Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: This chapter was written for tray_la_la as part of the auction for the fight against Proposition 8 here in California that strove to deny gay citizens the right to marry. By now you know that Prop 8 passed, but the fight is NOT over. I think it fitting this fic is about our boys getting married. No betas, Just lil ole me. See problems please holler.

"I never thought I'd say this, but your boobs are too big." Draco had been looking forward to this lunch for ages, just him and Pansy—Weasel free—and he was an utter fool for a decent carbonara, but the sight of those, well. He pushed his plate away and signaled the waiter for more wine. "Is that normal?"

"Of course it's normal, you ignorant pillock." Pansy smoothed two hands over those improbable mounds. "My stomach's getting poufy too."

Draco couldn't repress a shudder. "TMI with a cherry on top."

For about the millionth time in that hour alone, he gave a silent hallelujah that he'd been born male. Aside from the pregnancy issue—not inconsiderable by any means—what about the much more critical v-neck sweater concern? The combination of wool and tits was guaranteed to make one look like a total tart. And while looking like a whore had its advantages on occasion—break out the black leather pants and fend off propositions with a sharp axe—adopting it as a "look" tended to undermine one's credibility. Draco wore v-neck cashmere sweaters seven months out of the year. If he'd had tits, it would have entailed a drastic revamp of his wardrobe.

Pansy pointed at his wine glass.

"That's your last. I will not have Harry tearing strips off of me because you're using the size of my tits as an excuse to get hammered."

Draco didn't even bother to deny it because he'd used even flimsier excuses in the past to justify tying one on. With his imagination, the world was his oyster.

"So what exactly are they doing? Potter muttered something about comic books, at which point my ears turned off. The less said on that subject the better."

"I agree," Pansy sighed, who shared his scorn for all things comic-ish. Draco might have been remotely interested if comics had been code for hand-drawn porn, but the miscellany littering Potter's bedside table contained drawings of men (good) in formfitting costumes (very good) who leaped around a lot (possibly a major yay). The mask and spandex thing worked on so many levels, but as no graphic sex was ever depicted (at least in the ones he'd thumbed through), what was the frigging point? "Ron got out that they were going to some swap meet for geeks and comic books and then stuffing their faces at McDonald's. At that point I cut him off."

Now it was Draco's turn to sigh. "Wonderful, Potter will taste of unadulterated grease. He knows how I feel about fast food. I will have to greet him at the fireplace with a toothbrush. How's the wedding planning going? Finally convince that cretin of a fiance that getting married in jeans and trainers is grounds for annulment?"

"Silly, you can't annul an engagement," she reminded him. "He's capitulated. Molly went spare when she heard he wanted an informal wedding. You would have loved it. Screeching that no son of hers would have an Irish tinker wedding. At which point Arthur pointed out that they were Welsh, not Irish, which set her off again."

Pansy had an uneasy relationship with Molly Weasley. Draco wouldn't bet on either of them in a cat fight. He'd concluded yonks ago that Molly's sweet maternal act hid a total witch in middleclass matron clothing—no pun intended. Or would that be a simile? Metaphor? Bugger. Pansy, knowing a first-class beotch when she met one—as Draco pointed out, takes one to know one—wisely tended to give her a wide berth. On the subject of appropriate wedding attire, however, they were on the same page.

"Ron had the sense to shut it after that. I've picked out a lovely set of wedding robes. You won't even recognize him."

"I doubt that," Draco said under his breath. He'd know those freckles anywhere.

Pansy kicked him in the shin.

"Bitch," he hissed. "I can't believe I gave you the name of our caterer after yours found god and decamped to some religious retreat in the Ozarks, where ever the Ozarks are. And don't tell me, I don't want to know."

"Draco, I'm marrying him. I want to marry him.


"Don't look so woebegone, lamb. I'm very happy."

Draco couldn't even make a half-hearted protest because Pansy had never looked lovelier. Pregnancy had given her this luminescence, making her truly pretty for the first time in her life. Her attractiveness had always been four parts sass, three parts style, and three parts T&A. Even discounting her hormone-induced glow, she was undeniably happy with Weasley, which defied gravity. Or something along those lines.

"I suppose there's that," Draco pouted. "But why Weasley?"

"Why Harry?" she challenged.

"It's not the same," he huffed. "We hate—"

"Oh Merlin's knickers, please." She thunked her forehead with an open palm. "Not the hating bit. I just can't keep a straight face when you start in on that shit. Now, how are your wedding plans coming? In one week you'll be a married man."

As Pansy knew it would, this question sent Draco off on an enthusiastic monologue on how he had orchestrated the perfect wedding.

Draco did have a few days of trepidation over this marriage business, even as he called florists, caterers, and hotels. But three weeks after they agreed to hate each other for ever, he was so over any butterflies. As if he needed any convincing: Potter's blow job skills were stellar; he'd made Draco a cup of tea that very morning that was nearly better than sex; and Draco hated him just as much as he always had. Most people would probably think that those three things were a flimsy premise for a marriage, but then again, they'd never been on the receiving end of Potter's mouth.

Pansy was uncharacteristically silent during Draco's monologue on the venue and menu, and if he hadn't been so excited relaying the details of the most perfect wedding possible, he might have called her on it. He'd saved the best for last: the wine and champagne selection. As Draco paused to take a big breath—because this was really where his genius was going to shine—Pansy inserted a "Draco?" in the pause. Her voice held an unsure note.

He put down his wine glass.

"Are you really sure about this marriage business? Have you thought about waiting for a bit?"

Draco really didn't want to get into the whole explanation of how he didn't want to be the last Slytherin of their year to get married. For starters, it was unbelievably petty, but Draco had a tendency to be petty, which Pansy knew, and, given that she loved jerking his chain by exposing his petty side, he wouldn't have put it past her to elope with Weasley just to prove a point. The eloping business had its merits—he wouldn't have to be nice to the Weasel on their wedding day (a promise extracted from Pansy under the threat of itchy balls for the rest of his life) —but that paled in comparison to being dead last in the marriage race. He had every intention of asking Potter to Obliviate the entire Parkinson/Weasley nuptials from his memory, but dead last was dead last, and no amount of wand waving would change that.

"Not given it a thought, frankly. Which you might have deduced from the last twenty-five minutes. From this end of the table it sounded like a detailed rundown on our wedding plans. And if that wasn't enough, we had sex twice this morning. First I topped, then he did, and he agreed, without comment, to a chocolate wedding cake. I'd say things are brilliant. Why?"

Draco put a hand to his stomach to still the little flutter of panic. She had a pipeline to Potter through Weasley. Was there something he should know about?

"Not that I haven't gotten fond of him over the last year, but given that in the end he's a Gryffindor, which is not a deal breaker, obviously, I should know, but—"

"Pansy Cordelia Parkinson! If you do not tell me what in the hell you're hinting at, this instant, I will tell Weasley that the only reason the She-Weasel is supporting your marriage is because you're blackmailing her. One sneer or bat-bogey hex and you'll spill the beans to Papa and Mama Freckle Factory regarding the behavior of said sister at our New Year's Eve party last year. Do not narrow your eyes at me, woman. Now, out with it."

She bit her lip. "It's not… He's never been with a man has he? You're his first."

