror heard on the street that if one asked for falafel, one might find more than just ground chickpeas.”

“And who might that savvy Auror be?”

Susan stopped grinning, and her face turned serious.

“Harry Potter’s partner,” she replied. “Merlin, Harry, what’s wrong with you? Nobody can read your bloody handwriting on all these files.” She gestured at his desk. “You were meant to get blood and sweat on your hands, not ink.”

Harry looked at her steadily for a long moment and then nodded. She was right, and maybe a good fight was what he needed to finally get a full night’s sleep.

“Right. So let’s start putting together a plan . . .”

“Done.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at her.

“Angling for my job, Bones?”

“You can bet your arse, I am,” she replied. “Don’t let me succeed, Harry.”

He stood up, took off his robe, and unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves.

“Let’s go to the conference room,” he said. “I want to hear about this foolproof plan of yours.”

And it was a foolproof plan . . . well, almost.

“Er, forgot about the troll,” Susan said when it came barging out of a nearby warehouse and Harry only just missed being stepped on. “Sorry about that.”

Harry was too busy trying to incapacitate the troll to think up a fitting rejoinder. Even though killing the bloody thing would be much easier than capturing it, Hermione would never forgive him.

“Confundo!” Harry shouted, but that turned out to be a very bad idea. The troll started lumbering in a circle, gazing perplexedly up at the sky and scratching its arse – which meant Harry and Susan were even more in danger of being flattened than before.

“Flipendo!” he yelled just in the nick of time. One more second, and the troll would’ve toppled over on them.

Susan rolled under some rubble to shield herself, and Harry joined her.

“Where do you think you are?” she panted. “The First-year DADA classroom?”

Harry laughed. “Didn’t I tell you during DA training that no hex or jinx is without use?”

Just then, they felt the troll’s mace shatter the pavement beside them.

“Remind me again . . . Petrificus Totalus! . . . why we can’t just AK the bloody thing?”

“Hermione!” Harry shouted as he charged the troll again when Susan’s Petrify glanced off its thick hide. “If we AK the troll, she’ll AK us!”

“She owes me a drink!” Susan shouted back. “Or three! Damn it, the bloody thing might as well be wearing armour!”

Harry laughed breathlessly. “Guess it’s time to go for the balls then!”

Susan started laughing so hard she almost dropped her wand.

“You’re joking!” she wheezed.

Harry grinned at her. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss a true master in action!”

He pointed his wand at the troll’s massive scrotum and cast a stinging hex and then followed it by a bellowed Evanesco.

“Now cast a stunner up his nose!” he yelled to Susan.

“What?!” Susan shouted. Harry could barely hear her over the troll’s roaring and howling.

“A stunner! Up its nostril!”

Susan looked at him like he’d finally lost his mind.

“Just trust me!” Harry yelled. “I have a lot of experience with Trolls’ nasal passages! On the count of three we’ll do it together. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Stupify!” He turned to Susan. “Now run!”

They scarcely made it out of the way of the collapsing troll when Harry’s hair was singed by a Cruciatus.

“Shit,” he hissed. “I thought we’d got them all.”

Susan popped her head over the barricade they’d assembled earlier.

“It’s one of the potion brewers,” she hissed back. “He must be as stupid as he looks throwing around Unforgiveables like that. Illegal potions gets you fifteen years. Trying to Crucio an Auror gets you fifty.”

“Yeah, well, most of your average criminals aren’t the sharpest quills in the box . . . Serpensorta!”

Harry loved this curse more than any other, but he didn’t get to use it often. It wasn’t exactly legal, although so few people could cast it that the government had never bothered officially banning it. He watched as the beautiful golden snake emerged from the tip of his wand like a strand of silk emerges from a spider.

Just incapacitate him, he told her in Parseltongue. He’s not dangerous enough to kill.

The snaked replied that she understood. Before the man could even scream, she surged forward and coiled around him tight enough to turn his face purple but not tight enough to strangle him.

“Bloody hell, that’s brilliant, Harry,” Susan said, her voice quiet with awe.

“Well, don’t tell anyone I used it. Might get me sacked.”

Susan glared at him. “Like I would,” she said. “You idiot. Is it alright if I touch it?”

“Her,” Harry corrected her. “My snakes are always female.”

Susan stood up and slowly approached the snake.

Friend? the snake asked Harry.

Harry smiled as a warm fondness for his partner filled his chest.

Yes, he replied. Friend.

They’d just got their pints and a bowl of chips when the alert bracelets on their wrists turned warm and squeezed.

“Bloody hell,” Susan said. “For some reason this always happens when I order chips. I guess it’s time to switch to onion rings.”

Harry swore. Damn it, he was hungry! He pulled off his bracelet and looked at the words appearing on the inside.

Emergency! Domestic! Malfoy Manor of London, 3rd Flr!

Harry stared at them. His mind had gone completely blank and quiet except for the little voice in the distant reaches of his thoughts screaming NO! Whether it was for himself or Malfoy, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Shit,” Susan sighed. “Flint and Malfoy again.”

Harry barely heard her above the blood roaring in his ears. He couldn’t lift his head to look at her. All he could do was stare at the bracelet, numb and mute.

“Harry?”

But Harry couldn’t answer. All he could do was shake his head over and over. He was certain Susan would’ve never suspected he could come unglued like this. Especially over a simple domestic.

“Harry?”

He felt her take his hand and squeeze it. He swallowed and tried to speak, but he couldn’t. Susan nudged his pint of lager closer to him. It slopped over the brim a bit when the glass caught on the sticky surface of the bar.

“Gabe!” she called. “Wet cloth, please! What kind of establishment do you run here?”

“Shut it, Bones,” the bartender said amicable. He threw her a bar rag, and she caught it.

“Drink,” he said meaningfully and nodded at Harry’s pint. “Then talk.”

“Don’t have time,” Harry croaked. His throat was too raw for full sentences.

“We have a couple of minutes. Stavers’s closer. He’ll get there first and then we’ll join him and mop up, okay?”

He merely nodded.

“Drink,” Susan said.

