Fic: All Manners of Sin (Harry/Draco)

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Title: All Manner of Sins
Author: tigersilver 
Prompt: PROMPT #150
Adapted from: The film ‘Love, Actually’
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 11,000
Rating: R
Contains (Highlight to view): *Much internal ranting and ridiculousness on the part of Draco Malfoy and his libido. And very little else, and certainly positively nil literary value, considering what I done did here. It’s fun, though? I do hope.*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Same goes for the film ‘Love, Actually’. The transcript source used is: http://withmusics.blogspot.com/2008/12/love-actually-script.html and all rights to the film ‘Love, Actually’ are the property of the owners. No part of this work was intended to infringe upon copyright and no profit is to result from this fanwork adaptation.
Notes: With thanks and gratitude eternal to the Mods for endless extensions and to my Betas L and S for their sapient thoughts and lightning turnabouts. By rights I should’ve dropped out of this Fest gracefully some time ago, but my prompt was for phoenixacid and I’m a stubborn cuss and adore her to little bits-and-pieces, so I damned well didn’t, sorry. I make every apology for all other errors, as they are absolutely mine own.
Summary: As my prompter desired, this is an adaptation of the film: Draco is the Prime Minister and Harry is Natalie. This is entirely a Non-Magic AU, un-compliant with anything Battle, and the great majority of the dialogue is lifted nearly verbatim. Draco’s brain is mine own, unfortunately. The title is based on the Prime Minister’s most brilliant line: ‘I love that word 'relationship'. Covers all manner of sins, doesn't it?’

Five Weeks to Christmas:

Draco goes in to No. 10 Downing with a bloody ridiculous hand wave.

“…And this is Harry; he’s new here. Like you.”

Little does he suspect his very brain is in imminent danger.

“Hello, Harry.”

Not to mention his ‘nads.

“Hello, Draco. I mean, sir. Shit, I can't believe I've just said that. And now I've gone and said "shit". Twice. I'm so sorry, sir.”

Yes, those as well.

“It's fine, it’s fine. You could've said "fuck" and we'd have been in real trouble.”

“Thank you, sir. I did have an awful a premonition I was going to fuck up on my first day. Oh, piss it!”

Draco falls fathoms fucking deep approximately two minutes after he enters No. 10, which—were his constituents to become aware—would be political suicide. It’s horrible. He can’t bear it. One look and it’s over, he’s done for.

Green, green eyes. (Toad green, poison green, grass green, blinking at him from behind spectacles—augh!) Black, black hair. (Made to bury a man’s hands in and tug.) Pert arse on a skinny frame—too skinny? (No…more wiry and compact.) Mouth!

That mouth is intriguing. Fortunately, this new PM fellow is made of slightly sterner stuff. (And has charming been mentioned? Charming should ought be mentioned, absolutely.)

However, only his forward momentum (‘Just keep walking, Draco’, he may’ve told himself fiercely) and good old reliable Pansy carry him out of what might very well have descended unto a highly absurd social situation involving his own staff. PMs aren’t supposed to drool over their staff. There’s likely a law against it.

Yes, it’s frowned upon. Draco’s pretty sure. And behind him he can vaguely hear Harry whispering to someone, so it’s quite probably there is someone in the room already frowning other than good old Pansy. (Who frowns a lot anyway and is not always a reliable guide. Draco has found one gathers more flies with honey than vinegar. Pansy is ruthlessly efficient in her frowning, though, so point in her favour—wait, where was he again?)

“Did you see what I did there?”

Draco saw. That is the crux of his brand new problem, right there. Defined.

The someone addressed by this darling new Harry in Draco’s life—maybe it’s his new housekeeper? Minerva, was it?—replies, “Yes, I did.”

Draco decides he instantly likes the woman Minerva, mainly as there isn’t even a smidge of derision in her amused reply. (Also, she too sounds dreadfully efficient and good old Pansy absolutely requires some sort of matching book-end, if only for the sake of karma.)

“I just went ‘blurh’," Harry sighs quietly, but there’s a hint of a breathless giggle to it, as if he’d been struck by the absurdity, too. Bless him, he’s utterly freaking adorable, Harry is, especially flushed like that and picking at his trousers pockets anxiously. Draco would like to devour him on the spot, actually.

“Sir,” Pansy says—er, frowns.

“Hallo, there,” Draco burbles back, a bit madly, because this greeting thing, he can do this, even codswalloped and gobsmacked. Pity he’s run out of staff to greet, though. Rather gives the show away, that.

“I'm right over here, sir. Draco,” Pansy advises him kindly but sharply, and she too is glancing back at the huddle of Draco’s new keepers, all now preparing to break forth and go about their business.

Her brows quirk speakingly as she glances from here to there, but Draco’s occupied considering the one wall of No. 10 Downing, the one he’s just said ‘hello’ to, between lengthy calming blinks, and doesn’t catch the quirk, so much. Draco, to be brutal, would prefer not to be quirked at by Pansy. He’d rather prefer to bang his handsome high forehead into this lovely new wall of his, just now, and knock some sense back in, maybe. With force.

But it’s all too likely a lost cause. He’s just met…Harry.

“Draco? Draco, come along in then,” Pansy shoos him. “Your office.”

“Yeah, I'm in here. OK. Good. Thank you.”

Deep breaths, that’s it. Whatever that just was, what just happened, it will pass, surely?

“Ah.”

He gains the safety of his new sanctum with an amplitude of gratitude. His old friend and handler efficiently takes her leave to let him get on with it, and the rising feeling of panic building in his chest bubbles high.

(Green eyes, black hair, arse and lips. Lips on that mouth, and all he can think of is them stretched about his prick, and that’s damned inconvenient, isn’t it? For a newly minted PM.)

“Oh, no,” Draco whispers aloud, sagging back against the equally lovely solid door, the brilliant one thankfully placed squarely between him and the green-eyed menace owning that potty mouth. That so pretty potty mouth. “That is so inconvenient.”

Oh, he’s so fucked. So fucked, and he knows it.

Four Weeks to Christmas:

Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea. Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea.

Meetings.

Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea.

More meetings.

Same again, days in a row. Talking, talking, endlessly. Signing, signing, till his fingers feel as though they’ll drop off.

Meetings, interminable, but he’s PM and it’s his bollocks on the line and he’ll do this.

He owes them. All of them. The Crew, his. Plus some—such as his new staff. Such as Harry.