Draco didn't know what that had to do with the price of chocolate. "I can't help it if he's slow. But let me tell you, once he realized how fantastic dick is—"

"Draco, that's not the point. He's only been with women or, most likely, one woman." She paused. "And one man. You."

Draco still didn't get what she was driving at.

"I have no idea how many bints he's bedded. I really could care less. The point is—"

"No, dear heart," and here she took his hand and squeezed. "The point is that you are his first male lover, and I don't want you to wake up one day to find he's discovered that you were just an experiment. That in the end, he prefers women. There are some who do you know. Only want women."

Draco threw his hands up in frustration. "They are utter fools. So what if he was straight before. He's not now and—"

"I saw him with a blonde. At Medusa's. He wasn't with her, if you know what I mean, but she was hanging all over him—"

"Pfft. People do that all the time. Like if they touch the war hero, it will… Medusa's? The food there is atrocious. The last time I had the misfortune to eat there, I plucked three eight-inch long hairs out of my soup. It seemed a little over the top in terms of theme. I vowed never to go back. Clearly their standards… Potter was eating lunch there? Has he gone mad? Salmonella at a minimum… With a woman, you say? A blonde?" Draco realized too late that he'd said this last bit in what was, basically, a full-blown screech and, therefore, wasn't surprised when the room went dead silent.

Why did he always embarrass the hell out of himself in restaurants? It was like a frigging curse or something.

But his humiliation was suddenly the last thing on his mind because Pansy gave a tiny nod.

Draco sat up in his chair. They'd been having such a grand old time fucking and hating each other that it never occurred to him that Potter might turn sexual traitor and return to his straight roots. Of course, he couldn't really fault Potter for being temporarily hetero. If he'd had Weasley and Longbottom for roommates, he'd have put the "aitch" in het. At least until some brunet with a long bottom lip and plump arse showed up.

Not that Draco knew anything about being straight. He'd always seen himself as a sexual omnivore. As in, barring Weasleys or house-elves, if you spread your legs, I'll spread mine. Frankly, he just didn't understand the whole straight business at all. Why would anyone willingly cut the number of potential sex partners in half? It defied common sense! When Draco's hormones had woken up, they weren't picky in the least. It might have had something to do with having Blaise for a roommate. You had to be a freaking blind man not to lust after Blaise Zabini's arse, not to mention his dick. Those bat-shit insane wives of his were only crazy to a point. Regardless, Draco had never pigeonholed his sexual desires into male or female; it was all good, in his opinion.

Draco did have standards, thank you very much. For example, there was the "Bulstrode Factor," named in honor of Millicent. Basic hygiene was critical, and he'd come to the sad conclusion that Millicent and soap were not on as friendly terms as one would hope. Dirty fingernails were a complete deal breaker. Naturally, given his fatal allergy to freckles, he had never—and would never—bed anyone with red hair and/or freckles, which in his mind was basically having Weasel sex. Which was the ultimate deal breaker. Anathema. So, other than those hygiene and freckle issues, it was all systems go. With whatever. He'd experienced some rather fantastic sex from the least likely people all because he'd said yes. Or had been saying yes until he and Potter had begun sleeping together. Now, he was far too busy getting boinked or boinking to even think about anyone else. Potter, contrary to all expectations, was something of a sex maniac. Happy fucking day!

"Draco, are you all right?"

He didn't know how to reply. Not having an insecure bone in his body, it was inconceivable that Potter would even think of dumping him, and yet the reality was that he was a Gryffindor—king of the Gryffindors—which were inherently baffling. Merlin's balls. Bugger. Fuck. Double fuck. In fact, triple fuck. He downed his entire glass of wine, threw a handful of Galleons on the table, kissed Pansy, and left the restaurant without a word.

Draco Apparated back to their flat, and within five minutes of his feet hitting the floor he had downed four chocolate bars and two lots of Anti-Nausea Potion. Three bars was normally his limit, but hello? He was teetering on the verge of a stroke, hence the fourth chocolate bar; however, he didn't want to add projectile vomiting to his woes, hence the Anti-Nausea Potion.

He began to pace. Which was always bad. He only paced when it was a choice between walking his legs off or having a full-blown nervous breakdown. The night his father died, he had paced for ten hours, only stopping when Blaise, mercifully, hexed him into a coma.

Because Draco had a tendency to be insufferable, people assumed he had no personal insight. Bollocks. He had loads of personal insight, it was just that he never saw any reason to change his modus operandi. Being a bastard had worked jolly well for twenty-five years, so why tamper with success? One of his many strengths—something he was never given enough credit for—was his single-mindedness. Pansy and Blaise thought this was a severe character flaw, but that very trait had gotten him through the war with no more than the expected mental scars, but, more importantly, look how his undying hatred of Potter had turned out? Which was why he was currently in complete agony.

Draco crossed the length of the living room repeating, "Potter." Stomp. "Wouldn't." Stomp. "Never." Stomp. Then he'd pace the other direction, asking, "Would." Stomp. "He?" Stomp.

Aside from the mutual loathing on a scale yet to be matched by any couple in history, they were remarkably compatible. When Draco launched into his I-hate-blueberries tirade, Potter snorted, "Why would you eat blueberries when you can have raspberries?" Draco's point exactly. Emboldened by this revelation, Draco segued directly into the standard blue cheese rant, as in said cheese was nothing more than poison masquerading as after-dinner fare and the odd picnic item; the cheese industry had their nerve. Miraculously, Potter agreed, sniffing, "Cheddar man, myself. I wouldn't eat that stuff even under an Imperius. It stinks." At which point, Draco threw Potter against the living room wall, spelled off his trousers and boxers, and blew him so fast that Potter's toes squeaked.

As if this weren't enough evidence of their compatibility, there was the baiting of Muggle shopclerks. You could have knocked Draco over with a feather that Potter would find this amusing. Although he enjoyed it because they were Muggles, and Potter found it amusing because he was a total Gryffindor goody-two shoes and he liked giving arsewipes their comeuppance, why quibble? The bottom line was that every rainy Saturday found the two of them visiting Draco's usual sartorial haunts to torture the clerks.

Ferrogamo was, hands down, his favorite store. Their line of button-down shirts were so perfectly tailored to his physique, Draco swore they were designed for him and him alone. A shopclerk with the ridiculously pretentious name of Marque worked there—if that tosser had any French blood in him, Draco would denounce his Slytherin ways and become an honorary Hufflepuff—whose life mission was, apparently, to piss off Draco. He had endured this cretin's sneers for years, because putting up with a snotty-nosed shopclerk for a couple of hours every few months was worth it; he looked like a fucking god in those shirts. And as much as Draco hated this fellow, he was something of an idiot savant in regards to fit. Draco would ignore the snide comments, buy some shirts, and then hex him on his way out the door.

Unfortunately, these days he couldn't even take small solace in leveling minor hexes on Muggles that irritated him (the impotency hex was one of his favorites), because now that he worked in the Auror section, his wand had to undergo testing every month. And, to Draco's shock, there were actually laws against hexing Muggles, even if they were behaving like supercilious trolls. Certainly one of the first things he'd change when he was Minister of Magic.

Enter Potter.

