Chapter 7: Bedknobs and Broomsticks

~*~

Sexual intercourse is a grossly overrated pastime; the position is undignified, the pleasure momentary and the consequences utterly damnable. -- Lord Chesterfield

~*~

At around two, Ron showed Harry and Draco into one of the guest rooms, both feeling comfortably lethargic, and left them to their own devices. Nearly everyone was staying over, and Harry had watched with fascination as Ron had magicked some extra dimensions onto his house to make sure everyone fitted, before he and Lavender had vanished into the Master bedroom.

The room he and Draco had been granted was large, with a double bed in the middle furnished completely in navy blue. Harry peeled off his black shirt and cast it haphazardly on the ground before slumping on the bed and groaning with relief.

"I never thought tonight would be over," he said.

"I know," Draco replied from somewhere near his feet, "but it wasn't too bad."

"It could have been worse," Harry agreed and closed his eyes against the slightly blurry view of the ceiling. He could sense Draco moving around the room, wordlessly undressing as the silence between them grew louder and more pronounced.

"Potter?" Draco asked suddenly, shattering the peace with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

"Malfoy," Harry murmured back to him.

"About earlier." Draco's words and tone left Harry in little doubt of what he wanted to discuss and Harry's breath quickened sharply as he considered the possibility of a very awkward moment being imminent.

He opened one lazy eye to see Draco standing over him, his pale skin bathed in a patch of moonlight that was streaming through the window. He looked faintly uncertain, and his sudden vulnerability only added to the strength of his considerable appeal.

Harry sat up slowly, dangling his legs over the end of the bed, and fitting Draco easily between his knees. He didn't want to talk any more, he was sick of talking. The one thing he wanted more than anything in the world was to touch Draco, to run his hands over the framework of moonlight that made up his porcelain face, to touch his lips with his fingers and his mouth. Draco was silent as Harry glided his hands up his forearms, thinking that it was so easy to expose Draco's beautiful, beautiful skin, so easy to lay him naked to the world. Harry's fingers tightened without warning and he pulled Draco suddenly closer, falling backwards onto the bed so that the blond was positioned on top of him.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, nudging Draco's chin with his nose.

"Hmm?" Draco said, rendered incoherent by the Harry's abrupt proximity.

"Shut up," Harry said, and thrust himself upwards, invading Draco's mouth with a brutal urgency and skilfully positioning himself so that they were perfectly aligned. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin. Harry's hands found their way to the edge of Draco's sweater and pulled it over his head, revealing the delicious expanse of pale chest that just cried out to be licked, touched, claimed.

The meeting of their skin was celebrated by a fire of nerves that were set alight by the contact, and Harry flipped Draco deftly onto his back, softening his protestations with his tongue.

"You talk too much," Harry gasped, as his mouth left Draco's and danced lightly down his throat. His voice was deeper now with desire, and more rough, and the sound of it set Draco's pulse thudding wildly.

"And you don't talk enough." Draco's hands moved to grasp Harry's jeans-clad hips, grinding into him firmly, so that their erections met with an aching warmth. "You were always too silent, Harry." He arched as Harry's tongue flitted expertly through all the sensitive hollows of Draco's neck. "That's why I love getting under your skin." His fingers moved to the waistband of Harry's jeans and he thrust his hand inside and grasped Harry's cock, bringing the Gryffindor a breath away from orgasm.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Harry breathed, his tongue tracing the smooth, clean lines of Draco's collarbones. "You do it to hurt me."

"I do it to see you riled," Draco corrected, mind wavering on the borders of coherency. He ground down again, any incongruity wiped from his mind by the sheer, consuming pleasure. "I do it because I'm the only one that can." The friction between them was now reaching torrid levels.

Harry laughed, a hollow laugh, and moved his lips up to the edge of Draco's ear, which he kissed.

"The same goes for me," Harry said, kissing Draco's cheekbone. "I'm the only one that can hurt you," he kissed his jaw, "I'm the only one that can get to you." He kissed the corner of his mouth, and his hands moved lower, "and right now, I'm the only one that can make you gasp." And he did. His hands stroked Draco's cock firmly, moving in a searing, if unpractised, rhythm that left the blond feeling inescapably boneless.