“I’ve brought you...oh, is it convenient?” Speak of the devil and his deep green eyes. Today there’s no specs to hide them and Draco is subject to the full force of The Green. Which, if Harry were a Jedi, would be equivalent to him wielding two light sabres, and would possibly infer Draco was Darth Maul.

Draco glances up and (speaking of mauling?) manfully belts up against the unparalleled urge to leap over his desk and just ravage the man. Or be ravaged. Yes, on the balance he would prefer the ravagement, cheers.

“Yes, come in.”

Harry smiles at him, which is terrible. “These have just come through from the Treasury...” Terrible in that Draco enjoys the effects far too much. Bright spot, that, brilliant.

“Uh-huh.” He feels his lips twitch involuntarily. How can one not smile in return when Harry is smiling?

“… and these are for you.”

Is that a hint of a flush on those cheeks?

Oh, and bright spot? Only brilliantly bright spot is Harry. The arse and all—it’s fucking chompable. He’d like to kiss it, all over, from crack to hole and each deliciously firm high buttock. For a thin lad, Harry’s got an arse on him that’s bloody spectacular. He’d love to see that arse naked, but that’s not right—oh, no. Not proper.

“Excellent.” The biscuits which accompany his tea are chocolate-dipped. “Thanks a lot.”

(“Who do I have to screw to get tea and a chocolate biscuit around here?” He does recall saying that, somewhere along the line. However, Minerva, his housekeeper, is apparently stingy with the Hobnobs and Draco has seen only a plethora of ginger nuts and other common fare.)

Oh, now. Edible! (Right, back to Harry. Always back to Harry.)

No…tantalizing, that’s the word, even when awkwardly poised as if to flee and bumping a hip into the corner of Draco’s desk as he shuffles. Draco is pleased with himself for having cleared that matter up, the finding of the correct word to describe Harry? Harry should always be considered, and all his charms tallied whenever there may happen the chance.

“Er…sir? Draco?”

Oh, yes. Harry is just…just right there, with the post…and biscuits. Draco may’ve lost the page there, for a moment. He clears his throat.

(And the arse, that arse? Has Draco truly considered that arse sufficiently—has he done it justice? And those fascinating eyes, shy behind glinting lenses, but wondering, all the same. As if he suspects, perhaps?)

“—I was hoping you'd win,” Harry is nattering on, (oh, thank you, Father Christmas, for these small gifts! Let Harry be distracted by his own words so he doesn’t need be distracted by Draco’s appallingly rude staring, okay?)

Draco recalls himself with jolt from any and all thoughts of ravagement. “Gnh?”

“Not that I wouldn't have been nice to the other bloke too.” Harry smiles at Draco again, which just isn’t bloody fair. “Just always given him the boring biscuits with no chocolate.”

“Hah.” Draco’s not sure what to say to that. Is it a personal favour to him, these biscuits and their undeniable chocolate-ness?

Or…perhaps not. It might be Harry’s always like this, and Draco’s just reading silly things into it, things that are absolutely not there. Pansy’s always accused him of having far too much imagination for his own good, hasn’t she? Damn the woman—maybe she’s right.

“Ha!” he repeats, this time with a full serving of his customary PM-ly manliness and dashing verve. “Thanks very much. Thanks... Harry.”

“You’re welcome….Draco.” Harry peeps at him, a glancing glow as he steps back. “Well…see you.”

Draco heaves a gusty huff, relieved to be alone again (meetings, paperwork, all that.) But the thrill in his gut persists for ages after Harry’s whisked himself off again, closing the door gently behind him. And that’s not merely his own fancy, not at all. Because he’d fancy having his biscuit-bearing assistant bending him right over the surface of his file-strewn desk and having a bloody good go at him, and that is no lie, and no—yes, all right, it’s highly improper to even think it, oh fuck!

“Grip…” he mutters to a nearby file folder. “Need a.”

(Why, oh why is he even dwelling on this?)

“Oh gawds, come on, fucking get a grip,” Draco advises himself sternly, when Harry’s long gone and only crumbs from the devoured chocolate biscuits remain. “You're the Prime Minister, for gawd’s sake.”

The next day—gawd help him, do—the cycle repeats itself. Draco never has any idea what to say to the infuriating man, so he simply talks. At him. Possibly (no, probably) like a blithering idiot and not at all like a responsible politician engaged in the incredibly serious act of running the country. Which he absolutely, actually is, thanks ever so much, and no one can say differently!

(Right. So there. Draco lolls his tongue out at the metaphorical scoffers, not caring that it’s likely coated in chocolate. It’s chocolate brought to him by Harry, and that’s all that matters. He’s allowed some modicum of pleasure in his day, isn’t he?)

And it’s bit sad, that those blasted meetings have done not a thing to prepare for chatting up the help one fancies madly. However, he can negotiate his through a seemingly endless array of minor policy pitfalls, on the bright side. That, bloody fuck, really isn’t so much of bright side when one is heart-lorn and forsworn.

A babble of details and he’s drinking in every one, every time they meet. Foolish.

Who is he fooling? Harry’s his bright side, Draco’s, and he can’t even manage to carry on a decent conversation with the brassy little twerp, not without looking the utter twat. Damn.

Damn.

(Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea. More meetings. Same again, days in a row. Talking, talking, endlessly. Cue refrain, what?)

“Sir? Sir. Draco.”

(There he goes again, being quietly inappropriate.)

“Here you are. The post…and your tea, sir.”

“Well, then.” Fortunately he’s still got a lid on it. “Right. Thank you.”

Yes, indubitably, the better part of valour is for Draco to keep his own bloody mouth shut and to not proposition his adorable assistant. Draco knows this, as much as he knows the effing Ministry is comprised mainly of old farts and young blowhards. All of whom conspire to generate far too many file folders and perfunctory meetings.

Three Weeks to Christmas:

Draco’s nearly willing to admit he’s succumbing to the continual blandishment of chocolate biscuits, that arse and that particular smile.

Something’s changed, and for the better. Come undone, unhinged, and swung wide open. And Harry’s a delight, just as Draco was certain he’d be.

He feels a bit creaky about it but there’s no harm in being friendly, is there? In making a few overtures—in the name of good relations? He’s not chatted a bloke up for ages and eons, for that matter. Best to keep his hand in, what?

“Ah. Harry.”

Not that his secretary seems to notice it. (Though…there is a certain charm to Harry’s naiveté.)

“Sir.”