He lifted the glass with a shaking hand and took a long deep drink. It calmed him slightly.

“Don’t wanna see Malfoy,” he mumbled.

“Something bad happen while he was staying with you a few weeks ago?”

Harry took another swig of his lager and nodded.

“Can’t talk about it,” he whispered. “Okay?”

Her hand was still on his hand. He turned it over and squeezed. She sighed and slid off her barstool. She was such a strong presence that Harry was always surprised when he remembered how tiny she was.

“Bastard,” she muttered. “I knew you shouldn’t have taken him home with you. It’s like warming a frozen snake under your jumper. As soon as it thaws, it bites you.”

Harry snorted.

“Can we use your Floo, Gabe?” he asked. Gabe responded by chastising him for thinking he even had to ask.

Harry turned to Susan. “We’ll Floo into the lobby and then play things by ear from there.”

“No problem, boss,” she said in a feigned American accent, all business again. He gave her a grateful smile as they stepped into the Black Crup Tavern’s fireplace.

Things in the lobby of Malfoy’s building were the same as they’d been on Walpurgisnacht. Residents were walking swiftly to and from the lifts with their heads down, whispering to each other. Talk about shameful not-so-secret secrets, Malfoy, Harry thought unkindly. He felt his bracelet heat up again – last time it’d been warm, now it was scorching.

“Ow!” Susan yelled. “Bloody Stavers!”

“Obviously he really needs us,” Harry said. He took a deep breath and then another. He was determined not to let what took place between him and Malfoy affect his performance on the job.

“Back stairs again?” Susan asked, and Harry nodded. They dashed up, wands drawn, taking two steps at a time.

Stavers had already blasted the door off its hinges, so Harry didn’t bother taking the time to knock and alert Flint to their presence. Clearly Stavers had already had the privilege.

“Let me at him,” Susan hissed and shoved Harry aside. He didn’t know whether she was talking about Flint or Malfoy. He was just about to grab her arm when he heard a male voice shout Stupefy! and a body fall heavily to the floor.

Susan had been stunned! Harry had to restrain himself from rushing in to save her. That was one of the first lessons of being an Auror: as much as you want to save your partner, the victim depends on your survival. Aurors expect to die. Victims don’t – and they shouldn’t. Victims first, fallen comrades later. That was basic Auror protocol. Nonetheless, it was hard to override one’s instincts when the choice was usually between a trusted friend and a stranger.

So caution was clearly in order. There was nothing but silence inside the flat. No shouted counter-spell from Stavers. Both of his seasoned Aurors had been attacked and incapacitated. Clearly the situation called for more subtlety than he’d expected to need with a troll like Marcus Flint.

And then Harry heard Flint’s voice.

“Bloody hell, it’s the Bones cow. I thought she was Potter’s partner? How pathetic. Potter let her go in first to take the hit.”

There came a noise that sounded like someone trying to talk through a gag.

“Shut it, Draco. I’m sick of your lies.”

Harry heard Flint cast a brutal stinging hex.

Fucking arsehole. God, how Harry loathed him. Getting the prosecutor to drop the case against him was the most shameful thing he’d done since becoming an Auror – maybe even ever.

Harry took a deep breath and willed the trembling in his limbs to stop. He released the calming breath and took another, this time with Stupefy on his tongue. Let what’ll be, be. Flint had attacked his Aurors. He wasn’t going to see the outside of Azkaban until he needed a hearing charm and his dick was a shrivelled fig.

Harry charged through the door ready to drop and roll and simultaneously cast a binding spell, but he was immediately engulfed by a black blinding fog.

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

“Expelliarmus!” Flint shouted, and to his embarrassment, Harry’s wand sprang from his hand. Disarmed, he raised his fists in a boxer’s stance. He heard a wheezing sound that turned into a malicious guffaw.

“I fucking disarmed you with your own pet spell, Potter! You’re pathetic even without wearing nappies!”

Harry staggered as though he’d been punched in the face. So Malfoy had told Flint. He was suddenly grateful for the Darkness Powder. He was sure his face reflected the mortification he felt at Flint’s words.

But then he gathered his wits. Flint was not Voldemort. He wasn’t even one of the slowest and stupidest Death Eaters. He was a fucking Gringotts accountant. The most exercise he probably got was beating up his equally pathetic boyfriend.

“Flint,” he said with a calmness that surprised him. “You’re looking at a long sentence already. Don’t add to it by assaulting me.”

“Why?” Flint taunted. “I’m not afraid of you, Potter. Draco and I have enough information about you to fucking own your arse, don’t we, Draco?”

There were more muffled noises and then a hard slap.

“Shut up,” Flint hissed. “You wouldn’t even be in the predicament you’re in if you hadn’t tried to contact him. You’re such a silly little fool, Draco. A silly pathetic little whore. Your flabby arsehole isn’t even worth all the trouble anymore. Want to be free? Too bad. That gag’s saying on until I want you to suck my cock again.”

Harry couldn’t help it when he gagged on a throat-full of vomit. The whole situation was so sordid. How had he allowed himself to get caught up in it?

“We make you sick, Potter?” Flint said. “Now there’s irony if I’ve ever heard it. Draco here told me you’re a fucking pervert. Drinking from a bottle like an ickle baby? When Draco told me, it was as though God had handed me my own personalised wet dream. Dummies? Nappy cream? Toys? Merlin, Potter!”

While Flint had been yammering on, Harry had stopped both moving and breathing, which actually turned out to be a good thing because Flint started to get nervous.

“Potter? Where the fuck are you? Come out and fight like a man-baby, you sick fuck!”

Harry cast a wordless silencing spell on himself and began walking slowly in Flint’s direction, careful to avoid Flint’s flailing arms as he slapped and pawed frantically at the darkness that surrounded him. When Harry finally hit him, he’d snuck up close enough to smell Flint’s whisky-soaked breath. It was a nose-shattering punch.

Flint shouted an obscenity and staggered backward. Harry was on him in a fraction of an instant, but too many of his punches went awry in the darkness. He cast a complicated darkness dispersing charm, but the momentary distraction was all Flint needed to hit him with a deboning spell. Harry did everything he could to fight it, but Flint had cast it at close range. Harry flopped down onto his back unable to move a muscle.