Fingers fumbled at zips, and two pairs of trousers found their way to the floor. Harry let out a moan before he could stop himself, and Draco wrapped his legs around him. Establishing a rhythm of moving against him, their hands moving to touch each other's bodies in a way neither had ever contemplated doing. There was no solid warmth of experience, rather an exploration coloured by fervency and the freshness of youth. But then it was the drawing of gratification that was all that was desired; the subtleties born of age could wait.
"I've hated you," Harry muttered suddenly into Draco's mouth, some part of his burning mind aware of the irony of this situation. "I've hated you for so long." His actions had nothing to do with hatred as his hands went to pull Draco even nearer to him, closing them together as a pair, their bodies moving steadily, slicked with perspiration.

"And now you're fucking me," Draco breathed, teasing Harry's nipple with his fingers, feeling the welcome anchorage of a set of lean muscles fasten him to the bed and loving the sensation more than he would be willing to admit.

They kissed again, and it was hard and raw. Harry knew he was close, and one hand grazed the back of Draco's head, twining in that soft blond hair that was now so tousled. Draco's nails were scratching his back and by their sudden deepening and the way Draco tilted himself against him, Harry could tell he was close too. A pleasurable shudder ran through his muscles as all thoughts of irony were driven from his mind. The speed of warm hands brought a throaty groan from his lips.

A minute or two later, one more long stroke did it. For the both of them.

They collapsed, sweating and weak, onto the bed, their stomachs a sticky mess and their bodies exhausted.

It was more than a few minutes before either could work up the strength and inclination to talk, but Harry didn't care. His senses were so full with Draco that he had no desire to question what they had just done or blacken it somehow with awkwardness.

"That was..." Draco panted at last, crawling up slightly to rest his head on the pillow.

"Interesting?" Harry finished, rolling over so they were nose to nose. One of Draco's fingers moved to trace Harry's jaw line in a way that was characterised by its tenderness. Harry's eyes closed of their own volition at so feather-light a touch and Draco kissed the nape of Harry's neck.

"You could say that," he said. There was a brief silence that held neither the awkwardness nor the discomfort that Harry had feared. "At least I know that you do have skills that aren't related to Quidditch."

"I'm a man of many talents," Harry said, stretching. "You're not that bad yourself, for a Slytherin." Draco hit him with a pillow but there was a smile on his face, mingled with the fatigue.

"I'm tired." He yawned, and rolled over, curled up against Harry's body. Harry hesitated before sliding one arm around Draco's waist and coming to lie behind him, their naked skin sealed together.

Draco didn't tell him to move. A minute later, he slid one leg between Harry's and settled himself back in the Gryffindor's embrace. Harry wasn't sure which one of them fell asleep first.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Three companions were travelling together by the misty light of the moon as it illumined the drifting shadows that mantled the sky. Two men walked side by side, clad completely in black, their cloaks billowing around them in the breeze, creating shadows about their persons and fleetingly concealing them. They walked without speaking, guarded by the round, amber eyes of the raven that wheeled and soared above, grazing the treetops.

Their footfalls were the only noises to break the oppressive silence that was so thick about them. There was no characteristic hooting of an owl, no predatory rustling in the bushes and no insect sounds to rend the air. Occasionally one of them would step on a dry twig and it would snap loudly, ringing around the silence as it would ever have done otherwise, sounding painfully audible. Once or twice the raven above, the animal form of Bellatrix Lestrange, would let out an ear-splitting cawing that pierced everything and unnerved even the bravest hearts.

At close to the witching hour, they stopped. The two men stopped in a clearing of the wood. The night seemed oddly starless but the pallid moonlight still sent shards of ice through the foliage, visible even from their dark resting place. The raven swooped down and with a deft flick of its black wings, elongated to form the unmistakeable figure of a woman. She bent over, breathing heavily from the exertion of flying.

"Are you tired?" Macnair said in his growling voice.

"A little." She flashed him a defiant eye. "The mind of a raven is very different to that of a human. After assuming the form for so long, I begin to take that mind."

"Different?" Avery, the other man, asked. "How?"

"Animal emotions are less complex," Bellatrix replied tersely. "It takes immense strength of will to evade distraction during flight and remain focused on the task in hand."
"Were we seen?" Macnair asked urgently.

"No," Bellatrix reassured them. There is a muggle town a few miles east of here that was lit with their strange orange lights but there is no-one nearby.

"Where are we?" Avery enquired. "How far have we come?"