Draco regards the latest collection of pointless paper and then finally allows himself the pleasure of focusing on the vision poised before him. It’s like bloody Snow White—or maybe Sleeping Beauty, and Draco could quite happily see himself in the role of the Big, Bad Wolf. There’s also something horridly awkward about remaining seated whilst Harry stands patiently waiting upon on the other side of his desk, rocking just a bit, heel to toe; Draco would much prefer to make his way round and have Harry within touching distance. But he makes do with an attempt at conversation instead.

“Thanks. Harry. Erm, I'm starting to feel... uncomfortable about us working in such close proximity every day and me knowing so little about you, it seems elitist and wrong.”

(Also, Draco’s been bloody dying of curiosity. Literally.)

“Um.” Harry shifts from one foot to the other, which allows Draco the further pleasure of watching his body move under those damnable well-fitting business clothes he’s wearing. “Well, there's not much to know.”

“Ah…haha.” Right—that sods it. Total conversation killer. But surely Draco can pull a decent sort of dialogue out of this morass? Details! Details, then; he’ll winkle them out and coax his lovely secretary into feeling more at ease with him. After all, he’s not actually the Big Bad. “Well, erm, where do you live, for instance?”

“Wandsworth. The dodgy end.”

“Ah, my sister lives in Wandsworth.”

“Oh.”

“So which exactly is…’the dodgy end’?”

“Right at the end of the high street, Harris Street, near the Queen's Head.”

“Right, yes, that is dodgy.”

“Hm.”

(Something has changed, and it’s left Draco daring. And possibly highly committable to Bedlam, but? If he doesn’t ask Harry now, when will he ever?)

“Erm, and you live with your husband? Boyfriend? Wife? Three illegitimate but charming children?”

Harry has the bollocks to blush at Draco instead of slapping him silly for the impertinence, which nearly has him tackled to the ground and kissed senseless. “No,” he says equably enough. “I've just split up with my boyfriend actually, so I'm back with my mum and dad for a while.”

“Ah. Sorry.” (Draco is not sincere in this ‘sorry. He is so insincere, he’s practically a’tremble with it. Not that Harry notices.)

“No, it's fine. I'm well shot of him. He said I was getting skeletal.” A casual hand wave indicates a fit—and yes, all right, possible too thin—body under the light button down and dark trousers Harry’s wearing. “Like a stick.”

“I… beg your pardon?” Draco nearly swallows his tongue. Silly thing. He rights it, as no doubt he’ll be called upon to make more conversation, however…awkward. But…nice. All the same. And, ah? What’s this about ‘skeletal’?

“He said no one would fancy a bloke with thighs the size of twigs. Said they made my arse look silly, up atop them, jiggly like a jelly. Not a nice guy, actually, in the end.”

Draco’s nodding, nodding, as if he understands; he doesn’t. Would really like to murder this git who’s offended his Harry, and then been bloody rude enough to dump him flat.

“—it’s all right; he really was great galloping prat and not so much my type—“

“Hngh! Well!” Draco grits his back teeth together with force, because of it. “Bit of a tosser. Well shot of him.”

And…and? Harry’s still huffing his recalled indignation, examining his own nicely trim legs in their wool weave with a canny eye, turning out his pockets in his hip bones as if to say ‘ Here, Draco. See how perfectly these lovely bony hips are made for your greedy mitts to grip them?’ It’s too bloody adorable to watch. Draco is more than content to simply adore. And…then…also babble.

“Bugger—!”

“—I meant! Said I was malnourished! Straight to my face and all, as if Mum didn’t feed me gallons of mash every night! Pathetic,” Harry snorts. “Blind buggering bastard.”

“Bastard, blind buggering. Yes—check.” Babble. He’s good for it; Draco can do that. “Oh, God. Did you have this kind of problem?” Though e really must stop, right smart! “Yeah, ‘course you did, you saucy minx.” Oops! Gone too far? “Errrr…?”

“Er…sir?” Harry’s gone all puzzled at him; Draco desperately seeks to regroup.

“Right... You know, erm... being Prime Minister, I could just have him murdered.”

“Oh!” Harry’s startled. “Ah…Thank you, sir. I'll think about it.”

“Do,” Draco drawls superbly; regrouping is his speciality. “The SAS are absolutely charming. Ruthless, trained killers are just a phone call away.”

“Yes, all right…?”

“Yes!” Or, perhaps not. Draco’s actively occupied realizing he’s just offered, and he has lost his bleeding little mind, or what’s left of it, hasn’t he, and no, he can’t seem to stop. “Seriously, Harry. I meant it.”

Harry…poor dear Harry? Has adjusted his spectacles and is sporting two high spots of colour on those fascinating cheekbones of his. Draco’s reaction is immediate:

Head-desk! Head-wall! Right behind Draco, nice and solid—shut his stupid mouth by use of percussive force, possibly? Oh, how he wishes he could! Where’s the charm and the charisma that got him here—the bloody drive to succeed? Oh, he’s well enough as PM, that’s all right. He can manage. But Harry? Harry’s…Harry’s something unobtainable. (Harry, Draco’s hind brain chortles gleefully, has had himself a boyfriend and admits it! There is just cause for Draco’s discombobulation, yes? Yes!)

“Sir! I really must be—ah, I’m sorry, you were busy, so…?”

Now Harry is definitely blushing, and shifting from one polished loafer to another, his specs glinting in the light as he turns about.

“Well, erm…ah. I, um—I must be off now. But again—thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Draco does his very best to appear nonchalant as Harry whisks himself round the door’s edge. “Of course. Think nothing of it. Always on offer.”

Oh god. Still. Yet. Out of Draco’s reach. Dodgy neighbourhood is right, this, and him the PM. And not a stick, not at all!

(Not too thin. Perfect.)

If he could just manage to summon the words to say it aloud, how Harry’s really rather perfection, specs and all, dodgy neighbourhood…atrocious taste in exes and all that? Doesn’t matter, not a bit of it. No…not what that blighter said to his Harry at all; far from it. Just perfect. In human form.

Fit. Like a Rolls Royce. No—a Jaguar. Fit and fleet and not fat. Trolleys of tea and tidbits of his life, his family—life well outside 10 Downing. And then he’s always disappearing around corners, having left chocolate biscuits, and he’s never quite right where Draco can conveniently have a grab at him.

Not that he would, Draco Malfoy, PM. Wouldn’t do. Would it?

(He admits he may’ve gone off his head, just a little, thinking about Harry, just now. Draco even admits he’s a teeny-tiny bit obsessed…maybe.)

Fuck it.