The first visit to the Ferragamo store with Potter in tow, Marque pulled his usual arrogant-gits-r-us act, showing Draco a cashmere vee-neck sweater the exact color of Draco's eyes. Smirking, even as he handed it to Draco to try on, he said, "This is absolutely gorgeous on everyone, but on you? I'm not sure." Which was utter bullshit, because that sweater was a wet-dream walking on Draco. Marque clearly had a sale, but he wasn't above turning the screws, knowing that Draco's love of Italian tailoring trumped his desire to tell Marque to fuck off and stalk out.

At which point, Potter piped up, "Really? Makes me want to blow him right now."

It only got better. While his single-mindedness was somewhat legendary among Slytherins, it couldn't hold a candle to Potter's. If the day weren't fine enough for a broom ride, they'd go shopping. Potter would don his most offensive Weasley jumper—sometimes it was difficult to choose because they were universally hideous; but the one with the holes in the elbows and the slightly off-kilter "H" usually won out—a pair of jeans with both knees out and a gigantic hole in the arse so that his rainbow colored boxers were more than evident—Granger's idea of birthday present with a little solidarity thrown in for good measure; she was a master at that sort of thing: two bad ideas with one stone—and trainers that were held together with something called duck tape.

Since the Harrod's disaster, Draco usually steered clear of anything remotely avian—he couldn't even eat chicken any more—but his curiosity got the better of him. Of course, that's exactly what prompted the chicken debacle in the first place, and you'd think he'd have learned that curiosity+Draco=chickens rampaging through Harrod's, leaving shit on every available surface. But apparently some things cannot be taught, because Draco couldn't resist asking Potter why it was named after water fowl. Try as he might, he couldn't see how in the hell you got from gray tape so strong you could build entire cities out of it to birds that quacked. His curiosity was rewarded by getting one of Potter's completely endearing smiles and a hand job. Much happier, although no closer to understanding why it was named after ducks, he passed it off as a "Muggle" thing: inexplicable and not worth worrying his perfect coiffure over.

With Potter dressed in clothes that wouldn't even pass muster in an Oxfam box, they'd waltz into the store, and Potter would ask for Marque. Potter would then try on oodles of shoes, pants, and shirts, but drawing the line at socks, and, naturally, nothing was to his satisfaction.

"Think this makes me look too fat?" "Oi, this is the color of dragon, I mean, baby shit." "Nah, makes my feet look small." "Nah, makes my feet look big."

It had gotten to the point where Marque would visibly pale when they entered the store. Even so, he couldn't stop himself from sneering, "If it isn't Ponce 1 and Ponce 2." Which was so pot kettle. By the end of two hours, the dressing room would be a riot of shirts, pants, and shoes, none of which Potter had any intention of buying. To seal the deal, they'd come back the next day (Marque's day off) and drop no less than eight hundred pounds on apparel for Draco. The rest of the clerks loved them. It just didn't get any better!

Draco was happily remembering the last time they'd been in the Ferragamo store—Marque had actually chucked a shoe at Potter—when the whoosh of the fireplace signaled Potter's arrival.

The word "Mal—" just left his lips when Draco yanked him close and side-Apparated them into the bedroom. Ignoring the question mark on Potter's face, he grabbed Potter by the shoulders and threw him down on the counterpane.

Draco wasn't going down without a fight.

Aside from the normal bonus that sex offered (as in, fucking relief), Draco's years as something of a slut had had an additional plus. He had never subscribed to that bizarre dichotomy "quality over quantity." He was most definitely a "quantity and quality," "have your cake and eat it, too" sort, thank you very much. Unfortunately, there was always a bit of chaff with the wheat, unavoidable, really, and having been something of a whore for a decade or so, he knew without question what was good and what was bad sex.

Initially, he had honestly believed that there wasn't such a thing as bad sex and was most put out to be proven very wrong on numerous occasions, but more specifically the morning after that Valentine's Day ball in their fifth year. It wasn't so much the morning itself, as the memory of the previous night's high jinx that burst his bubble so spectacularly.

The evening had begun well enough. Once the tiresome dancing part was over, the Slytherins had high-tailed it to the dungeon and had proceeded to get hammered. He had fronted the libations for the evening—massive amounts of vintage cognac from the Malfoy Manor cellars—and given his love of French cognac, it was no surprise that he had woken up with a motherfucker of a hangover.

The six naked people in his bed, however, were quite a shock.

Blaise and Pansy were a welcome given. Not so welcome was the presence of Vince, Greg, Millicent, and that whackjob Lovegood. Squished between Vince and Greg, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was copious amounts of hair growing in a large swath down the entire length of Vince's back, like the pelt of some woodland creature. Turning over to escape that visual, he was assaulted by coming face to face (so to speak) with the nape of Greg's neck, which was carpeted in pimples the size of knuts.

These weren't deal breakers in and of themselves, because both could be ignored if he scrunched his eyes closed very, very tightly. Unfortunately, Draco had not yet devised a way to screw his ears shut. In spite of being so trolleyed last night that his hands had gone numb at some point, he clearly hadn't gotten drunk enough. He now knew with alarming certainty that Vince neighed like a horse and Greg cried out, "Mommy," when in the throes of orgasm.

Case closed.

Convinced that his brain was playing tricks on him, he waited several days until absolutely certain that every millimetre of alcohol had been flushed from his system before asking Pansy whether he'd imagined this aural squick of the most astonishing proportions, clearly expecting it to be some sort of by-product of incipient alcohol poisoning. The look on her face told him all he needed to know.

"You bastard!" she screamed. "I had just convinced myself that I'd imagined all that. I'm going to have fucking nightmares for weeks thanks to you!"

That night had been a sort of an embarrassment of riches. (Draco had never truly understood the implications of that phrase until then). Being confronted with the realization that there was horrible sex to be had was bad enough, but he also had to confront the realization that there was also sex that you wish had been bad, but had been quite good, which was somehow even worse.

Although general events were rather fuzzy, again, they weren't fuzzy enough. The phrase "daisy chain" kept repeating in his head like a fatal case of hiccups. It goes without saying that he could have gone through the rest of his natural born days without knowing who had been his daisy and who had been his chain that night. Despite a firm resolve to obliterate all memory of that nightmare of a six-some (was that even a word?), he couldn't help but remember that at one point he had marveled to himself, "Hmmm, who knew that Vince was so bendy"; not to mention that fantastic blow-job he'd received from "Put the L in Lunatic" Lovegood, which had made him see stars. Drunken, trashed to his eyeballs stars, but still stars.

So being something of an expert on sexual ins and outs (no pun intended), he was quite nonplussed that sex with Potter always left him internally speechless—which never happened. The bottom line was thus: as long as Potter was involved, Draco was so there. It didn't matter if it were good sex, bad sex, sober sex, drunk sex, sex in the bedroom, or sex in the bathroom at the Leaky (a kink they shared). Of course, the pleasure factor had increased exponentially since that champagne-fed rollicking on his couch after the Nightmare on Chicken Street. Potter wasn't a naive gay virgin any more, flailing his hands because he didn't know what to do with them. But he certainly wasn't the best fuck Draco had ever had, not by a long shot.

None of that mattered.