"We are west of our Manchester," Macnair answered, his grizzled face made more unpleasant by the bleakness of the light. "It is now many miles away. These are the Midlands; we are in Shropshire I believe, and that town must be Shrewsbury." A sudden look of acute discontent flashed across Avery's face and he kicked savagely at a sizeable rock. A bird shot from its roost in fright and Bellatrix jumped.

"This is ridiculous," he snapped. "We have waited for bloody months just watching them and now we have left!" Macnair growled again and grabbed Avery by the throat of his robes.

"You know exactly why we had to leave," he said. "That blasted werewolf is tracking us!"

"He knew we were in Manchester," Bellatrix said softly, withdrawing a garnet pendant from behind the clasp of her robes. "This jewel was glowing and it is especially sensitive to surveillance spells being cast on the wearer."

"And you're sure it's the werewolf?" Avery asked scathingly.

"Of course!" Bellatrix snapped. "Ever since Potter left the Order and took up with Malfoy again they've been watching the pair of them like hawks. Lupin is still a member of the Order. He's the one who forced us into exile, do you not remember?" Avery answered her with an angry glare.

"I do," he said dangerously, his tone icy.

"He's the one who is so alert for any hint of danger surrounding his precious charges," Macnair said, his voice unnaturally guttural. He rubbed idly at a jagged scar which ran along the edge of his throat, seemingly directly over his carotid artery. It had been a horrible wound and had ignited in him a passionate, all-consuming hatred for Lupin, who had dealt the blow. After the battle that weakened Voldemort once more, his most devout supporters had been driven to either exile, incarceration or suicide. Bellatrix, Avery and Macnair had been a lucky three to escape death but the lust for revenge would not be easily slaked. Their hatred of Harry and Draco, as instrumental in their Lord's second downfall, was unrivalled and vengeance had been long in coming.

"We must keep going," Bellatrix said. "I don't know how limited by distance the spells are."
"How are you planning on getting rid of them?" Avery asked. He was a second generation Death Eater, much younger than either Bellatrix and Macnair, his blood full of the fire of youth. He had been a friend of Draco's at school, but the future had changed many things for better and for worse.

"We're not, for the time being," Macnair said, smiling slightly. "This is the perfect feint. If we can draw attention away from the city and make them think that the threat is lessening then we have a better chance of succeeding in the long run. When we reach a little further south we will work at dismantling the tracking charms and then set up an Untraceable Portkey back to Manchester." Avery looked rather mutinous, but said nothing. Frustration seemed to be washing over him, as he had neither the patience nor the inclination to wait for such complete, destructive revenge to be exacted.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry and Draco awoke when sunlight began to stream through the windows, and land in vibrant yellow beams on their faces. Draco screwed up his eyes against the harshness of the light, and rolled over quickly, smacking Harry in the jaw with his elbow.

"Ouch," was the first thing Harry said. "Thanks for the wake up call."

"Sorry," Draco muttered, fighting off the last shreds of sleep. He looked to where Harry was rubbing his jawbone and glowering, and every burning memory of the last night came flooding back to him. There was something of a mess covering both of them, but Draco couldn't help but notice the intense beauty of Harry looking so dishevelled and unkempt, with a distinct afterglow highlighting his cheekbones.

"Sorry," Draco said again, as consciousness returned in its full, vengeful form. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"S'ok," Harry shrugged and lay back down. Draco hesitated before doing the same, and lying to face Harry, their noses touching.

"I can't believe last night happened," Draco said, and was instantly chilled by the sudden flinch in Harry's eyes, even though he himself did not move.

"Do you regret it?" Harry asked, his voice giving away nothing.

"No," Draco said at once, and truthfully, "I'm just saying, it was strange. I never thought it would happen."

"What about this being our future?" Harry waved his arm around, "It didn't occur to you that we might do this on occasion?"

"I just don't think I believed it until now," Draco said, looking at his fingers. Those same fingers had been wrapped around Harry's cock a few hours earlier. "This made everything real."

There was a silence, but it was not necessarily uncomfortable. "I'm a mess." Harry said, "I should really take a shower."

"Can I come?" Draco asked without thinking. Harry grinned his familiar, lopsided grin and pulled Draco out of bed. They moved towards the bathroom without touching each other, but as soon as they got inside, they melted together and dived into their own ecstasies, whilst the water absolved them.

An hour later, when they were washed and sated, they conjured fresh clothes for themselves and made their way downstairs, where they found everyone else already up and about.