He trails up to his bedroom finally, round one in the morning, after all the staff’s bedded down for the night and the most urgent sheaves of paper have been properly handled. No hope of seeing Harry banging about No. 10 this late in the day, is there? No. Harry’s safe home in Wandsworth, no doubt having tucked away another helping of his mum’s carb-laden cookery and is not dreaming of his new Prime Minister at all.)

But that’s the life, isn’t it?

Draco sighs, disconsolate. That’s the life, if one can call it that. Bit lonely, actually, being him.

Wanking again. Yes. Lonely…

[Right, something’s changed, yes, but not necessarily the right thing.]

Two Weeks to Christmas:

Okay, all right, yes, change is in the air, right along with the unseasonable snow they’ve been having. Draco’s never known this, quite like this! Fireworks, like Guy Fawkes, zooming through his bloodstream? Harry, making eyes at him, undeniably? Flirting?

Harry, his lovely secretary, his secret torment, has been flirting. Dead on, spot on, cannot be denied, flirting. With him, Draco.

And then?

The wanker, the fucking wanker, the snake-eyed, gormless bully, right in the midst of his first Official Visit has to gall to remark, “Excellent.” This he drawls, straight to Draco’s face, having just been introduced to Harry in passing. “My goodness, that's a pretty little son of a bitch. Did you see those pipes?”

Of course Draco’s seen those pipes. Those are, in a way, a very odd way, his pipes. They are Harry’s legs, behind a pair of useless trousers (dark blue today, and Harry’s rump is just delicious in them) and they are perfect. No one alive other than Draco should be allowed to look at them…that way.

“Yes, he's terrific… at his job.”

There! Diverted, and Draco and the rude wanker move onto business. That should’ve been the end of it; it wasn’t.

“Well, now, that was an interesting day.”

“I’m sorry if our line was firm.” A sharky, serpent-like smile is directed towards Draco; one he resents very much. These US politicos should be sentenced to fewer teeth. “There's no point tiptoeing around today, and then just disappointing you for four years. I have plans and I plan to see them through.”

“Absolutely,” Draco shoots back, quick as anything as he has ‘plans’ as well. And old Fork-tongued here could use a bit of a comeuppance. “There is one final thing I think we should look at. Very close to my heart. If you could just give me a second.”

“Hah!” The cretin has the gall to chuckle. “Right, right.” Yes, Draco determines. His first instinct was correct: this man is a slippery scum and in spades. “Sure, now, I'll give you anything you ask for. As long as it's not something I don't wanna give.”

He’s only popped out of the room for one moment, Draco is. But it’s one moment too long.

“…Hi.”

The President waves his tumbler-full at Draco, and it’s a bit like a red flag. Certainly Draco sees red.

“It's great Scotch.”

“…Draco…” Harry? Harry visibly cringes at them both, easing away from where the real bastard in this godawful scene playing out here has him literally backed up against a wall. “I'll, erm... I'll be going, then.”

Draco briefly wonders if it is permissible to bash in the so-called Leader of the Free World’s forehead with a decanter of Scotland’s finest whisky. He has just determined that it is, when…

“Harry,” the wart on the anus of the whole planet hisses after Draco’s hastily retreating secretary, clearly having no idea his very life is in imminent mortal peril and there may just be an International Incident. “I hope to see much more of you as our countries work toward a better future.”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat for an instant, a long instant. If Harry…if his Harry? If there’s even the slightest chance of his Harry…?

“…Thank you, sir.”

No—oh, cheers. Bravo! It’s thankfully over and done, and Draco’s at last gained the privacy of his quarters and has space to properly brood and fume, finally. Which is brilliant, as he’s a great deal to brood and fume over!

(Harry, making desperate eyes at him, panicking and clearly uncomfortable. Pressed nearly up against the wall by a loudmouthed brass-bollocks sneaky prat of an American politician. Ewwww!)

Faugh! It’s an outrage!

Fucking sodding rude Americans, upstart Americans! Boorish, bloody gaspers! And that particular snake-in-the-grass is bloody well married, isn’t he? With kids of his own? And still has the ‘nads to scent after Draco’s own innocent little biscuit-bearing secretary?

Draco Malfoy is livid. He’s fit to kill, and his temper has officially just boiled over. Justifiable homicidal rage, is more like—that’s what he feels. No one would know it, but he does. He does.

(And, by the by? Not just Harry, but fucking well remove those greedy grubby foreign fingers off his military bases, his standing treaties, his monetary system and his goddamned fit staff! Bloody! Bloody jumped-up bucolic Ugly Americans! That thing is their President! President? No! Giant talking head—practically noseless—bloody grasping capitalistic puppet!

It’s been but one single moment taken to tip the balance in Draco from happy to furious; one open door and he strolls in, all unexpecting, and sees that—is confronted with that. Dreadful. Hideous and horrendous. An insult that transcends nations—NATIONS.

Fucking wastral! Wanky grabber! Slimy cheeseball! Arse!

Draco paces; cannot bear to recall watching Harry’s eyes widen, would’ve given anything in his power to prevent it. The green gone thin, and that sharp-cut but gorgeous face pinched tight with barely disguised distaste. No one touches Draco’s Harry. His lovely Harry, whom he can’t even have (as that is a pleasure reserved for rude wankers from the dodgy end of Wandsworth, apparently!) Dog in the manger, yes, all right, but!

He cannot bear it. It shall not happen again, not on Draco’s watch, and it’s a bit fortunate he’s PM, and has a weapon at hand. No! It’s a bit inevitable, the coming fall-out. It’ll be on a nuclear scale, politically, and Draco’s always possessed a way with words, hasn’t he. Words are a politician’s weapons of choice, really. Tromp, tromp, tromp, then, in the best British oratory fashion, and according to the old ways; Draco will march on and this upstart smarmy poisonous serpent of a grasping grabby-handed foreign gasper shall be made a hash of, veritable mincemeat, and in the largest public arena Draco can bring to mind: before the world’s Press.

He writes his own damned ‘Report of the Official State Visit’ speech, and internally damns poor Pansy for offering her able assistance. This is become a grudge match, cheers, and Draco is more than game. He’ll do it himself.

“I love that word ‘relationship’. Covers all manner of sins, doesn't it?”

Draco pauses for one lingering momentous second before delivering his coupe de foudre. With a smile.

“I fear that this has become a bad relationship. A relationship based on the President taking what he wants and casually ignoring all those things that really matter to, erm... Britain. We may be a small country but we're a great one, too. The country of Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that. And a friend who bullies us is no longer a friend. And since bullies only respond to strength, from now onward, I will be prepared to be much stronger. And the President should be prepared for that.”