As the darkness cleared, he did his best to take in every detail around him as quickly as possible. He saw both Susan and Stavers lying stunned on the floor. Behind them, Malfoy was gagged and strapped to a chair. If it weren’t for the pale hair, Harry wouldn’t have been able to recognise him. His face had been beaten to a pulp.

Flint’s face didn’t look much better due to Harry’s fists, but unlike Malfoy, Flint was able to heal himself. He sat down at the table next to Malfoy and summoned a whisky bottle, surveying the damage around him with a darkly amused expression.

“I think this might very well be the best day of my life,” he said. He pointed his wand at Malfoy and Banished the gag.

“Speak, my lovely treasure,” he said. “What else did you find at Potter’s flat while you were there letting him fuck you while I rotted in a holding cell because Potter’s arse-licking Aurors kept raising my bond every time someone tried to pay it?”

Malfoy was wearing nothing but pants, and his heaving chest was slick with blood and sweat. When he didn’t answer right away, Flint reached over and twisted one of his nipples until Malfoy screamed.

“He . . . he pissed in his nappies,” he whispered.

Flint made a sound as though he’d just taken a sip of the world’s finest wine.

“Draco,” he said lovingly. “You make me happier than any man has ever been. Tell me more, and I’ll use lube this time . . . well, only after I dry fuck Potter, of course.”

Harry didn’t panic. He knew that when pushed to the wall, he could kill wordlessly, and he would kill Flint if Flint touched him. But Malfoy had no idea what Harry was capable of, and he panicked.

“Don’t!” he cried. “Please, Marcus! Let him go! Tell him if he doesn’t leave you’ll expose him to the press . . .”

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Flint scolded him in a sickly-sweet voice. “You are so very stupid. Why do you keep doing this to us? Why do you have to make me punish you?”

He stood up, and Harry watched in horror as Flint used his wand to carve one side of Malfoy’s mouth into a lopsided maniacal grin.

“Aw,” Flint said. “Now that’s it. A pretty smile from my pretty boy. Now get me ready for our Saviour.”

Harry never Obliviated anything from his mind. It was a promise he’d made to himself. If he could face a situation and survive it, he would not erase it. Not only because he believed that what didn’t kill you made you stronger, but because he knew he needed to bear witness and remember the atrocities human beings committed against one another. He’d told Hermione once that killing Voldemort wasn’t the reason he’d been permitted to live. The reason, he told her, was that he had a larger purpose. He’d been permitted to live – twice! – because God wanted him to be a witness – to be the unblinking eyes and unflinching soul that would one day pass all that he’d learned on to those who succeeded him so that one day – one day – it would all just stop. He believed in his heart of hearts that his mother had been given the same task and that that’s why she’d been drawn to Severus. Harry was sure Severus lived with the same obligation – and died fulfilling it.

So Harry knew he would not Obliviate himself when Flint pushed his jeans and pants down to his knees, grabbed a fistful of Malfoy’s hair and fucked Malfoy’s ravaged mouth.

No matter how much he knew he’d later want to.

To Harry’s horror, Malfoy didn’t scream or bite or even protest. He just accepted Flint’s barbaric treatment as his due. But when Flint pulled away and turned his eyes on Harry, Malfoy began to struggle.

“Marcus, for God’s sake!” he cried despite the agony just speaking must entail.

Flint turned back to him with an ugly sneer.

“Don’t try to protect your lover, Draco. No one fucks my boyfriend and survives. Especially if he’s a nappy-wearing freak!”

Harry watched Malfoy try to struggle out of his bonds and fought with all his might to tell him wordlessly to stop, to pretend to be defeated body and soul, even if he wasn’t. Harry could take care of himself. Malfoy couldn’t. It was as simple as that.

Malfoy screamed when Flint turned and slashed open Harry’s shirt with a slicing charm. Unsurprisingly, he was shit at it, so he cut Harry’s chest shallowly. Malfoy saw the blood and screamed again.

“Don’t! Marcus! Please!”

Flint turned around to look at him.

“Why do you care so much, flower? Is Potter your lover boy? Do you like it when he humps you through his nappy while he sucks his dummy? Did that turn you on, kitten?”

He pointed his wand at Malfoy who flinched but didn’t look away from Flint’s face.

“I care,” Malfoy whispered fervently. “I care because I don’t want you to go to Azkaban. I can’t live without you, Marcus. Please, don’t leave me. Let Potter go – let all of them go. We have enough information on Potter to keep you safe. Marcus, please! You are my whole life – my whole world! I’m begging you – for your sake. For our sake!”

Malfoy broke down and started to sob. Harry watched incredulously as the cruelty in Flint’s face melted into an aching pleading tenderness.

“It’s about me,” he said softly. “It’s not about him. Oh, Draco! Why didn’t you say so?”

If he wasn’t made of rubber, Harry was sure his eyes would be popping out of his head. Flint sank to his knees in front of Malfoy and literally – literally! – kissed Malfoy’s feet.

“Baby,” Flint said, sobbing wretchedly. “Why do you make me hurt you? You are everything to me. I would kill myself if you ever left me. My darling beautiful precious angel.”

Flint was shaking when he finally looked up into Malfoy’s face.

“How can you ever forgive me, Draco?”

Flint gently touched Malfoy’s bonds with the tip of his wand, and they vanished. As soon as his arms were free, Malfoy reached out and cupped Flint’s face between his hands.

“I loved you from our first kiss,” he whispered.

“I know,” Flint sobbed. “I know, Draco. I fell in love with you too. I’ve never stopped falling.”

Harry watched as tears mingled with blood on Malfoy’s cheeks.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to please you, to make you happy,” he said.

“You have made me happy!” Flint said fiercely. “You’ve made me the happiest man on earth!”

“But all I’ve done is fail time and time again.”

“No, you haven’t, my sweet. You haven’t failed. It’s me who’s failed you. Look at you! Who but a sick deranged psychopath would do this to one of heaven’s angels? Draco, my love, my whole life, I will never ever hurt you again!”