"Morning," Hermione said cheerily, "you're up late." Harry and Draco exchanged a look. "Never mind," Hermione said at once, struck by a sudden realisation. They took their seats quietly, neither missing the wry smile, which Hermione subsequently threw in their direction.

There was the distinct air of 'the morning after' lingering over the kitchen. Many of the occupants were nursing headaches, bleariness and utter confusion, begging Hermione for a dose of her anti-hangover spell.

"I remember you making this," Ron said as she held her wand tip to his temple and instantly his thoughts were clarified.

"I had to," Hermione said, "after the post-NEWT party."

"I can't even remember that," Draco said, hoping to prompt someone into describing the event.

"Ah you must do," Seamus exclaimed, "you and Harry vanished for two hours and came back covered in bruises. You bastards said you had been duelling." Harry flushed.

"I remember," he lied, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

"That was some party," Ron reminisced fondly, "what little I can recall of it."

"I'll never forget finding you in bed with Dobby," Hermione sniggered.

"What?" Draco looked as if Christmas had come early. "The house elf?" Ron blushed bright crimson, and it clashed horribly with his hair.

"Yes the house elf," he said, his jaw clenched, "But nothing revolting happened, we just..."

"Made sweet love until the morning?" Draco retorted and Harry snorted into his coffee cup. Ron looked furious.

"No!" he exclaimed. "Of course not! Don't be disgusting!"

"What's for breakfast?" Harry asked hopefully, trying to change the subject. Draco was looking faintly amused at the angry face of Ron who was glaring acidly at him.

"Sean and I have made some french toast," Ginny said, "the muggle way."

"The muggle way?" Harry looked surprised.

"Not all of us are blessed with the gift of magic," Sean said, looking decidedly unmanly with a pink, frilly apron tied around his waist.

Before long, Harry got to his feet, his eyes fixed on something in the other room which he had just noticed. Guessing he wouldn't be missed, he slipped quietly into what looked like an office, where two beautiful brooms stood propped against the wall.

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. Something he had missed most about being stuck in the future was the seeming absence of Quidditch or flying. He hadn't thought to question Hermione over it, and surmised that his future self was too busy for the sport. It struck him as strange, though, that he would have given up something he was so passionate about.

The brooms that stood before him were utterly magnificent. Long, clean wooden shafts ended in tails that were honed to aerodynamic perfection, their straight twigs flawlessly clipped, and tapering to a graceful point. The handle was emblazoned with a flash of silver and the name, 'Nimbus: Platinum Edition.' Just by looking at the brooms, Harry's trained eye could tell that they were very fine indeed, very expensive, and probably divine to fly.

An ache suddenly awoke in his chest, and he itched to mount one of the brooms and soar through the clouds, with nothing but the sun and the sky. Ron and Lavender lived on the very fringe of a neighbouring town, and Harry had seen out of the window that morning, wide fields that disappeared into endless stretches of green. He could sense, also, that they were guarded by some heavy anti-muggle charms, which led him to believe that Ron routinely flew over that area.

"What are you doing?" Draco's curious voice alerted Harry to his presence. The blond was leaning casually against the doorframe, looking extremely fetching.

"I found these!" Harry exclaimed excitedly, throwing Draco one of the brooms.
"Platinum edition!?" Draco grinned delightedly, "Is this for real?"

"Don't they look amazing?" Harry asked rhetorically.

"Do you think Weasley would let us take them for a ride?" Draco ran his hands almost lovingly over the broom handle, and Harry could see the hunger in his eyes.

He darted out of the room, broom in hand, and returned to the living room, where everyone looked up in surprise.

"Could Draco and I go for a fly?" Harry asked, trying to kept his excited breathlessness from his voice. Harry was only slightly disconcerted by the way a distinct silence fell, and several people exchanged meaningful looks.

"You want to fly?" Ron asked, and was it Harry's imagination but was there a hint of incredulity in his tone?

"Er, yeah, if that's ok," Harry said, pausing, unsettled.

"Sure," Ron said in an overly encouraging voice, "go for it."

"Thanks," Harry said, his eyes narrowing at all the people who were watching him so avidly. He looked instinctively over at Hermione but she was determinedly not meeting his eye, so he returned to Draco. "Let's go," he said.

The brooms were more perfect than Harry could ever have hoped for. As he kicked off from the ground, the wind whistled through his hair and filled his heart with a sense of elation so powerful that his breath was snatched from his lungs. He looked over at Draco who looked as exhilarated as he did, and together they both soared into the air, looping and twirling into the sky.