(‘Relationships?’ Bad or good, and sod all best intentions, most still doesn’t quite work out, in the end. His and Harry’s, for one example. But Draco will take his lumps if he must, and it’s all good, even if it’s a damn shame he can’t take up with his own secretary, no more than Old Snake-Tongue here is allowed. Right. Good enough, then, to be going on with.)

“We may be a small country,” he may or may not have told the gathered Press, with his best charmingly ferociously boyish smile.

“—Sean Connery, Harry Potter—“ he might’ve thrown about, carelessly, and even the international press corps fucking love it, are all supping his speech up with a bloody spoon, aren’t they just?

“…should be prepared for that.”

He flashes that trade-mark grin of his like a bloody beacon to ensure his intended effect and arches the one particular eyebrow of his, the one on the left which his own sister refers to as the ‘Blond Slayer’. He bobs his well-groomed coif in just that one especial manner his sister also claims is purely cruel, it’s so fucking charming and likeable and sincere. Yes, sincere. Because Draco didn’t get to be the PM by playing Mister Nice all the bleeding time, did he? No—there’s a certain amount of cutthroat-and-backstabbing involved, yes, and sincerity is integral to it, oddly enough. His constituents love Sincere! And Draco is so game. He’s made of game, damn it! In all the many games played out here, he is clearly the victor. The Fork-tongued geezer now knows it, too. Gone all red as a common carnation in bloom, and all perspiring too, hasn’t he? Well, sod him.

“Thank you.”

At the end of it Draco hears the muffled cheers but distantly. Pansy and Greg and even Blaise; they’re all present. Albus and even McGonagall, too, so even Draco’s staunchly grim Scots household engineer is plumped firmly on his side—and then there’s …his Harry.

Harry. It’s been for him, all of it, every word. Not Draco’s country, much as he loves her. No, it’s all been meant for the sake of the one green-eyed bloke gazing at him wonderingly from the very bitter edges of the crowd, and Draco’s been gone fathoms deep since the start and is well drowned. He so knows it, too, not that knowing improves his chances at all, nor even Draco simply being what he is naturally—a charming and quite wily politician, out for the main chance, always. Just the same as this pisspoor excuse for a human being standing by his side on the podium.

No. Nothing could ever make it better, no, but telling the arsehole upstart Colonial git to go and fuck the hell off is a fine fucking start. Relief, yeah? Excellent! Brilliant and all that. One menace shooed off stage and good riddance, too.

Still. Yet. But. Draco has absolutely no idea how to advise a bloke ‘I love you’. And he’s fucked, he’s so fucked. Doubly, trebly, with a blender—he is fucked. Because he can’t do that. (Harry’s watched him, eyes wide. He’d seemed a bit impressed, and that’s all good, but?) Draco can’t very well tell a man ‘I love you’ when the man seems to have no clue, really, that Draco’s been sunk. Sunk his battleship, lost his mind, is hopelessly smitten. Looney as a tune.

And—there’s no denying it--he absolutely cannot tell a man how he feels when he’s the PM. The still-very-much-closeted PM, cheers for it. It is as simple as that. The public will not stand for it, sadly. This is the Nineties, sure and certainly, but there are still rules to be followed. Cast-in-stone rules of proper public conduct, whatever the EU might dictate. Draco daren’t openly flout them. Not even for Harry. Perhaps especially not for Harry.

Ridiculous! (Ridiculous to want someone this much and not be able to have him, nor even attempt a go at having him.)

In a while—a terribly long tiresome while, Draco is aware they’ve all gone away and No. 10 Downing is quiet again, aping the home it should rightly be, but isn’t, as he’s pretty much a confirmed bachelor, isn’t he?

‘Not time for that, sadly’ he told the President and it’s true, and truer still Draco Malfoy’s history. One dead PM. Handsome, young, charismatic, full of higher purpose?—doomed! Inscribe directly on his tombstone: ‘Felled by a stellar arse, a pair of amazing eyes and a bloody perky attitude.’ Also? ‘A foul mouth, a sense of humour and a heart that’s big as the world. With biscuits.’

Love, yes, love. His soul mate, if there is such a thing: he’s gone and dug him up, right in his own territory. After bleak centuries of looking-not-looking, and then bleaker eons of giving it all up entirely, for the sake of his future career, Draco has. He has!

(He can’t have him. No.)

(Well...he might be able to have him, yes. Yes! Pansy’s ever so good with the spin-doctoring, isn’t she? But only if…)

(If he oversteps the boundaries of good taste and proper PM-ly behaviour completely, that is. The PM is not supposed to chat up his own secretary. His male secretary. It absolutely smacks of sexual harassment, doesn’t it? And then…really, Draco would be no better than he should be, no better than any of the other predators out there.)

“It's your sister on line four.”

Pansy buzzes through the next afternoon and Draco eyes the speaker with a feeling of dread. He’s been sadly cast overboard on a sea of doubt-and-delight and he’s not exactly been minding the time. Also Harry’s been mysteriously absent and there’s been no chocolate biscuits to fling at the creeping depression a sleepless night brings.

“Ah.” What? Sibling alert? Oh, blast, no. “All right.” He gingerly takes up the receiver. “Er, yes, I'm very busy and important, how can I help you?”

Seriously, history. Draco only wishes there was someone to tell—that’s he’s mad in love and maybe, just maybe? Maybe….?

“Have you gone completely insane?” Hermione’s voice, on the other end, is the exact same as always—chiding and dreadfully bossy-boots. What a question. The answer would of course be ‘yes’.

“You can't be sensible all the time,” Draco protests. Er, no, he hasn’t really. Sailed close but not quite gone over the edge yet. Not that he could say anything of the sort to Hermione, of all people. Besides, she’s clearly caught up in the aftermath of Draco’s Press Conference, and literally huffing with delight over it. Good old Sis; Draco thinks he might keep her.

“You can if you're Prime Minister,” Hermione informs him, giggling. And demonstrably, superbly proud of her brother.

Which is just as it should be.

Draco grins right into the receiver—first smile of the day. Oh, right! He’s this one sister, his only, actually? A must-be-bloody-psychic sister, to ring him up in the midst of his existential crises and hand him a little much-needed praise. A bloody beast of a sister but then—she’s all right. Really, she is. She’d understand love, of all people. She’s married hers, the cunning bint. Love—she’s got that bit down pat, right? For a long time now. Love. Kids and a devoted hubby. Draco could maybe talk it over with her, his quandary, spill his soul out?