“But you’ve said that before . . .”

Flint sobbed wretchedly.

“I know. I know I have, my lamb. But I won’t do it again. I’ll kill myself before I ever touch you without the tenderness you deserve. I am a brute! Hell will be too good for me when I die.

Malfoy leaned forward and placed a long lingering kiss on Flint’s forehead.

Harry wanted to fucking vomit. Malfoy thought he, Harry, was sick! Harry could run streaking down the street naked in shit-filled nappies, and he still couldn’t hold a candle to Malfoy’s sickness. Harry took as deep a breath as he was able to given the spell he was under. Something had snapped in his soul. Something that’d bound him tight in coils of barbed wire. He wasn’t sick and deranged. Unlike so many people in the world, he’d been trying to make himself whole – even if that meant overstepping society’s narrow boundaries of acceptability. His . . . practises had never hurt anyone. They’d only brought him happiness and peace and comfort – all of which he bloody well deserved after what he’d been through and sacrificed. After all, he hadn’t just saved the Wizarding world, he’d saved the Muggle world as well. His Aunt and Uncle still lived in blissful mundane ignorance because of him! Dudley and his mates bought and ran a thriving pub because of him! He’d given everything – his childhood, his adolescence, even his life. So what if he wanted a warm bottle of milk before he fell asleep with a dummy and a blanket tucked under his cheek? So what if he wanted to rub himself into a sweet state of innocent pleasure against a nappy? So the fuck what?

“Baby,” Flint murmured, tilting his head back to look in Draco’s eyes. Draco still cupped his face. “No one will ever love you like I do . . .”

“Good,” Malfoy said coldly. “Because I don’t intend to let them.”

With a deft movement, he snapped Flint’s neck as though it was nothing but a dry twig.

Harry watched flabbergasted as Flint fell over backwards, dead before he even hit the floor. Malfoy didn’t move. He just sat there, bleeding and staring at Flint’s body. Harry had seen people in shock before. Malfoy was in shock.

Harry turned his consciousness inward, seeking for that tiny spark that he’d learned from brutal experience was his courage. He’d close his eyes if he could, but it wasn’t necessary. His blood surrounded the spark and nurtured it.

You are loved, Harry. So, so loved. Mummy loves you. Daddy loves you. Be safe, Harry. Be strong.

Harry swallowed as the tears welled in his eyes.

You are so loved, Harry. So, so loved . . ..

Suddenly the spell that had paralyzed him dissolved like a puff of smoke in the air. Harry gasped and curled in on himself, coughing and wheezing.

“Accio, Harry’s wand!” he cried and held up his hand just in time for his wand to strike his palm with an audible smack.

He struggled to his feet and pointed it straight at Malfoy.

Malfoy had dropped his head when he’d killed Flint. He raised it slowly and looked in Harry’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said dully. “I deserve it. Just promise me you’ll make it hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry said flatly. “Moreover, I don’t need to hurt you. I’m not Flint.”

Malfoy’s eyes were dead. It was impossible to imagine they’d ever show life again.

“Are you going to arrest me?” he asked. “I’m not going to plead for mercy for myself – but please, Potter, think of my mother. It would kill her. I’d rather you cast Avada Kedavra. At least that way she only needs to mourn once and not every time she comes to visit me in Azkaban.”

“I’m not going to kill you, and I’m not going to arrest you,” Harry replied. “Believe it or not, Malfoy, you’ve done nothing wrong – at least not in the eyes of the law.”

Harry wasn’t terribly surprised to find his words provided Malfoy with no comfort.

“I did you a terrible wrong,” Malfoy said lifelessly. “You tried to help me, and I betrayed you.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “You did. Expecto Patronum!”

“Please,” Malfoy begged. “Don’t call the Healers!”

“Too late,” Harry replied. “But even so, why not?”

Malfoy bowed his head again.

“I don’t deserve to be healed,” he said. “I deserve to walk around with these scars for as long as I live.”

Harry rolled his eyes at him. “Shut it, Malfoy,” he said. “Martyrdom doesn’t suit you. Flint’s dead. In my eyes, you did it to protect me.”

Malfoy looked up at him, and for the first time, his eyes showed a sign of life.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked. “Or is that what you’ve decided out of pity to write in your notes?”

Harry actually hadn’t considered his exact reasons for deciding not to arrest Malfoy, but when he thought about it . . .

“Yeah,” he said. “I think in your own pathetic way that you were trying to help me.”

Malfoy bit his lip and nodded.

Harry pointed his wand at Susan and cast Rennervate. Then he did the same to Stavers. They came to as if they’d both wakened after an all-night pub crawl.

“Ugh,” said Susan.

“Blaah,” said Stavers. “I hate stunning spells. Where the fuck am I?”

“Malfoy Manor of London – Luxury Apartment Homes for the Discriminating City Dweller,” Harry replied.

“In other words, hell,” Susan said, rubbing her forehead.

“Something like that,” Harry replied with a grin.

Susan glanced at Flint’s dead body.

“Who had the honour?”

Harry nodded at Malfoy.

Susan glanced at Malfoy and then turned back to Harry with an arched eyebrow.

“Bollocks.”

Harry held up his hands in a display of innocence.

“I swear,” he said. “Other than landing a couple of good solid punches, I didn’t touch the tosser. It was all Malfoy.”

He looked at Malfoy, but Malfoy wasn’t smiling. It was time for Harry to turn this back into a formal crime scene.

“All right,” he said briskly. “Susan, you find out which detectives are on duty and summon them here. Stavers, you contact the coroner and fill out the paperwork . . .”

Stavers scowled at him. “Paperwork? You’ve got to be joking. What’re you going to do, Harry?”

Harry grinned a huge happy grin.

“Going home,” he said. “Nighty-night, lads.”

But Harry didn’t go straight home. It was too late to go to Mothercare, but he could buy most of the things he wanted at the 24-hour grocery store. Whistling happily, he pushed his cart up and down the isles filling it with nappies and dummies and bottles along with some milk, Jaffa cakes, Weetabix, cheese and onion Hula Hoops, and a bottle of orange squash.