Harry hadn't felt that wonderful in weeks. The brooms moved with a far lighter touch than even his Firebolt, and he could feel the Nimbus: Platinum being guided by his fingertips alone, and almost sensing his intention before he conveyed it to his hands. It took a minute to get used to, but when he and Draco were acclimatised to the extra sensitivity of the new brooms, they found themselves able to perform complicated moves that would have been made more difficult before.

They flew at breakneck speeds, racing each other around the fields, rising to dizzying heights before plunging downwards, their hearts thudding wildly in their chests, their cheeks pink with animation.

"These are fantastic!" Draco yelled as they rose again, drawing level with each other. Draco's pristine blond hair was ruffled by the wind, but his eyes were dancing with happiness and Harry couldn't remember him looking so elated.

"I know!" Harry shouted back, and, looking down, noticed that their friends were slowly coming out to watch.

"Hey guys!" Ron was shouting from below, waving madly.

"Hi!" Harry waved back.

"I wonder how fast these things can go." Draco mused, before catching Harry's eye. Simultaneously, they sprang forward, their brooms shooting like bullets through the air, the riders buffeted by the wind and yet gloriously happy.

They played a complex game of hunting and catching, tailing each other before one would spin away and become the quarry, whilst the other tried to keep up, through spins and turns, loops and spirals, soaring higher than the birds, and skimming the ground. Everything around them melted into a speeding blur, as they attempted to elude each other, sometimes one becoming the captor, sometimes the target. They flew on each other's tails, jostling and vying for the lead, their laughs mingling with the clapping and shouts of appreciation below.

They had never flown so spectacularly in their lives. The brooms lent them a sense of recklessness that allowed them to place their lives in danger and laugh over the possibility of injury. They demonstrated an impressive feat of aviation, the desire to beat the other one spurring them into greater and greater risks, bringing out the very best of their already admirable skills.

Harry's stomach clenched in excitement as he drew near Draco, high in the air. They were sweaty and ruffled, but deliriously content, and he noticed Draco panting slightly with the exhilaration of it.

"I have got to get one of these," he said, and Harry laughed.

"We've been up here for ages," he said, looking at his watch, "we'd better go down."

With smooth unity, they dived suddenly, their speed eliciting whoops from their friends. Pulling up at the last moment, they halted their brooms gracefully, both inwardly marvelling over the power of the brakes. Harry forgot to compensate somewhat and found himself sliding forward with a jolt.

"That was wonderful!" Ron exclaimed. "What brought that on?"

"I just fancied flying," Harry said, surely that wasn't so strange.

"I haven't seen you fly like that since we were kids," Ron said, his eyes wide and dilated, "not for years!"

"I didn't know you could still do those things," Ginny said.

"Yeah," Seamus agreed, "you guys haven't flown that way since Hogwarts, what's going on?"

Harry and Draco exchanged a look of complete bewilderment. How could it be possible that they might have given up Quidditch. They both loved it so much, it didn't make any sense.

The morning sun was beginning to shine with a warmth unusual for February, and instead of returning in, their friends, inspired by Harry and Draco, took the brooms and began flying gently around the gardens, evidently wishing for the courage to attempt such death-defying stunts as they had witnessed.

Noticing Hermione hurrying inside, Harry and Draco sped after her, catching her just as she entered the kitchen.

"Hermione," Harry said warningly, "what's this they're all saying?"

"Did we give up Quidditch?" Draco asked suddenly, biting his lip.

"I thought you'd ask about this sooner or later," Hermione said.

"What?" Harry exclaimed, confused. "Will you please just tell us what you're talking about?"

"You'd better sit down," Hermione motioned to the sofa, where they all sat and took a deep breath. "You guys don't fly any more," she said, "you haven't since we left school."

"Huh?" Harry's heart sank, "Why?"

"Harry, please," Hermione rubbed her temples, and Harry began to pace around the room.

"What are you saying?" Draco asked. "What happened to us?"

"You," Hermione looked at him, "had an accident when you were abroad. You were hunting a dragon at night, and had commandeered a broom to tail it through the skies. From the little that you told us, it turned on you and set fire to your broom, and you went careering into the ground."

"Me?" Draco looked disbelieving.

"I'm afraid so," Hermione looked very grave indeed, "You lost your confidence after that, and you never really rode a broom again if you could help it."