But, no. That would be monumentally stupid. As it’s really not…love, exactly.

(And honestly. That is not what’s been happening here, not between Draco and Harry. Lust, maybe, and a great lot of appreciation of body parts and spunk, specs and too-tight trousers, and some small amount of genteel flirtation—and then there’s Draco’s jealousy and his stupidly undying desire and too, this horrible creeping fondness and—whoa, Draco! Rein it in, idiot! Not love.)

Oh, no, this won’t do. Draco’s barely rational. And he’s absolutely not talking to the Queen of Bloody Rational, not about this—not one word. Hermione go hang. One cannot tell one’s formidable sister one is considering flouting all the conventions Britain has kept so admirably afloat this age. Even if it would a landmark stride forward and the (probably, likely) right thing to do. For a good many of his constituents.

(Politicians don’t always do ‘right’, however; they do ‘expedient’.)

Draco is saved. In a god-sent and miraculous act of perfect timing, Pansy rings through again, on one of other lines. “Sir?”

“Er? Hey, now, Hermione. It's the Chancellor on the other line. I’ve got to ring off—”

“No!” Hermione scoffs, loud and clear. “It isn't!” Which coaxes a second smile out of Draco, but he can’t afford to smile, and it may be that he’s forgotten how, actually. Just last night.

“No, it is, seriously, Sis.” And Draco’s so damned grateful it really is the honest truth it’s the Chancellor, as much as the Chancellor bores him to tears ever time they speak. “I'll ring you back, sorry.”

Which is something Draco has absolutely no intention of following through on, the return phoning. It’s as much as his shabby life is worth, subjecting his every ruddy bloody emotion to Hermione’s steely scrutiny. As what she’ll say to him is not what Draco wants to hear.

“No, you won't! You’ll—”

Draco doesn’t in fact hear anything more, as he’s already switched away, his head sunk in his hands and his head pounding and dutifully muttering pointless soothing sounds at the Chancellor. God, but he’s…

Lonely. Surrounded by the whole bloody world, and bloody lonely.

Actually.

He can’t do this, no, he cannot. This simply must end. Draco can’t bear it. It must end, and it’s his responsibility to make it happen.

All right, then.

Draco wanders, a bit lost. Be more of a home to him if he had somebody to be home with, but that person’s gone off long since, back to the dodgy neighbourhood. And the bloody radio, someone’s left it switched on.

“It's almost enough to make you feel patriotic, 'so here's one for our arse-kicking Prime Minister. I think he’ll enjoy this. 'A golden oldie for a golden oldie,” the DJ burbles. And it’s….god no, it’s a song that has the old pelvis swinging, despite the brain. Bloody club anthem, from Draco’s own silly-arse youthful heyday. Pointer Sisters, and Jump, damn it!

‘Hold me . I'll give you all that you need. Wrap your love around me. You’re so excited I can feel you getting hotter. Oh baby ,I'll take you down, I'll take you down. Where no one's ever gone before. And if you want more ? If you want more, more, more? Jump for my love! JUMP!’

Clearly, he must dance, there’s no help for it. So, he does. Pointer Sisters, and isn’t it grand?

(Oh, yes, and he’s seen a film like this once. Should he consider stripping down to his pants? Is there a broom to be found anywhere in No. 10 Downing? Ridiculous notion! Likely not.)

No—no. That’s really not...no. No. He was younger then and not the PM. Doesn’t need a broom to jump about with; definitely doesn’t require an audience. Still? He’s perfectly happy, absurdly in the flow, dancing down the stairwell and through all the empty—until—bloody woman! Where does she pop up from? Witch!

As of course he’s caught, fair and square: McGonagall. But hey? Politician!

“Yeah, erm, Minerva, I’ve been thinking,” Draco says instantly. “Can we move the Japanese ambassador to four o'clock tomorrow?”

“Certainly, sir.” No one single person should be that full of deadly smirk. At least Draco is aware it’s a fond sort of smirk; he’s earned that much. There is that.

“Terrific,” he replies, all butter-wouldn’t melt, not—really. “Thanks…so much.”

“Sir.”

Right, carry on, then.

One Week to Christmas:

“Yeah. Pansy, my darling, my dream, my boat. Ah... Need you to do a favour for me.”

He’s not wanting to do this; it must be done.

“Of course,” Pansy replies, immediately. “Anything for the hero of the hour.”

He makes a moue at her, a sour face-pull; he’s no hero. Well, alright, what he’s doing right now might be vaguely heroic, but no one who matters to Draco will ever know it. Except for him, and he hardly counts, right?

“Don't ask me why, and don't read stuff into this, it's just a weird personality thing. But, erm, you know Harry who works here?”

Pansy’s eyebrows rise sharply. “Harry? The awkward one? Claims he’s starved?”

Draco bridles instantly. “Ooh, would we call him ‘starved’?”

But Pansy’s right back at him. “Draco, right. I do think there's a pretty fetching arse there, yes, sir. But…twiggy otherwise?” She coughs discreetly. “Er, ah. Built like a fence rail, our Harry.”

Draco instantly concludes Pansy’s blind as a bat and quite possible wilfully so, but no matter. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, whatever, erm... I'm sure he's a lovely young man but I wonder if you could, erm... redistribute him?”

(It’s the last ditch-and-stile to go over. Really, it is. Someone’s got to do it, and it’s up to him, as Harry’s not about to—Harry doesn’t even seem to realize—Harry has no clue of what danger he’s been in recently. Or the scandal, or the disruption—or the fact that it’s simply wrong, for Draco to pursue him.)

For Draco to think that he might love him, as he does, he does. And…he can’t, he can’t.

“It's done.”

Ah, Pansy…so marvellously efficient.

So ends Draco’s worst bloody week in ages.

…Er? No, not quite.

“Yeah?”

“Sir?” It’s a new secretary blithely sashaying into his office, bearing a tea tray and the post; not Harry. “Prime Minister?”

It’s not Harry. There are no Hobnobs on the tray. It’s not the same.

“Thank you,” Draco says, swallowing down bile. He doesn’t really care for—but that’s not important, not now. “Thank you. Very much.”

One Day Before Christmas:

It’s enough to set Draco back in his heels, the card buried in the box of them. If he weren’t sitting down already, he’d been prone on the floor, kicking his heels up and thrashing about in a sudden paroxysm of insanely good cheer.