It had nothing to do with expertise, because once you've fucked Blaise Zabini, there was really no way to go but down. But as much Draco hated to admit it, sex with Potter always left him with the internal shakes. Still. Still blick every single time. It was a different blick, to be sure. Knowledgeable blick, actually. Now Draco knew the exact angle at which to orient a kiss so that every millimetre of Potter's mouth corresponded to a matching millimetre on Draco's mouth, and which spot on Potter's neck elicited a groan and a shiver.

He could see that very spot as he kneeled in the vee between Potter's splayed legs, forestalling the question threatening to leave Potter's lips with a finger pressed to that luscious bottom lip. Running trembling hands over Potter's torso, he followed the slight dip of his waist, the edge of his hip bones; he marveled anew at how beautiful Potter was. He eased both hands underneath Potter's hips and grabbed a lovely cheekful of a surprisingly pert arse, usually hidden from the world by those ridiculously baggy jeans Potter insisted on wearing. With those defined cheekbones and the eyes smudged with lashes so long they threatened to brush his eyebrows, his face so frigging perfect, Draco couldn't resist leaning forward and running a gentle tongue over those lashes, laving those cheekbones, and sucking on that bottom lip.

But as enjoyable as all this was—intrinsically, Potter was fucking gorgeous—it also didn't matter.

Draco wasn't sure this was a Gryffindor thing or just a Potter thing, but he suspected that it was all down to Potter. He certainly wasn't going to ask Pansy about her sex life with Weasley. Draco had only just coming to terms with the fact she was having sex with Weasley. That annoying pregnancy was something that not even Draco could ignore, never mind the wedding.

But Potter. That was the crux of it. With anyone else, Draco would be laving their dick (as he currently was laving Potter's), deep-throating to the point of having a crown tickle his kidneys, and the dick fucking his throat would be chasing an orgasm. Fair enough. Draco was completely in favor of orgasms every day, every way, even other people's.

But with Potter it was, "I'm yours. Here. Feast on me. All yours. No one else's." Potter didn't have a selfish bone in his body; his pleasure was contingent on Draco's pleasure. Which worked perfectly because Draco was nothing but a bunch of selfish bones. With anyone else this would have been just a simple situation of give and take. But no, there was another, completely Gryffindor-esque dynamic to this that even Draco—a Slytherin to his core—had to admit existed. Because dammit it to hell if it wasn't down to that Potter and the Thestral he came riding in on. Because as much as Potter said, "Yours," and Draco said, "Mine," at some point, Potter's rampaging martyrdom and Draco's rapacious greed met in the middle, which neutralized whatever sick and demented baggage they were carrying, and although there wasn't any sort of obvious explosion, it ended up being this endless circle of giving and taking and fucking and being fucked and kissing and kissing back and biting and marking and marking and biting, until yours became mours and mine became yine.

Despite being thoroughly myopic and self-serving as a rule, Draco had enough personal insight to know he would never have this with anyone else.

Not that he was naive. He imagined that at some point the sex would most likely lose a letter, reducing their sexual chemistry down to "blic." Then five years of "blic" would probably become "bli," then "bl," and then just "blah." He was resigned to that. One would have to be a fool not to recognize that at some point comfort and vanilla sex would be the order of the day. But what wouldn't change was Potter's need to be owned by someone, and that Draco, who was one of the most possessive bastards in the whole of wizarding Britain, possibly the entire European continent, needed to own; Potter was fucking his. It was nigh impossible that he would find anyone whose neuroses so perfectly fit his own. Potter's neuroses had the strange effect of neutralizing his own worst tendencies, which in turn blunted the worst of Potter's. In short, they worked on the most spectacularly twisted level imaginable, and he really didn't think he would find anyone as fucked up as Potter, no matter how many people he boinked, men or women.

Plus, there was that hating thing.

And here they were again, Potter's body arched up for the taking and Draco taking, and then the flip happened where Draco's taking turned into giving, which only made Potter give even harder, which forced Draco to give even more, and suddenly lubed up fingers were lovingly teasing a tight arse, and then not such a tight arse, and then a lubed-up dick was easing in, and then easing out, and then fucking the beautiful lubed-up arse. And then, well, total blick.

Nothing was different. Not the supreme arch of Potter's back in sacrifice, nor the shout as he came, nor the insanely tight embrace in which he held Draco afterwards. In his post-coital bliss, wrapped in Potter, Draco was convinced that Pansy needed to have her eyes checked.

Until they had tea.

Until Draco was sitting at the kitchen table in his favorite robe, nibbling on some of his favorite biscuits that Potter had picked up at the store on his way home from the comic convention. As Draco nibbled, Potter stood there waiting for the tea to steep, wearing a robe that put the "e" in eyesore, so it must have been given to him by a Weasley.

Although basking in the surety that Pansy had had some sort of wee psychotic break, he had to make sure.

"I think Pansy needs glasses. She thought she saw you eating at Medusa's recently."

Potter's shoulders tensed for one millisecond and then eased. He said over his shoulder.

"Must be mistaken. Haven't eaten there since last spring when you stood up and screamed at the top of your lungs, 'If I had wanted hair in my soup, I would have ordered it.'"

Draco's heart might have been breaking, but he was still a Slytherin. He lied back, "I told her you wouldn't set foot in there. It must have been some other brunet with glasses."

"Not like there aren't hundreds of those. Tea?"

"Yes, thanks."

When Draco raised his teacup to his lips, he was pleased to note that his hand wasn't shaking in the least.

Draco held it together through a cup of tea, a wee argument about the first dance (Potter's waltzing skills remained abysmal despite repeated goes around the lounge), and a one-sided rant about the shocking prices that florists charged and when he was Minister of Magic he'd launch a probe. He managed to elude the obligatory hand job in the shower by claiming that he had arranged to have tea with his mother that afternoon and that he was running late. He would shower when he got home.

"You're going over to your mother's? Voluntarily?" Potter eyes nearly hit the wall. "But Zabini will be there, and wasn't it just yesterday that you went on a forty-minute tear about how much you hate him and you hoped he had an allergic reaction to air and died a horrible death? Like writhing in agony for months?"

True, but that was yesterday. Two hours ago nothing would have induced him to Floo to his mother's to have tea with the two of them—Blaise now firmly ensconced as his mother's lover for the foreseeable future—and suffer that turncoat passing him the scones and jam. However, Blaise's perfidy in turning his mother into a cougar, not to mention a pregnant cougar, was peanuts compared to Potter hanging horns on him a week before their wedding.

"Mother assured me that he will be nowhere in evidence," Draco lied. "He's Apparated to Oxford or Cambridge for the day—I can't remember which one—to confer with a famous fifteenth-century Florentine scholar regarding Lorenzo de Medici's sexual persuasion. Apparently, Blaise has delusions of grandeur about writing a biography of Lorenzo, and this don insists that Lorenzo was straight. Which anyone with a brain knows is a bunch of bollocks. No need for any research as far as I'm concerned. The man wrote sonnets. Clearly, he was a flaming homo. But Blaise needs this idiot's blessing for some reason. I shall have Mother all to myself for the afternoon. And before you even open your mouth, no, I will never forgive him so don't waste your breath."