Life was good.

“Twins?” the lady at the check-out asked.

Harry grinned at her.

“Even better,” he said. “Triplets.”

She beamed at him.

“The missus is lucky to have you around,” she said.

“Cheers,” Harry replied pleasantly as he scooped up his bags and walked to the nearest secluded place to Apparate home.

Months passed. Spring became summer, and summer became fall. Flint was buried with Harry’s admonishment to the Prophet that they keep their coverage to an obituary. He received a thank-you note from Malfoy for his efforts. He read it and then Incendioed it without even a second thought about replying. He was happy. He’d started visiting friends more than he’d been doing for years. He even had Hermione and Ron over for dinner a couple of times. At work, the Aurors had stopped grumbling about this and that and seemed to be taking to Harry’s new policies with minimal bureaucratic chagrin. He finally joined the weekend Quidditch club that had been badgering him for years and started falling asleep on Saturday nights before he’d even finished his bottle.

He also accepted the fact that, despite everything, he was always going to be curious about Malfoy. All he had to do was convince the Minister that Malfoy might be stealing magical sheep and he was given permission to spy on every move Malfoy made.

At first Malfoy made no move at all. He stayed at St. Mungo’s for weeks – longer than it took his physical injuries to heal, so Harry surmised he’d stayed for the psychological healing. After he was released, he sold his flat, which had reverted back to his ownership when Flint died, and moved to his parents’ home in Wiltshire. He’d taken a leave from his job at the Ministry, but then returned at the end of summer. It was only a matter of time before they found themselves in the same place at the same time.

It was late September, when Harry stepped into a lift and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy.

It had been literally months since Harry had felt consciously aware of the training nappies he wore to work every day, but as soon as he saw Malfoy, he could feel the cinch of the elastic around his thighs and the soft snug padding between his legs. He knew he was blushing and quickly turned away.

“Malfoy,” he said, staring at the gates.

“Potter,” Malfoy replied.

Silence ensued. Harry had never appreciated just how long it took to get from the lobby to his bloody floor.

“Nice weather we’re having,” Malfoy said.

“Indeed,” Harry replied automatically. “I hope it stays this way.”

“The foliage is lovely this year.”

“Quite.”

“The roses have lasted longer than usual.”

“That they have.”

Finally – finally – the lift stopped at the fourth floor.

“A pleasure to see you, Potter,” Malfoy said as the gate opened. Harry turned around to look at him.

“I’m glad you’re well,” he said. “But I don’t ever want to see or talk to you again if I can help it.”

Malfoy flinched, but Harry turned away and stepped out of the lift.

He didn’t look back.

“All right,” Harry said, clapping his hands loudly until the hubbub in the room subsided. “We all know what tonight is . . .”

His words were met with a chorus of groans.

“That’s right. Walpurgisnacht.”

“I’ll get the holding cells ready,” said Partridge.

“I’ll make sure the armoured cars have oil changes,” said Montrose.

“I’ll handle the press,” said Blotsmudge.

“I’ll handle the Obliviators,” said Carlisle.

“I’ll handle the Muggle police,” said Smith-Blithering-Tompkins.

“Wonderful,” Harry said. “Now is everyone’s partner present? Stavers?”

“Broadhurst is here, sir!”

Thank God. That meant no domestics for him and Susan that night. Harry would die a happy man if he never had to respond to another domestic emergency.

He went through the rest of his list to assure that everyone was there and ready for the long night ahead.

“Why can’t the Minister declare a curfew on these bloody holidays?” Susan grumbled. It was cold and wet, but that hadn’t stopped all the berks from coming out to play.

“Can you imagine the hassle that would create?” Harry replied. “I’ll take things the way they are, thank you.”

“Merlin! I’m freezing my tits off!” Susan exclaimed. She reached into her robe and pulled out a silver flask. Harry looked at her disapprovingly.

“Ah, come on, Harry,” she wheedled. “You know I don’t do this on any other night of the year.”

She took a sip and handed the flask to Harry.

“You’ll like it,” she said. “Top shelf whisky, that is.”

Harry paused but then thought, “Fuck it, why not?” He took a long deep swig.

“Whoa, there,” Susan said. “Save some for the soldiers, captain.”

Harry rolled his eyes and handed the flask back to her.

“I can’t help it if you drink like bloody Tinker Bell.”

Susan frowned at him. “Tinker who?”

Harry bit back a giddy laugh. Tinker Bell was a character in one of his favourite Muggle children’s books.

“She’s a fairy,” he said. “Which means she’s very, very little.” He demonstrated with his thumb and index finger, and Susan punched him in the arm.

“Ow,” he said. “That hurt. You owe me another taste of Moray’s finest.”

Susan shook her head fondly and handed him the flask. He took another long swig.

“What happens when this is empty?” he said. “Must we ask one of these wankers for a sip of their whatever-the-hell-it-is they’re drinking?”

Susan made a face. “Hell, no. This is a self-refilling flask, Potter. Didn’t you say you went to Hogwarts?”

“We Gryffindors were too honourable to possess such things,” he said loftily.

“I was in Hufflepuff,” Susan replied flatly as though it was a trump card . . . which it was.

“Hufflepuffs are piss-heads?” Harry asked. “Damn. If only Ron and I had known.”

Susan grinned and handed him the flask again. Harry tipped back his head and emptied it, but as he was handing it to Susan, he saw a figure standing right in their paths. A figure in a dark cloak with pale hair.

Malfoy.

Both Harry and Susan stopped as though they’d bumped up against an invisible fence.

“Potter,” Malfoy said.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied.

Susan elbowed Harry out of the way and placed herself between him and Malfoy.

“Show us your wand,” she hissed, pointing hers at Malfoy’s heart.

Malfoy not only held up his wand but threw it down on the pavement.

“What do you want?” Susan snapped. “Harry . . . I mean, Auror Potter and I are busy.”

Harry watched Malfoy’s lip twitch even though the rest of him remained perfectly still.

“So, it’s ‘Harry,’” he said coldly.