‘Dear sir,’ it reads. (And the world zeros in on this one grand moment, this one store-bought missive of seasonal good will, made infinitely dearer by the fact Harry’s pen has scribbled more words on it, all meant for Draco’s eyes only, and thus that implies a lovely Harry attached to that pen.)

Draco blinks rapidly and takes on for himself a very deep breath. It remains to actually. Read. The. Card.

‘Dear Draco, Merry Christmas and I hope you have a very happy New Year. I'm very sorry about the thing that happened. It was a very odd moment and I feel like a prize idiot. Particularly because—(Draco can practically hear the pause, the charming ‘Erm?’)

‘Because if you can't say it at Christmas, when can you, eh? I'm actually yours. With and kisses, your Harry.’

It’s enough to set fire to Draco’s arse. His arse, and how Harry even understands Draco’s total ineptitude, or would put with or be attracted to such bumbling, Draco doesn’t even know.

But it’s enough to go on with. Oh, god, yes. It’s so much more than he had before. And nothing will stop him—not this time.

“Albus, yeah, I need a car. Right now. Thank you.”

Draco’s out the door with a nod and a wink in less than ten; he knows, as he’s been counting down the seconds. “Oh, don't wait up.”

His major domo’s twinkling, knowing glance dismissed (and how does that man seem to simply know so much about Draco, anyway? Positively phenomenal! Maybe even eerily supernatural—but whatever! Draco is gone—history. Into the car, making tracks as his driver chucks the car into gear in prep for peeling out, possibly sensing Draco’s mad urgency.)

“Sir? Where to?”

“Vincent, old chap, my dear fellow, I'd like to go to Wandsworth, the dodgy end.” Draco’s bloody jaunty. And his driver’s a good sort, always up for adventure.

“Very good, sir. Harris Street. What number, sir?”

Draco doesn’t even mind Gregory clambering in after. A PM’s supposed to have an entourage, right? Entourages are great; everyone should have one. Besides, one of them might know the dodgy end better than he does?

“Oh, God, it's the longest street in the world and I have absolutely no idea.”

And he is barmy as a loon and he knows it, going out on Christmas Eve to knock up a whole neighbourhood. But…it’s Harry in the end, and if he can find Harry, then maybe? He can say—

He could say—hah! Well! Draco can certainly wish him a Merry Christmas. Right? That’s a fine excuse. The best of the best of all possible, really. As it is Christmas Eve.

Right.

After another billion years, plus some, or at least a fast twenty minutes (not that Draco’s counting or anything, and why would he?) the car pulls up, wedged into the dodgiest of ‘dodgy ends’ imaginable. Draco’s out the car door before it even fully halts, practically, and on with the knocking up.

“Hello, does Harry live here?”

The woman eyes him up and down. “No.”

“Right, fine, thank you. Sorry to disturb.”

This woman isn’t quite ready to leave him yet, though; she’s curious. “Here, aren't... Aren't you the Prime Minister?”

Nothing for it, then. “Er, yes. In fact, I am. Merry Christmas.”

“Oh.”

“Part of the service now. Trying to get round everyone by New Year's Eve.”

Draco leaves her grinning, so at least he’s off to a decent start of it, right? Right—next cup, move down!

“Ah. Hello. Does Harry live here?” (Oh, bloody hell—small children. Curious small children, damn it all!)

All the kids chorus, their sweet little voices piping up, “No, she doesn't.”

“Oh dear. OK.”

“Are you singing carols?” one of them asks.

“Er, no. No, I'm not.”

“Please, sir, please. Please!” God, but they remind Draco of puppies, jumping up and down. He can’t not.

“Well, I suppose I could….?” (Winsome little puppies, and future voters, too, and oh, hell, but there’s no help for it, is there?)

“Please!” Darling little infants, they remind Draco all too much of his own niece and nevvie, Rosie and Hugo. Jeezus gawd!

“All right. Well…” He gives Gregory a good poke in the ribs. “Ahem.” He’s not about to do this alone, is he? Besides, he’s only a passable tenor; needs a baritone to do this up brown for the kiddies and with that barrel chest on him, Greg’s his man. “Good King Wenceslas looked out—”

And escaped, finally, and there’s the next house down. And an endless row after that, all crammed up together. Draco rolls his eyes at the door as it opens.

“Hello. Sorry to disturb. Does Harry live here?”

It’s a bombshell at the doorway, a real man-eater. Enormously visible boobs on her; that’s the first thing he sees. Draco shudders instantly. He’s damned glad he’s not the type to fall for that sort, cheers. She’s clearly stamped ‘Trouble’ and then also possibly stamped ‘Incendiary’. In brilliant red ink, just like her lipstick.

“No,” the woman replies, and simply enough. He may’ve caught her interest (those eyes on her! eeek!) but only in passing. “He lives next door, Harry.”

“Ah,” Draco falters, thanking all the gods going he’s nicely immune. And Greg’s got his back—and there’s not a sign of a single reporter anywhere. “Brilliant.”

But she’s not done with him yet, even though they clearly hunt the same gender, he and she.

“You're…you’re not who I think you are, are you?”

There’s only one answer to that: be flippant and skedaddle. Time’s wasting!

“Yes and I'm sorry about all the cock-ups. My cabinet are absolute crap. We hope to do better next year. Merry Christmas to you.”

Next fucking house and move down, like Alice…this is bloody ridiculous, how he’s going about this but Draco’s not giving up. He’ll be here on Harris Street all night long, if needs be, all bloody night.

“Ah. Hello. Is, er, Harry in?”

Struck lucky!

“Mum!” Harry is indeed in; in fact, he’s barrelling down the stairs as if he might take off and fly forward any moment, he’s in such a rush. And isn’t he a sight for sore eyes? Oh, yes; Draco thinks so. “Oi, Mum! Where the fuck is my fucking coat?”

Draco’s (no doubt) dumbstruck face brings Harry up short. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi…er?”

Draco exults. This is easier than he thought it would be, by miles.

“Hello,” he manages, trying again. Not exactly his most charming but certainly to the point. Parents? They should be greeted appropriately. “And…ah?”

“Erm, this is my mum and my dad and my Uncle Vernon and my Auntie Petunia.”

“Yes?” A woman bearing a distinct resemblance to Harry makes no hesitation about greeting Draco promptly; he finds his taken and shaken terribly firmly. “Hello.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

Draco inclines his head and does his best to not be taken aback by the jostling group right inside Harry’s door, all staring at him and only him. Which is really quite off-putting but then again, what did he expect, really?