All this was basically true except that Blaise had Apparated to Oxford three days earlier. Should Potter have discovered that Blaise was actually home on the afternoon in question, Draco could claim he got the dates mixed up.

Lying wasn't hard for fuck's sake! Even Greg and Vince had been credible liars, and combined their I.Q. never got above 45. And that was on a good day.

Based on Potter's abbreviated and—Draco suspected—sanitized history of those early years at Hogwarts, Potter was obviously capable of being shockingly devious, but it wasn't natural. He had to work at it. Was it just something that Slytherins got? A natural genius? You always left an exit strategy. If Harry had mentioned that Pansy had seen someone who looked like him dining at Medusa's and was that him, something a little out of the ordinary given his strictures about the place, he would have admitted it without missing a beat. But he'd have lied about the person he was eating with.

"God, yes, it was me. An American journalist wanting to write a story about the war. She initially got me there by claiming she wanted to do a story on that cauldron scandal and the Germans—remember my testimony?—but she really just wanted to hear about you defeating Voldemort. Since you've made it pretty clear that you are not giving any interviews, she decided to try the back door. No pun intended."

That was how you lied, and if he hadn't been so completely and utterly on the verge of a stroke, he would have given Potter some pointers.

Draco waved a "Yes, fine" gesture at Potter's faint call to say hello to his mother and then Flooed to the Malfoy townhouse just off of Diagon Alley on Exclamation Point. Determined to attend her only son's wedding and have her child in Britain (her faith in Italian Healers non-existent), Narcissa had arrived two weeks ago with Blaise in tow. With her usual no-nonsense efficiency—his mother had the organizational skills of a British Napoleon; if she had been in charge of the Russian campaign, it would have succeeded—she hadn't been in London more than a few hours before commandeering an army of house-elves to do her bidding. Three days later, all of that Louis XIV gold and gilt had been replaced by overstuffed sofas and study English antiques, surrounded by acres of tasteful chintz. A week later, a nursery had been installed and Draco and Potter's wedding present bought. The only item not crossed off her list was "Have child." While his mother ruthlessly exorcized every potential reminder of her previous life as Lady Narcissa Malfoy, down to the very hand towels in the guest bathroom, she did nothing more than dust Draco's old bedroom, for which he was grateful. His childhood books still sat on their shelf over his bed, his favorite plush toys still rested on his pillow.

Had his father been alive, Lucius would have exacted curses on Blaise that would have made the Cruciatus seem like a tickling charm. Of course, if his father were still alive, his mother wouldn't be fucking a man twenty-five years her junior. And the truth was that she could have turned the entire townhouse into a Turkish seraglio and it still wouldn't change one salient thing. It was impossible not to remember that the baritone that called out, "Narcissa, Draco's here," should have belonged to his father and not Blaise Zabini. His mother had insisted that Draco send Blaise a wedding invitation, which he did, but he had succumbed to his inner brat and addressed it to, "The Man Who Happens to Be Living There with Narcissa Malfoy." His mother had been both amused and annoyed.

With a book in one hand and an enormous glass of red wine in the other, Blaise was sprawled out on the sofa reading and didn't even so much as raise an eyebrow when Draco tumbled in through the fireplace. They hadn't spoken to each other in months, ever since his mother had announced she was pregnant.

Once he had regained his balance, he thought he might as well cut to the chase.

"Blaise, it's obvious that the only person who really cares that you've turned my mother into a pregnant cougar is me. Of course, I'm her son, so perhaps my perspective is unique; however, I am in hell of a bind here, so I've decided to abandon this one-sided enmity, because my being in a snit isn't going to change things, and I need your advice because I… I… I need…"

"Draco?" Blaise said in a low voice; Merlin, a concerned voice.

I am shattering here and I need you to do what you do best, which is be as Zen as all fuck, and tell me that this isn't happening even though I know it's happening or at least tell me it doesn't matter but it does matter, it matters so much that I'm going out of my fucking mind.

Draco scrunched his eyes closed to stop, god, to stop this horrible, overwhelming dread threatening to suffocate him. He thrust out a frantic hand in an act of shear desperation and nearly fell to his knees in relief when a strong warm hand met his and squeezed tight.

"Draco? Is that you?" His mother's clipped aristocratic tones came floating down the staircase. "Have you finally stopped this silly pouting, because really, my dear, you hold a grudge just like—"

He opened his eyes just as she appeared on the landing. She took one look at him, and despite being nearly nine months pregnant, she ran down the staircase with the speed of a woman half her age.

Before he knew it, he was marshaled over to the couch and squished between the two of them, with his mother carding her hands through his hair and Blaise running a soothing hand back and forth across his chest as he sobbed.

He hated crying. Slytherins did not cry. Which is why he went berserk and tried to cast that Cruciatus on Potter in their sixth year. He had never experienced such humiliation. It was extremely stupid of him, but he wasn't thinking clearly. All he knew was that his arch enemy had caught him weeping like some first-year girl, and, naturally, he had expected Potter to ballyhoo this around the school. Which is what he would have done, frankly.

Over the course of his brief stint as a Death Eater, Draco had been subjected to a few Cruciatuses—Voldemort tended to hand them out rather indiscriminately. Now he was thoroughly ashamed of himself for that business in the bathroom. He could never cast one now, no matter what the circumstances. Yes, in the past he might have had a yen to break Potter's nose on the odd occasion (like every other day and twice on Sundays), but only someone who was absolutely psychotic would wish that torture on another person. It was a very sad day when Draco realized that his father's ambitions rested on the shoulders of a raving lunatic. He packed a bag, owled Pansy to meet him, and never looked back.

All in all, he considered that episode something of a wash. Initially, their conversation on this subject had spiraled down into a motherfucker of a fight. Potter claimed that since Draco meant to cast that Cruciatus, his actions were far worse, because he would have never cast that Sectumsempra spell if he'd known how horrible it was. Which Draco thought was as nifty a case of Gryffindor-esque justification he'd ever seen. "So if I had been successfully vicious, you'd be in pain, and if you had been successfully stupid, I'd be dead. But for Snape." At which point they both realized that neither of their behavior would stand up to much scrutiny. Then they had fabulous make-up sex and vowed to never bring it up again.

He'd only cried once since then, when his father died. Which he considered completely justified. There were the odd occasions when it was permissible. Was this one of them? Because he was caterwauling like a banshee here, his face tucked into his mother's shoulder, soaking her robes with his tears.

When he'd finally cried himself out, his sobbing dwindling into nothing more than a case of the sniffles, his mother Accioed a handkerchief, wiped his cheeks dry, handed him the handkerchief, and then turned her head to fuss with a pillow while he blew his nose. When he was done, she turned back to him and said, "You've only cried three times in your life. Once, when you were three and you discovered that you'd finished the box of chocolates we'd given you for your birthday; two, when your father died, and just now. Has something happened to Harry?"

It took some doing, but he managed to sound fairly normal.

"Not yet, although I certainly wouldn't place bets after this afternoon. He's having an affair. With a woman. Pansy saw them."

In unison, his mother and Blaise said, "Don't be ridiculous!"

Another time Draco would have made a fuss, because people were always saying that to him, and he was so damn sick of it. Right now though, he had to admit that his greatest wish was that he was being ridiculous, just this once; because the alternative was killing him.