“Not to you,” Susan replied just as coldly.

Harry rested his hand on Susan’s wand and lowered it.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked. “This is a busy night for us. I don’t have time for a chat.”

Malfoy closed his eyes wearily for a second and then opened them, fixing his gaze on Harry.

“It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Harry stared back at him.

“Well, we don’t have ‘a few minutes,’” Susan said, pulling on his sleeve. “Come on, Harry.”

But Harry didn’t follow her. There was something that needed to happen between Malfoy and him. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew neither of them would truly be able to move on with their lives without it.

“It’s all right, Susan,” he said calmly. “Go back to the square. I’ll meet you there.”

She looked at him, her brown eyes full of worry.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I’ll be all right.”

She paused and then nodded. Without another glance backward, she disappeared into the night. Harry turned back to Malfoy.

“What do you want?” he asked.

He watched the shadows play on Malfoy’s throat as he swallowed. Rather than using a spell, he stopped and picked up his wand.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice both rough and gentle at the same time. Harry might’ve been suspicious, but there was something in Malfoy’s slow careful movements that soothed him and reminded him of those few quiet days they’d spent together before all hell broke loose.

Malfoy held out his hand. Harry didn’t take it, but he did follow Malfoy down a narrow cobblestone lane. When Malfoy stopped and turned, Harry saw clearly the scar at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t get rid of it.”

Malfoy shook his head.

“Don’t tell me you think you deserved it.”

“I don’t deserve it because of what I did to Marcus,” Malfoy replied steadily. “I deserve it because of what I did to you.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Malfoy shook his head again.

“I didn’t bring you here so we could argue,” he said.

“Okay,” Harry replied. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“Because this is my house,” Malfoy said, nodding at the building on the right. “And this is my clinic,” he said, nodding at the building on the left. “In other words, I own this lane so if any of the idiots on the street come down here I can tell them to piss off with impunity.”

Harry saw just a twitch of a smile.

“Clinic?” he asked.

“I don’t want to go on and on about it because that’s not how I want to use my few minutes with you. But the short answer is that I work with victims of domestic violence. You could say I’ve earned a certificate in the subject.”

This time, Malfoy really did smile, wry though it was.

“Good,” Harry replied pleasantly but briskly. “I’m glad to hear things are going well for you . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy replied, waving aside Harry’s pleasantries as if they were gnats. “Thank you and all that, but what I wanted to find out is how you’re doing.”

Harry instinctively made a face that must look like he’d just bit into a lemon.

“I’ve no doubt you’re an excellent therapist,” he said, “but I’m not a victim of domestic violence.”

Malfoy was unruffled.

“No, perhaps not, but you’ve suffered many of the same things my clients have – scorn and shame and unforgivable violations.”

Oh.

So what now? Should he pretend he didn’t know what Malfoy was talking about? Or should he tell Malfoy to piss off and forget about it, like he, Harry, had?

“Have . . . have you . . . Are you? . . . I mean . . . did . . . ?”

“Damn it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “You may feel guilty and think that gives you the right to talk to me about . . . about stuff, but it doesn’t.”

Malfoy bit his lip and nodded.

“Right,” he said quietly. “No, of course not.”

Harry looked at him closely – at his flushed cheeks and the bashful way he kept catching Harry’s eyes and then looking away again quickly. Yes, Harry was a little tipsy from Susan’s whisky, but he could still sense something was just a tiny bit off . . .

Suddenly, Harry found himself pressed firmly against one of the ivy-covered walls. Every single one of his muscles was coiled and ready to push back, but then Malfoy whispered what must be some kind of soothing charm against his ear, and suddenly his whole body relaxed. It wasn’t a deboning spell like the one Flint had cast on him. He didn’t feel on the verge of slipping to his knees. It was more like being sweetly drowsy.

Malfoy placed his hands on either side of Harry’s head and straightened his arms so that there bodies were no longer touching. It was clear he was giving Harry the chance to get away if he wanted to, and part of Harry did want to get away. Malfoy’s closeness was not comfortable, and Harry hadn’t liked the way Malfoy’s lips had brushed his ear, but the aspects of the situation that were uncomfortable were overridden by the tender hazy warmth Harry felt seeping through his whole body. He wanted the warmth to stay . . . and the warmth was somehow connected to Malfoy, so that made him want Malfoy to stay too – although not too close.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Malfoy said with a faint teasing smile. “I’m not going to pin you against the wall like Millicent did to Greg after the TriWizard Cup Ball.”

“Ugh,” Harry huffed. “Thanks for the lovely image.”

“Actually, it was kind of lovely,” Malfoy said. “People had been trying to get them together for ages. They’re married now, did you know that?”

Harry shook his head.

“I’m not marrying you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Good job taking everything to its most far-reaching inane conclusion.”

Malfoy had been on the verge of a laugh, but then his tone changed, and his expression grew serious.

“I want to do something,” he said softly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a very long time. But it requires you to trust me . . .”

Whoa. “Trust” and “Malfoy” were nowhere even near each other in Harry’s mental lexicon.

“Then whatever it is, you can’t do it,” Harry said flatly. “Because not only do I not trust you, I don’t want to. I trust only three people in the world – Hermione, Ron and Susan – and they’ve all earned that trust . . . and once they had it, they didn’t break it. You’re not in danger of joining their company, Malfoy.”

Malfoy swallowed and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again slowly, Harry saw the reflection of the crescent moon in their depths and for just an instant, he felt . . . something. Not trust. Definitely not trust. Curiosity, maybe? He felt a little bit like he did when he opened a new children’s book for the first time. The feeling mingled pleasantly with the sweet drowsiness.

“Please, Harry,” Malfoy whispered. “Please just let me do something. I don’t know what I can offer that you might want enough to exchange for forgiveness. You’re such a strange, shy creature. Please tell me what I can give to you because I’m not sure I can guess.”

Harry snorted. Malfoy’s voice was too gentle to be teasing, and the image of a strange creature sticking just its little whiskered snoot outside its den was . . . delightful? Yes, perhaps that was the right word.

“Please, Harry . . .”