"Me?!" Draco repeated.

"You sound like a parrot," Hermione pointed out, and Harry obligingly shut Draco's mouth for him, which was hanging open.

"What happened to me, Hermione?" Harry asked, his eyes shadowed darkly, "Why was Ron looking at me as if I was mad when I asked to fly?"

"I didn't want to tell you too much about your lives," Hermione said, "because I was so sure that you would get sent home. I've tried to keep most of your future a secret so that you wouldn't change the past too much."

"Please just tell me," Harry sounded cold and toneless. Draco looked up at him sharply.

"When you entered Auror training," Hermione sighed, "you didn't really have much time to fly, so it took a backseat. After that, you became so obsessed with fighting the Dark Arts that you never went near your broom, and even after you gave up on being an Auror, you had sacrificed so much of your life that Quidditch was too painful. I don't think you wanted anything to do with something that reminded you so forcefully of the times when you had once been happy."

"But I'm happy now, aren't I?" asked Harry.

"Yes," Hermione said softly, "I think so, but the pain of youth doesn't go away, Harry, it just changes. You learnt that you have to give up a lot for true happiness, and flying isn't that important to you any more, you've learned to live without it. You also had an accident when you were fighting, and that put you out of action for a bit. I think Quidditch became physically painful after that."

"It just keeps coming and coming," Draco leaned back, holding a soothing hand over his eyes.

"What does?" Harry asked, distractedly.

"The shit," Draco replied. "Either God really hates us or we've made spectacular hashes of our lives."

"It's not so bad being you," Hermione said with a hint of humour, "you have affluence, beauty, youth and love."
"Yeah, but not Quidditch," Harry said, painfully aware of just how much he sounded like a petulant child.

"You've changed," Hermione said, shrugging, although there was a gleam of nervousness in her eyes, "I didn't think you'd like this piece of information, but you've grown up now."

Harry and Draco didn't look at her, or each other. Both were wondering just how they had managed to lose so much of themselves in such a short space of time. They didn't know who they were any more, everything was so different, and everything was so strange. It was an unsettling feeling, not knowing who you were, and both Harry and Draco remained taciturn and reticent for the remainder of the day. Their thoughts were occupied with the loss of everything they had thought familiar, and the revelations that seemed to ebb and flow over them like poisoned tides.

*~*~*~*~*~*

February melted imperceptibly into March. Harry and Draco's visits to Hermione's library were growing fewer and fewer as they found themselves made busy by the demanding lives of their future selves. A strange realisation was beginning to permeate their minds: as terrified as they were that they would never get home, they found a strange sense of contentment in living this alternate reality.

They never gave up hope, though, and it wasn't long before Draco began work on another potion as a last resort. He wasn't entirely sure he would be able to concoct something potent enough, but right now it was their only option. In the meantime, they shied away from any social engagements that weren't strictly pressing, tried to condition themselves into their 'characters' without losing their sense of self, and worked as hard as they could not to ruin their own futures.

Hermione was a godsend. She gave up many hours to helping them adjust and when it all became too much, she let them slip back into being teenagers whilst she held together their lives. Without her they would have crumbled. Harry and Draco just weren't ready to be launched on the adult world, no matter how little of a childhood either of them had had.

One Spring evening found both Harry and Draco sitting up on the roof together, now in silence, now in speech, just watching the city change beneath them. It was a noticeable transition during the twilight hours. Lights would flicker on from behind grey windows, they would take on a decidedly more neon quality, and as the light in the sky died, the city dwellers compensated for it by lighting Manchester with electricity. The people on the streets began to wear fewer clothes, incongruous that it should be so, for the skirts seemed to shorten as the chill of the night deepened. From their vantage point, Harry and Draco could see over both halves of the city, their eyes drawn to the wizarding quarter where the laughter and chatter of the residents was punctuated by peculiar bangs and clouds of violently purple smoke unseen by the muggle inhabitants.

It was a microcosm of the world, and utterly invaluable.

They sat on a blanket they had found stashed behind the sofa, an open packet of biscuits lying between them, smoke coiling sensuously from Draco's lips.
"Must you do that?" Harry asked, waving the smoke away. The cigarette between Draco's fingers glowed orange for a moment as he took another breath. In answer to the question, Draco blew the smoke directly in Harry's face. "Thanks," the latter replied. "How's the potion coming?" he sensed Draco's eyes darken.