"He lied to me." Draco said to the floor and was disgusted at the wibble in his voice but if there was any time that he really could be forgiven for having a wibble it was now. "Told me he hadn't had lunch at Medusa's and he had. Pansy saw them. A blonde. Pretty."

"Draco, look at me," Blaise brought his hand to Draco's cheek and forced Draco to make eye contact. "He's been stalking you for years. He is—"

"It was mutual stalking."

"Don't remind me," Blaise warned. "There is no way in hell he is having an affair. This is Potter. He is a Gryffindor from the top of his unruly thatch to his nobby ankles. Not only that, he is the penultimate Gryffindor. If he is lying it's because he's doing something ridiculously noble."

That actually made sense.

The dread lifted just a little.

"You really think he's doing something insanely noble, and hopefully really expensive, on my behalf?"

"Or Weasley's. And he's too guilty to say anything to you about it."

That would be dreadful, although not nearly as dreadful as him having an affair.

Draco had never been one for monogamy. To be honest, he'd never been in a relationship where that was an issue. But the possibility that Potter was having a bit on the side was absolute anathema. Even the thought. His stomach clenched into some unholy knot and stayed there. No. He wasn't sharing Potter ever, with anyone. And should it come down to that, it would be a deal breaker. The deal breaker. Wedding or no wedding. Caterers or no caterers. It would be off.

"Blaise, would you be a love and get my Paisley wrap? I believe it's in the bedroom on the chaise lounge."

Even in the throes of some almighty trauma, Draco appreciated Blaise's amused smirk followed by a little flick of his eye to a Paisley shawl draped across the chair opposite.

"Fifteen minutes of searching enough?"

"I think so," his mother replied with an equally amused smirk.

As soon as the sound of Blaise's footsteps died down, his mother leaned toward him and said in a low voice, "Draco, please cast a Silencing Charm. My magic is not reliable these days. Not the most important reason that I really wish this child would arrive any second now, but certainly irritating enough."

Draco couldn't contain his horror. Childbirth. Ugh!

She laughed. "Oh, Draco, you really are so silly. Thank you. Now, if by chance Blaise and I are wrong, that Harry is consorting with some woman, then you will do nothing."

"Nothing short of a million hexes cast right at his macking arse!" Draco protested.

"Nothing," she repeated and then got that look on her face. The one that even cowed his father. "You will send regrets to all our guests, informing them that the wedding has been called off. You will remove all of your possessions from your flat and return here temporarily until he has moved out. You will act like it was nothing more than a lark."

"I can't! We—"

"If people ask you about Harry, you will casually grin—not a malicious grin—and say something to the effect of, 'Comme ci, comme ca.' In fact, that's a perfect response. You will hold your head high. You are a Black. You will not let the world see your disappointment, your despair. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded because that's what one did when his mother talked in that tone.

"If I can hold my head high after being cut in public by the hag Hortense Flint, a woman who had been my best friend since we were four, and pretend it was on par with nothing more than a chip in my nail polish, you can do the same. You are my son, and I expect you to buck up."

She was asking too much. Potter. Them. They were so happy, and Draco had never been happy. Ever. Just sort of muddling content. And the thought that it was all gone…

"Draco, listen to me. If one is lucky, one has a great love in their life. I have been very lucky to—"

Draco couldn't contain himself. "God, Mother! Please! Not Blaise, for the fuck of Merlin."

She leveled a reproving glare at him.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled. His mother abhorred swearing. Draco knew on some level that his potty mouth was a direct response to his mother's severe dictums on polite language, but really. Blaise Zabini!

"As I was saying," this was followed by second reproving glare. "I have been very lucky, blessed, to have had one great love. Your father. His one great fault, his fatalistic attraction to power, destroyed us. Nevertheless, I loved him, and I still love him. If one is very, very lucky, one gets a second chance. At love. Perhaps not great love. But love. I am telling you this because I suspect that this Potter fellow is your great love. But there are others and you will find someone. I did and you are very like me."

Draco couldn't deny any of this, because he'd seen how happy his parents had been together, and yet he also knew, absolutely, that his mother was happy with Blaise. The baby was proof enough.

"I have told him that if he hurts you, I will kill him with my bare hands."

She laughed and gave the back of his neck a little squeeze.

"No danger of that. Because you see, Draco, I am Blaise's great love."

As if that was his cue, Blaise came down the stairs, a little slowly, as if not sure of his welcome. Draco lifted the Silencing Charm with a discreet wave of his wand.

"Did you set everything right, Narcissa?"

"Yes, I think so. Shall we have some tea?"

While his mother conferred with the house-elf, Blaise came over to sit beside Draco. Wrapping his arms around Draco and holding him tight, he whispered in Draco's ear, "I've missed you."

Draco would never swear to it, but he suspected that Blaise was crying when he said it.

Despite the unified front of his mother and Blaise insisting all through tea—Blaise thoughtfully doctoring up his Earl Grey with shots of Firewhiskey every now and then—that Potter was doing something insufferably Gryffindor, Draco wasn't in any frame of mind to return to their flat just yet.

He'd never really given much (as in any) thought to the bones of their relationship, what with the hating and all that; it took an inordinate amount of time and effort. But he'd had three cups of tea and the pretence of eating a cucumber sandwich to mull this whole situation over, and his initial reaction, that it was an all or nothing deal with him, was, upon reflection, absolute. If Potter had been dipping his dick into someone other than Draco, Draco would walk. Out. No discussion. No argument. It didn't matter if Potter's partner was female, male, or even house-elf. It was completely immaterial. They were done. Yes, even if it was the result of pre-wedding jitters and a desire to prove to himself that this dick business wasn't a flash in the pan. Should this be the case, it was actually rather Slytherin of Potter, the irony of which Draco did appreciate. Draco, admittedly, was behaving rather Gryffindorish about this infidelity business and wasn't that as ironic as all hell? Fuck irony. It didn't matter. He would never forgive him.

Draco might not let anyone but Pansy, Blaise, and his mother see his wounds—because he could see the wisdom behind his mother's advice, no matter that it would be nigh impossible to implement, but Draco had done the impossible before—but the emotional cuts would be deep and permanent.

A Sectumsempra of the soul.

He couldn't face Potter just yet, so he decided to visit one of his favorite childhood haunts for a couple of hours, to physically and emotionally return to a place where his biggest worry had been that his father would remember his mother's admonition to make Draco eat something other than chocolate. Draco had brought Potter here numerous times and was quite shocked to learn that some enterprising wizard had taken a bunch of Muggle classics and then turned them into magical displays for wizarding children. His favorites were the Alice in Muggleland display and the Goblin of Notre Dame.

He'd just gotten to his favorite part, where Alice began chasing the cards with an axe, when he heard a low voice mutter in his ear, "Malfoy."

He knew that voice. As impossible as it seemed, he could hear the freckles in it.

Draco made an impatient gesture. Yes, this was where Alice nearly cut off the head of the Muggle queen… And unfortunately wakes up, but Draco always lived for the possibility that she'd successfully whack the Queen of Hearts into tiny bits of paper. The fantasy was only heightened by the fact that Alice had grey eyes and hair the exact shade of white blond that Draco's had been as a child.