“Read to me,” Harry said suddenly and then blushed so hard he worried his face might melt.

Malfoy’s eyebrows went up at Harry’s request, but the words that came out of his mouth were light and calm.

“Okay,” he said before Harry had the chance to rescind his request. “But not here.”

“Obviously,” Harry said with another snort. He was trying desperately not to panic.

Malfoy reached out for Harry’s hand, but when Harry flinched, he let his arm slowly lower back to his side.

“I live right here,” Malfoy said. “Do you want to come inside? I think I might have a couple of books you might like.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Unless Malfoy had started running a day-care out of his house, he was unlikely to have The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Harry had probably just condemned himself to an evening of Proust.

“I doubt that,” Harry mumbled, but he followed Malfoy through his front door anyway. When he was inside, he took off his boots and handed Malfoy his cloak and Auror robe, which Malfoy draped neatly over a chair.

The house was small and old with slightly slanted ceilings and uneven floorboards. Harry liked it immediately. He’d settled into his studio flat well enough over the past year, but it’d never felt so cosy as Malfoy’s house felt from the second Harry walked in.

Malfoy must’ve seen Harry’s approving expression.

“Tour?” he asked, and Harry nodded. Why not?

Malfoy led him slowly through a spacious kitchen, a pantry, dining and living rooms and a small study lined with bookshelves. To Harry’s surprise, there were no lavish furnishing. Everything was well-made but simple. The furniture looked as though its first function was to be used, not envied. The only thing that could be called extravagant was an enormous fish tank in a room seemingly devoted entirely to watching its exotic inhabitants. There was nothing else in the room except for a large cosy-looking sofa. Harry could only stand and gape at how magnificent it all was.

“Here,” Malfoy said with a nod at the sofa. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Harry walked backwards away from the tank and sat heavily when the backs of his knees hit the sofa. Malfoy laughed with something that sounded to Harry like it might be affection.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“Not nice,” Harry said in an awed voice. “Bloody brilliant!”

Malfoy sat down beside him – close, but not so close that they touched.

“I can watch them for hours,” he said. “It’s so soothing. Sometimes I even sleep in here. It makes me feel safe and less lonely.”

He whispered Nox and every light in the room went out except the one in the tank.

“Look at the walls,” he said softly, and Harry looked around him. The walls were nothing but white plaster. They’d looked rather drab when the lights were on, but now they were filled with the slowly moving shadows of fish.

“Oh,” Harry breathed.

He’d never seen anything so tranquil and beautiful in his life. Without thinking about it, he tucked his legs and feet under his bum.

They sat quietly for a very long time just watching the fish and their shadows. The only sounds were the bubbling and whirring and humming of the tank’s filters. Slowly, Harry felt himself relax deeper and deeper until sleep removed his glasses and began sliding her fingers through his hair. He sighed and curled up against a source of warmth next to him, sighing even deeper when his thumb found his mouth. It was bliss. Sheer unadulterated bliss. The source of warmth put an arm around him, and it was okay.

Then the source of warmth opened a book, and one of the fish started reading.

In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf.

Harry removed his thumb from his mouth for a moment so he could giggle at the talking fish and a lovely plump dummy took his thumb’s place.

Silly fish.

One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and – pop! – out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry caterpillar.

Harry snuggled into the fleece blanket that the source of warmth was wrapping around him and clutched a soft toy against his chest. He felt just like the caterpillar in its cocoon after it’d eaten so much it couldn’t move.

Silly caterpillar.

Harry removed the dummy from his mouth for a moment. “He started to look for some food,” he murmured. He knew this story better than any other. It was his favourite.

What kind of food does he find? said a voice that didn’t belong to the fish.

The voice was nice and not at all mean. Plus, whoever it belonged to was gently touching Harry’s fringe.

“An apple,” Harry replied. “On Monday.”

A hand took his dummy and put it back in his mouth.

Did the apple fill up the little caterpillar?

Harry shook his head. “Nope, the caterpillar eats through a different fruit every day of the week,” he mumbled around his dummy.

Hence the name of the book.

The voice was a little bit teasing, but it was still nice – even if its owner didn’t know caterpillars ate watermelon.

Silly voice owner.

Are you hungry like the little caterpillar?

“Not for watermelon,” Harry murmured.

How about a bottle then?

Harry nodded. A bottle sounded perfect.

He heard the voice summon a bottle from somewhere and cast a warming charm.

“Check it on your wrist,” Harry mumbled. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling the owner of the voice didn’t know how to bottle feed a baby.

The owner of the voice must’ve tested the temperature because Harry heard another warming charm. Then the dummy was removed, but Harry didn’t have time to panic before the bottle’s soft rubber nipple nudged his lips.

Open up, the voice said softly, and Harry opened his mouth.

In the very far away reaches of his mind, Harry knew what was happening – that the voice belonged to Malfoy – but his heart and body didn’t care. Harry had always fed himself, but tonight he was being cradled in a pair of arms, and he didn’t have to worry about holding the bottle. It was being held for him, and all he had to do was drink.

He heard the voice chuckle softly and knew milk must be seeping down his chin because he felt a warm damp cloth clean him up. He’d never felt so safe and secure and comfortable even when he was alone doing all of these things for himself. Part of him had always been aware of the fact that he was doing them, but now someone else was – Malfoy was. Someone else was taking care of him and feeding him.

Do you need a nappy? the voice asked, and Harry shook his head.

“Already wearing one,” he mumbled around the bottle’s nipple.

Let me just make sure you don’t need a change.

At the voice’s words, Harry felt his eyes almost roll back in his head with the anticipation of rapture. Someone was going to check his nappy! He moaned softly as his belt was unbuckled and his trousers opened and a hand slid carefully between his legs, fingers pressing here and there in search of wetness. There was something about the gentle probing that made him move his hips in the way he did when he first put on a new nappy. That lovely rocking rubbing movement that filled him with happiness and pleasure.

Still want your bottle?