"I told you it would take a while to perfect," he said.

"I know."
"Don't be impatient."

"Me?"

"I forgot, I wanted to show you something," Draco said suddenly, watching his cigarette explode into a shower of sparks over the edge of the building.

"What?" Harry's interest was grudgingly ignited. Draco was rifling through the pile of papers he had been sitting up here with when Harry had joined him.

"Look what I found," Draco said, thrusting some pieces of cartridge paper into Harry's hands.

"Lumos," Harry said, lighting the tip of his wand to give him a better view. Unused as he was to the increased power, he shielded his eyes against the immediate glare that issued from the tip of the shaft.

"Bloody hell!" Draco exclaimed. "Are you trying to blind me?"

"Bastard thing," Harry muttered, dampening the spell. "What are these then?"

"Drawings, you cretin," Draco said, suppressing a smile.

"I see that," Harry rolled his eyes, turning over the paper. His breath hitched, "er...Malfoy, are these of me?" The drawings were excellent, and of a naked man sprawled unceremoniously across a bed. Harry flushed with embarrassment as he recognized himself and the very inadequate scrap of material covering his groin. There were several of them. All of Harry. One of him standing naked by a window, one of him drinking a glass of wine, many of him sleeping, and one of him with his arms wrapped lovingly around Draco.

"Looks like it," Draco said, looking supremely unembarrassed, "quite a good likeness, even if I say so myself."
"You did these?" Harry looked surprised, "when?"

"I found them this morning," Draco said. "There're loads, but these are the best ones."

"Wow, you really found a subject you liked," Harry mused, turning over a sixth and seventh picture of him. He seemed to always be in varying states of undress.

"Yeah, your naked arse," Draco gave a short laugh.

"They're good," Harry said, his attention completely caught by the pictures, "they're really good."

He was bewitched by the various strokes used by Draco's pencils. He was a fine artist, and Harry looked at himself, depicted in soft, dark graphite that gave him a sense of melancholy and brooding, and in light, pale pencil that made him look young and self-assured. There was a definite sense of concentration involved in the creation of such beautiful pictures. It was plain that Draco knew his way around Harry's body, as Harry recognised the various landmarks that made up his unique frame. There was a knowledge of him so deep that it took his breath away, and he looked up to find Draco staring intently into his face.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm just thinking how well I must have studied you," Draco said, "to produce something like that."

"Is this what you spend all your time doing?" Harry asked and Draco pushed him against the shoulder.

"I'm sure I'm just as important to the maintenance of domestic bliss as you," he said as Harry handed back his drawings, "I just choose to express myself differently. You write, I draw."

"Fair enough," Harry said, settling back down and staring up at the first stars that were beginning to peek around the moon. He listened idly to the sound of Draco rustling a newspaper, then heard him light his wand as well.

"What are you reading?" Harry asked.

"Newspaper," Draco said.

"Yeah but what's in it?"

"Something about Iraq and weapons of mass destruction." Harry sat up.

"Let me see that," he said. The newspaper was the Daily Prophet, and Harry was at a loss to see why muggle events would be of any importance to the wizarding world. He looked down at the picture of Tony Blair which blinked up at him confusedly under a title 'Muggle Minister Torn Over Magical Mess.'

Harry began to read.

'In a statement made by the muggle Prime Minister today, writes Dennis Creevey, special correspondent, it was announced to the magical world just how much his involvement in our affairs has cost him.

For all those who are ignorant of the matter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has recently taken refuge in the east, protecting himself by too many spells for Aurors to be able to track him down. He found concealment with the Iraqi leader, Saddam Hussein, who, seduced by the promise of power, has been hiding the Dark Lord for almost a year.

The issue has been one of national security, and the Minister for Magic was forced to inform the muggle Prime Minister of the affair. Whilst the true story was kept a secret from the general public, the danger of Saddam Hussein was suggested by the Ministry-initiated rumour that he was in possession of Weapons of Mass Destruction and posed a threat to our country.

Using this as reason, muggle leader Tony Blair and American President George Bush started a war against the armies of the east, in a valiant effort to flush out the Dark Lord from wherever he was hiding. With the aid of information provided by the Aurors at the Ministry, the war was successful, with a cessation of hostilities being reached some months ago. Whilst it is a tenuous hold of harmony, it has had the desired effect, and all evidence points to the fact that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has indeed fled the country, and the safety of his protector. Saddam Hussein himself was recently captured and is undergoing interrogation by members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad.