"My favorite part. I assume that Pansy told you where to find me?"

"Your mum," he admitted.

Twenty-five years old and his mother still continued to amaze him. Blaise really did not deserve her.

"Just a wee little point. You have a 'mum.' I have a mother. Please do not use that pedestrian term 'mum' when referring to her ever again. Now, I assume this isn't a courtesy call, as you and I have never had anything polite to say to each other our entire lives, and why spoil a perfect record."

Weasley rolled his eyes and growled out, "Youre a piece of work, Malfoy.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, he grabbed Draco's arm, ignored his outraged, "I beg your pardon," Apparated them to the Leaky, and more or less dragged Draco to a remote part of the pub. He was on the verge of hexing Weasley—not even Pansy could have defended this sort of man-handling—when they halted in front of a table with a "Reserved" sign on it, bracketed by two large shot glasses filled to the brim with Firewhiskey. Draco took his victories where he could find them. Weasley's taste in spirits was in inverse proportion to his abysmal fashion sense. The uglier the plaid, the better the booze. He eyed Weasley's shirt. Hideous, therefore, chances were good that the Firewhiskey would be superb. If he had to suffer through some sort of confrontation with Weasley, he might as well do it hammered on decent liquor. Weasley motioned toward the booth with his wand. No sooner had Draco sat down than Weasley whisked the curtain closed and sidled next to him.

He wasn't going to make the first move, but clearly Weasley had an agenda because he picked up his glass and raised it in a half-hearted toast. Draco followed suit, although he kept his other hand on his wand.

After emptying his glass in one go—Weasley's face slackened into the briefest expression of bliss—he slammed his glass down, near the far edge of the table, and then laid his wand next to it. Interesting. Draco followed suit, with both the whiskey and his wand. He always carried a spare in his boot anyway. Not as good as his real wand, but certainly able to do the necessary in a pinch.

Draco rolled his hand in a flourish.

"We aren't getting any younger, Weasley. If you're not going to get to the point, I'm going to order another round."

"Keep your britches on. Look, I can't stand you, you know that?"

Draco faked a yawn. "Keeps me up at night, Weasel."

That sort of remark usually elicited at least a threat of violence—indeed, Weasley's face flamed from his freckled chin up to his freckled forehead—but he didn't rise to the bait. Interesting squared.

"Anyway, I think you're a first-class git and then some. It's mutual, yeah?"

Draco nodded, because, really. Could it be any more obvious?

"But Pansy happens to love you, and Harry happens to love—"

"We don't—"

That got a finger in his face. "Do not start on that hating business. I'm not in the bloody mood. Anyway, the two people I love most on this earth happen to think you're all right. Which means that if I want my marriage to last more than just a few months, and I want to keep Harry as my best friend, then we need to at least pretend to get on. Agree?"

Draco nodded, this time stifling a real yawn, because it wasn't like he hadn't come to this realization months ago. God, the Weasel was slow. "Your point?"

"Harry's unhappy, I'm unhappy. If something bollocks up this wedding, he's going to be bloody miserable. And apparently whatever happened at lunch has set Pansy off—"

"Pansy doesn't get miserable. It's pretty much furious or happy. Rarely anything in between."

"So I'm finding out. She gets back from your lunch, wound up like you wouldn't believe. I don't even get a hullo before she starts in on me on how I have a total arse for a best friend."

"My sympathies." Once Pans started in, she was like a rabid terrier. Sort of a blessing this had happened; better for Weasley to know what he was getting into. "Was she wound up enough to go for a lamp?" She never aimed, just smashed them against the walls in frustration.

"It's not just the hormones?"

Draco smiled and then shook his head.

"Christ," Weasley muttered under his breath. "Try every single fucking lamp in the flat. Finally I get out of her that she saw Harry with some blonde at Medusa's. This woman was hanging all over him, her hands nearly down his pants."

Pansy had lied about that part, probably to spare him, and the knot in his stomach, which had been slowly unraveling, bunched up again. Merlin on a fucking broom, he could use another round.

"Get that look off your face. He's not like that. He'll kill me if he knows I've told you, spoiling his surprise, but I figure it's better than you thinking he's got a bint on the side. She's a real estate agent. He's bought a house in Wiltshire, sort of a getaway cottage. Wedding present. The reason she was hanging all over him was that she was panting to make the blooming sale."

"And get into his pants," Draco noted. Because Pansy was never wrong about that sort of thing. She knew a sales pitch from a sex pitch.

"Yeah, well, probably that too," Weasley admitted. "Happens to Harry all the time. Thing is he doesn't even see it. Just thinks people are being friendly. Bit thick that way."

Draco started laughing. God, you hang around with Gryffindors and it's all you can do to keep the irony at bay.

"Care to share the joke, Malfoy?"

"Next round's on me, Weasley." Draco poked his head out of the curtains and yelled to Tom for two more of the same. "I bought him a cottage in the country as a wedding present. In Godric's Hollow. A couple of cottages as a matter of fact. I might as well spill all the beans since we're having this baring of chests fest. Oh, thanks, Tom, put it on my tab, there's a good man, with a decent tip for yourself. Cheers, Weasley. I've deeded half of the land and one of the cottages over to Pans; my wedding present to you both.

"You bought us a house?" Weasley choked on every single word.

"Collect your eyes off of the floor, Weasley. It's not a good look on you. It had nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with practicality. It's the only way I'll see her on a regular basis. If you two live next door to us, you and Potter can do whatever people do with children; I have no idea and I don't want to know. I can't stand them. I even hated them when I was a child. Anyway, you chase the children around the garden, wet them down with the hose, throw them up in the air, whatever, and Pansy and I will relax on comfy chaise lounges and sip martinis. While the children are napping, you two can clip hedges or prune or whatever you middle-class types do when confronted with wildish verge. Pansy and I will do what we do best: loll. I prefer my lolling with alcohol, but I can also loll quite well with a pot of tea. Ambidextrous that way."

"Lazy as all get out, you mean."


"Godric's Hollow?"

"It seemed…" Draco didn't know how to put this. "Right."

Weasley raised his glass. "You're a complete and utter nutter, Malfoy. Thanks. Pansy will be as pleased as punch. And Harry will be over the moon. Did you do it for him or yourself?"

"A little of both," Draco admitted. "Harry gets to be an ipso facto uncle to your children—knowing your genes, Pans will be popping them out like there's no tomorrow—and he won't miss so much that he'll never have his own. I'll get to see Pansy just as much as I do now. You'll get to see Harry even more. Assuming you and I can restrain ourselves from killing each other, I think it will work quite nicely."

Weasley finished his drink and put the glass down with rueful shake of his head.

"You never cease to amaze me, Malfoy. There really is a brain in there."

Draco didn't dignify that with a reply. He was brilliant. Even the Minister thought so. Plus, Weasley didn't sound amazed in a good way, so much as pole-axed, which was in the bad way. Buggering hell. It couldn't be helped; he was marrying Potter and Pansy was marrying Weasley and that was that. They would manage. Pansy had been his friend forever and a day, and he wasn't about to say ta-ta to that friendship just because she'd some sort of mental fit and took up with Weasley.