Harry nodded. He’d been distracted for a moment by the other hand between his legs, but he returned his attention again to the delicious warm mouthfuls of milk that greeted his every suck. He clutched the someone’s shirt with one hand and just sucked and sucked and sucked till his jaw started to ache. Only when he paused his drinking for a moment did he remember the fingers applying gentle pressure through his nappy first on his perineum and then on his penis. He was still rocking against each touch, but the sweet delight had turned into something that felt a little bit like an itch that could only be relieved by rocking faster and rubbing harder. He began drinking again, but after every couple of moments, he had to stop to catch his breath. The itch that had started between his legs had expanded into his belly.

That’s it, the nice voice said. That’s it, Harry. Come on. That’s it.

Suddenly the fingers stopped probing and the whole hand cupped his genitals through his nappy and lightly squeezed while at the same time the itch reached a state of itchiness that was unbearable, and his hips jerked in search of just the tiniest little bit more friction . . .

. . . Harry came with a cry, his whole body tensing as each spurt of semen was wrenched from his belly and testicles, through his penis and into his nappy.

Malfoy clutched Harry against his chest, holding him tight until he stopped shaking.

“God,” Malfoy breathed. “Harry.”

Harry clung to him. He didn’t want the moment to end. He wanted to stay forever in that room full of fish with its bottle and blanket and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. He wanted Malfoy to hold him all night and touch him between his legs. He wanted it so much that Malfoy’s shirt ripped when Malfoy gently tried to separate them.

“Harry,” he said tenderly. “Let go.”

His words only caused Harry to clutch tighter. He whimpered when Malfoy tried to carefully pry open his fist.

“Harry, it’s okay. Open your eyes.”

Malfoy’s voice was too compelling to disobey. Harry slowly opened his eyes and blinked until they got used to the fish tank’s light. He looked into Malfoy’s face for a long time as his body slowly put on its years like layers of clothes. Eventually, he let Malfoy help him to sit up. To his relief, it was just them, the sofa and the fish. The bottle was gone, the book and blanket were gone, all of the baby things were safely stowed away someplace, and he was grown-up Harry again . . . and it was okay.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Malfoy cocked his head, looking amused.

“You’re thanking me? That was easily the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Malfoy glanced meaningful at his own lap.

Harry inhaled sharply when he saw that the crotch of Malfoy’s trousers was wet. Harry might learn to be okay with that, but he wasn’t sure he liked calling what they’d just done “sex.” As far as he was concerned, he was still a virgin. There’d been no tabs inserted into slots. Ugh.

“I can’t be your boyfriend,” Harry said bluntly, “and I won’t have sex with you.”

Malfoy made a face at him that looked half-amused and half-annoyed.

“Okay,” he said. “But will you let me make you dinner sometime?”

Harry rolled the idea around in his brain for a couple of moments. Dinner. He imagined Malfoy’s kitchen and dining room and how comfortable he’d felt in them.

“Here, not at my place.”

Malfoy nodded. “Okay. And how about after dinner we come in here and watch the fish?”

Harry looked at him, and Malfoy returned his gaze calmly and steadily.

“I like the fish,” Harry said.

And that was all he was going to say. Malfoy either got it or he didn’t.

Malfoy smiled. “I like the fish, too,” he said.

Draco,

Sorry I had to leave before you woke. Some arsehole tainted Barking’s drinking water with Hilarity Potion. I figured you didn’t want to be subjected to a tirade about the bloody idiots at five o’clock in the morning. That’s what Susan is for. Besides, you were sleeping so soundly I thought you’d punch me in the balls if I gave you a kiss. Better safe than sorry has always been a motto of mine.

So remember you asked me if I’d take tonight off? Well, I didn’t think I could manage it, but Susan said she could partner with Titcomb whose usual partner has Spattergroit. She assured me I wasn’t needed (she was rather smug when she said it). So I’m free tonight, and yes I’ll go to Wiltshire with you for the bonfires. Why not? I’ve heard about Maypole Punch, but because I’m always on duty on Walpurgisnacht, I’ve never tried the stuff. You’ve promised me it’s good. I’m going to hold you to your word otherwise I’ll make you drink a can of Special Brew. You’ve been put on notice, Malfoy.

I’ll be home as soon as possible. I cast a warming charm on the coffee pot, but I can’t promise it hasn’t sat for so long that it won’t taste like tar. It depends on when you get your lazy arse out of bed.

Now, if you promise you’ll Incendio this note, I’ll answer the questions you asked me last night. Yes, it felt good. Yes, I want to do it again. No, it didn’t freak me out and send me running for the hills, and yes, I think I’d like to return the favour someday.

Now cast that Incendio, you prat!

Yours,
H.

P.S. Harriet tried to bite me when I fed him. I think that fish hates me. Maybe because you insisted on naming him ‘Harriet’ and he suspects it’s my fault. What do you say we try to match names with genders from here on out?

Draco laughed. He’d Incendio Harry’s note after he’d read it another dozen times. He laid it on the table next to the vase of daises Harry had nicked from Granger and Weasley’s garden and then poked at the stale croissant Harry had left for him. With enough jam, it should be edible.

Harry was right. The coffee did taste (and smell and look) like tar. Draco made himself a new mug and sat down at the table. His mother would be there soon, so he had only a few minutes to work on the book. He summoned the manuscript and a quill from the study.

The little caterpillar was hungry. So hungry it scarfed a Chinese takeaway on Monday, a curry on Tuesday, roast beef on Wednesday, and sausage & mash on Thursday.

“Darling, I’m not even going to ask.”

Draco started and almost knocked over the bottle of ink. His mother had snuck up behind him and was reading over his shoulder.

“That certainly does sound like a very hungry caterpillar,” she said distractedly. “Now, let’s go shopping, darling. I found a lovely jumper for Harry. The forecasts say it’ll be chilly tonight, and if we don’t buy him something he’ll wear one of those lumpy hand-knit atrocities he gets for Christmas.”

Draco reached up, put his arm around his mother’s neck, and pulled her back down for a kiss on the cheek.

“You have no idea,” he said laughing. “That bloody caterpillar is a dreadful greedy pig. I don’t know how on earth I put up with him. Maybe because I love it so much when he becomes a butterfly.”

fin.