The war was an incredibly unpopular move in both of the involved nations. With many muggles rising up in protest against the hostilities, unaware of the true threat that existed in the east. Members of the magical community, however, are reminded that it was for our benefit that the muggles went to war, and in an effort to stop the kind of terror that existed nearly twenty-seven years ago.

It seems now that Tony Blair is regretting his decision to become involved in magical affairs. The untimely death of Adrian Stickweed, previous Minister for Magic meant that communication between the Magic and Muggle ministries broke down for a short while as more pressing issues were attended to. It now becomes clear that during this time, Mr Blair has been left without valid reason for war in suspicious circumstances.

A leak at the Ministry has suggested to the muggle government that the claim of Weapons of Mass Destruction in the east was groundless, and therefore rendering the war unjustified.

Without being able to reveal the true reason for the conflict, Mr Blair has been forced to continue with the story, despite the frequent enquiries by muggles that endeavour to prove him wrong.

Mr Blair's reputation has been called into question and his party has suffered a drop in support following his determination to continue with such an unpopular war. It is possible that the participation in magical affairs has cost him the next general election, thus making relations between wizards and muggles sink to an all time low.

Dealings between the two Ministries grow increasingly strained and we must ask ourselves whether this issue has been the cause of an even greater rift between the two worlds that exist within England's towns and cities. Whether the Labour party will stay in power is questionable, thanks to the unwillingness of the Ministry of Magic to deal with what should have been an inside affair.

Just how far should we allow muggles to penetrate the magical world? If the result of such secrets is the division of the country in this way, it may be arguable that a policy of complete honesty is best, but then the ramifications may far outweigh all that is beneficial. This reporter can do nothing more than to urge you, dear reader, to consider the muggles that walk our streets..." Harry stopped reading.

"Well," he said, surprised, "That's something I didn't expect."

"The co-operation of both ministries?" Draco asked. "Why not? The muggles were informed when Sirius Black was on the loose."

"I suppose," Harry said, thinking back to when Hermione had told him that magic-muggle relations were at an all time low. "The more you read about politics the more you come to realise that each party is worse than the other."

"And you think Longbottom will make a good Minister for Magic?" Draco asked, "He has about as much backbone as a chocolate éclair."

"How would you know?" Harry asked, feeling Draco's leg rub against his and wondering if it was an intentional motion. "When you weren't terrorizing him at school, Neville had more fortitude than anyone ever guessed." Draco's subsequent snort informed Harry of his feelings on that matter with no need for a response.

"Sure," he said, unconvincingly. "Longbottom was brave and resilient."

"He was in Gryffindor, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, along with the Weasley brood," Draco said, as though this settled the matter.

"Ron's brave," Harry said, loyally, "in his own way. He helped me fight off Voldemort once, you know."

"That's an issue I thought would be resolved by now," Draco sighed, "Eight years and he's still a feature in our lives."

"I just wish we knew for sure where he's hiding now. Doubtless he's still after me."

"You're looking at this issue entirely the wrong way," Draco said witheringly. "Not many people can boast a mortal enemy by the time they're a year old. I, for one, think that makes you very special."

"And a somewhat endangered species," Harry said, his lips quirking into a smile at the flippancy with which Draco deigned to talk about such a subject.

"Always forgive your enemies, Harry," Draco said, rolling over to support himself on his elbows, "nothing annoys them so much." Harry laughed aloud.

"Does that include you?" He asked and Draco nodded straight away.

"Merlin, yes," he said, "nothing would irritate me more highly than your forgiveness."

"I hope then, that we will remain forever adversaries," Harry said solemnly.

"I'm sure we will," Draco murmured. "The sex is just a two year interlude to that."

Harry grinned. "What I wouldn't give to see our friends' faces if they could see what happens to us in the future."

There was silence for a moment.

"Makes you wonder what else has happened," Draco said, looking at the stars. Something in his voice struck Harry, who lay down by his side, lying just close enough so they were touching without making it obvious.

"We'll get home," he said with such certainty that Draco looked at him, one silvery eyebrow raised. Harry was taken aback by Draco's lips pressing suddenly against his own, and he stifled a small cry as he felt a warm tongue exploring the insides of his mouth was surprising skill. His hands ran through Draco's hair, down his neck, over his shoulder blades, wanting to touch as much skin as possible. Right there, under the stars.