"A word of advice, Weasley. When Pansy is in this sort of snit, I'd give her three hours and then appear with a bouquet of flowers that at a minimum should run you about ten Galleons—"

"I didn't do a blinking thing. Neither did Harry!"

Draco looked at him. "Do you want my advice or not? If you want to get laid tonight, you'll follow it to the letter. In addition to the flowers, buy her a box of chocolates. A large box. One pound minimum. Nuts and chews. Get her the creams and you'll be palming yourself in the shower for a week."

"God! Slytherins! By the way, Pansy was threatening to give him the what for—"

Oh fuck. Draco downed his drink and Apparated.

Potter was waiting for him to Floo in. The second Draco's feet touched the hearth, Potter grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the nearest wall.

Draco got out, "Your eye—" which Potter ignored. Pushing his body up against Draco's, he began mumbling in pure Potter the most astonishingly articulate ramble but in an amazingly inarticulate fashion:

"I never… It was going to be… You know, a weekend… And, yeah, I guess she was sort of pushy, but I didn't… I shouldn't have lied but I wanted… It's near Malfoy Manor… Not very big but… I… There's… You're…" Potter shuddered and drew back just a little. Pansy had clocked him but good. Draco would have to owl Granger. Healing charms were still beyond him. "I'd never… There's this." Potter ran his hand through Draco's hair. "And this." A thumb swiped Draco's forehead. "And these." The tip of Potter's finger grazed the tips of his eyelashes. "And, oh yeah, this." He ran two fingers over Draco's mouth. "But most of all, there's this." And he placed his hand over Draco's heart and brought their foreheads together. Draco followed suit, placing his hand over Potter's heart. He was too overwhelmed with joy to say, "Yes," but he thought it. Over and over and over again.

"God, who knew childbirth was so wet! You'd think they do something about that."

The more he learned about the process of childbirth, the more it horrified him, and the more he was eternally grateful he had a dick. Nature was just plain evil. Naturally, he'd heard about a woman's water breaking—it was hard not to be around Pansy these days and not suffer through the TMI of it all—but he didn't know the phrase was so literal. Being his mother, she had the decency to wait until they'd cut the cake.

Draco had been struggling with his tie for the last five minutes. He was so tired his fingers weren't working quite right.

"Here, let me." Draco angled back his head so Potter could have room to wrestle with his tie, which seemed to be in a zillion knots. "What in the hell did you do… Blaise seems ecstatic. Really nice of your mother, you know, the name."

Draco nodded. A baby sister. Far be it from him to question his mother, but all of a sudden his late cousin insisting that she be called "Tonks" made a world of sense. Inevitably this child would be called either Nympho or Dora. The latter sounded like some house-elf and the first, well, enough said.

"Aunt Andromeda will be pleased," Draco agreed. After giving it some more thought, he understood; his mother had always been about family in her quiet, steely way. It was his father who had confused feeding his insane ambitions with furthering his family's interests.

Whenever there was even the slightest mention of either Lupin or Tonks, Potter nose-dived into a horrendous funk. Draco wasn't having any of that on his wedding night.

"At least she waited to let loose until we cut the cake. It was really good wasn't it?"

"There, you go. You're free. Yeah, it was bloody marvelous." And as if he knew that on this of all nights he wasn't allowed to grieve, Potter pulled Draco to the window, cast a Lumos, and wrapped his arms around him, back to front, so they could look into the garden together.

"Rather in need of some work. And the day I see you with a pair of clippers in your hand is the day I die of heart failure. Didn't much like gardening when I lived with my aunt and uncle."

"Because they were abusive and starved you. You clip hedges, mow the lawn, and whatnot, and I'll give you spectacular blow jobs. Besides, you and Weasley will be fighting over pruning techniques in no time. It's a middle-class thing. Give in to your inner gardener."

"While you give into your inner aristocrat and sit back and order me around?"

Draco laughed out loud. Because it was so true, and Potter didn't mind one bit.

"The cottages… Side by side… Really nice and, you know, here, in Godric's Hollow, just… Yeah. Thanks. Lovely wedding present. What are we going to do with the other place?"

"Give it to Granger as a wedding present. She whispered in my ear that she and Billings are tying the knot. A blessing for the rest of single London, as they are two of the most boring fucks on the face of this earth. Although they don't even know they're boring so it's… Ow! That was my foot. Anyway, we don't need the money and we do need the tax break."

"Slytherin," Potter whispered in his ear.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Anyway, do you mind that I've already done the place up? Didn't really feel like spending my honeymoon camping."

"Nah. I'm pants at that sort of thing. I like it. You did a wonderful job." This was followed up by a kiss to the side of Draco's neck. Potter was really a superb kisser, but Draco noticed that from this angle, he now had the perfect spot for the gazebo he'd been designing. That Potter and Weasley would build. They'd better brush up on their construction charms, pronto. He wanted that gazebo built by next February because he had to plant the climbers no later than early April. Hmmm, wonder what sort of winter was forecast?

"Potter, don't you think that corner, over there, would be a perfect place for a gazebo? I really do love roses, that's one thing I'm not budging on, and I'd like to have wildish sort of climbers because they have the best scent. We must have a Madame Alfred Carriere. And a trellis. At the front. I adore their color. They are palest of pink, with a scent that's nearly better than sex. And although I've been toying of the idea of a white garden, which is chic beyond words, I've been thinking lavenders and—"

"Malfoy, it's my wedding night, and I want to fuck my husband before that lovely chiming clock on the mantel in the lounge strikes midnight. Can we manage to turn off your brain for the next forty minutes?"

"Yes," Draco whimpered, because Potter's hands were cupping his balls through his pants in the most wicked way imaginable, giving them a squeeze and a massage that left his knees weak and his dick rock hard.

Draco rarely made demands during sex because Potter had proved to be rather inventive, but tonight he really wanted it one way. The exact repeat of their first night together. Not the frotting on the couch, he was too tired for that. But that amazing (albeit inexpert) fucking in front of a mirror, with Potter getting his first taste of Draco: the feel of him, the heat of him, the all of him.

"Like, you know… Back in my flat… The first night… Not the couch, but later… After we… The mirror… You know…"

"Yes, Malfoy, I know."

Potter wasn't a genius, but he was damn smart.

Nestled up against each other, Potter spooning him, asleep, the sticky aftermath between them because they were too knackered to get up and get a flannel, Draco was so happy he thought he'd burst. The garden would be magnificent. Oh, of course, Weasley would put up a fuss, no doubt—

"Malfoy, time to go to sleep. We have four wonderful days together before we have to get back to town for Ron and Pansy's wedding. The garden will keep."

"Thought you were asleep," Draco groused.

"I can hear your mind turning." Potter snuggled closer. "Sleep."

Draco pretended to go to sleep. In between thoughts of an all rose garden versus a riot of different shrubs and flowers, he deepened his breaths and made the intervals between the breaths longer.

"You're not fooling me. You're still thinking."


"Hate you, Malfoy," Potter said in a sleepy, happy murmur.

And just like that his mind stopped.

"Hate you more, Potter."

He listened to the gentle in and out of his husband's breath against the back of his neck, marveling at what a lucky bastard he was, and was he imagining the faint attar of roses lulling him to sleep?

Fin and this time I really mean it!