“And, erm...this is the Prime Minister.”

Trust in Draco’s adorable Harry to make that brilliantly clear, then. It’s not as though Draco’s face hasn’t been broadcast on every telly recently, and it’s not as though his little speech to the American President hasn’t garnered a great deal of press attention.

Apparently Harry’s mum agrees with Draco’s thoughts. “Yes,” she replies dryly. “We can see that, darling.”

“And, erm, unfortunately, we're very late.” Harry blinks down at Draco, who is doing his level best not to fidget. “Draco.”

This statement sets them all off, instantly, and there’s rather a lot of Harry’s family standing about, right that door. There’s a very loud murmuration from them, but it’s Harry’s Mum who trumps them all.

“—it's the school Christmas concert, you see, Draco. And it’s the first time all the local schools have joined together, even St Basil's, which is most—“

“Too much detail, Mum.”

“Ahem!” A sensible looking fellow with Harry’s wonderful hair, but gone greyish at the fringes, inserts himself neatly into the melee. “Anyway, how can we help, sir?”

Draco is reminded again of how he’d no particular plan in place. He stutters at bit. “Well, I...just needed Harry... on some state business.”

Behind him he hears a distinctive little snicker. Well! Fuck bloody Greg, if he’s only going to laugh!

“Oh,” Harry’s mum remarks. ‘…H’em.”

“Right, yes,” Harry’s dad picks up the conversational ball immediately, bless his heart. “Of course. Right, er... Well, perhaps you should come on later, Speccy.”

“Er, it’s Harry, Dad,” Harry hisses, and does that flushing thing he does to such perfection. “For fuck’s sake, don’t call me that!”

Draco clears his throat in a vaguely awkward manner, shifting from one foot to the other. “I don't want to make you late for the concert.”

“No, it's nothing, really.”

His mum chimes in with a “Neville’ll be very disappointed,” and a Look.

“No, Mum!” Draco’s not immune to the Look. Harry is obstinate; Draco’s seen that Look before, on his very own ex-secretary. He sets his mouth in a very firm line and flexes a muscle in his jaw, which Draco thinks is adorable. “No, really, it doesn't matter.”

“The octopus costume's taken me months.” She turns to Draco, as this is also clearly meant to be his problem. “Eight is a lot of legs, Draco.”

Draco nods obligingly back at her. As it is, actually. He can’t argue. Eight is a lot of legs, yes. He can, however, go around the problem. It’s a tactic which has served him well in that past and—ah? Harry’s back to Looking at him, just in that one…particular way.

“Mm. Erm... Listen, why don't I give you a lift and then we can talk about this state business in the car?”

“Okay.”

Harry’s mad nods. “Lovely, yes. That’ll do.”

“Thank you,” Harry’s mum adds on, and Draco’s not above hoping she’ll say the same when he offers (one fine day) to take Harry straight off her hands and ravage him and then maybe live in sin with him, or at least date him as regularly as possible—but that’s not the prime issue at the moment, her future reaction, and—ah, right?

Off they go.

“Ready?” Vince cracks a wide crazy-arse grin at them all via the rear-view mirror, gunning the motor, and Draco and Harry and the little boy (named Neville, was it?) stuck in the papier-mâché eight-armed costume and stuffed in between he and Harry all wince in anticipation. “Hold tight, everybody!”

After a hair-raising race down Harris, Draco gathers up his flagging courage. For the umpteenth time this night. “How far is this place?”

“Just round the corner?”

“Ah, right. Well, er... I just wanted to say... thank you for the Christmas card.”

Harry’s leant forward and across, right over his many-limbed little brother, albeit carefully. Eight legs is a lot, actually, and Draco has the distinct feeling Harry’s mum will give them all the what-for if any of those legs is damaged.

“Ah? Draco? You're welcome. Look, I'm so sorry about that day. I came in and he slinked towards me and there was a fire and he's the President of the United States and nothing happened, I promise. I just felt like such a fool because... I think about you all the time, actually. And I think you're the man that I really...”

And if Draco’s heart stutters in his chest at that, that’s only natural. This is Harry, and he’s glancing sideways and Draco is, as well, and—they about to have a Moment.

“Really,” Harry repeats and Draco is all ears, just the one giant big ear, listening intently.

Harry’s kid brother naturally chooses that moment to announce, “We're here.”

“… Love,” Harry may’ve muttered.

Argh? Ack! They’ve arrived already?

Why so soon? Draco gulps, as he could not have just heard what he thought he heard—but if he did? That’s super. Fucking-bloody-fantastic.

“Oh, wow. That really was just round the corner.”

Now what?

Harry turns to stare at him as little Neville bundles himself from the car, racing off through a milling crowd of Christmas play-goers.

“Well, look, l... I think I'd better not come in, you know?”

Draco does wants to, he so wants; it cannot end here, it mustn’t, but there’s…well. A crowd.

So. Yes, it can, actually.

“The last thing anyone wants,” he huffs unhappily, bitterly, as it’s true enough, “is some sleazy politician stealing the kids' thunder.”

“No, please come.” Green eyes are so green, even in half-light, even behind lenses. Draco is not immune to such blandishments, either. “It'll be great,” Harry adds, and Draco’s enticed. Crowd? Pah! What crowd!

“No, I...I better not.” Nearly, but not quite. He needs protect Harry. After all Draco only tore over to Wandsworth to wish Harry a Merry Christmas—didn’t he? “But I will be very sorry to drive away from you.”

“Oh! Just give me one second…”

And—somehow this happens? He doesn’t know how—Draco’s also out of the car, Gavin looming behind him, Vince still grinning maniacally at the wheel, the wanker.

He doesn’t know quite how it’s happened, so he blames it on Harry. Who has unfairly caught up Draco’s hand, and is tugging at him.

There is, quite suddenly, far too many people, gathered together. Far too many people for him to say what he wants to say, and he’s not even certain what that is? Declarations of eternal devotion? ‘You’re not starved or malnourished or twiggy or speccy, or any of that’ he’ll say, maybe. ‘In fact, you’re terribly fit and very handsome, and all that I would ever want and I’d like to spend my life buying you contacts and feeding you bon-bons and will you come live with me while you’re about it, so as to make it easier, me feeding you things, like my prick, and by the by, such a living arrangement might possibly lead to your cock up my bum—if you like?’

He could say that, Draco realizes, staring down at their two hands, together. Oh, and?

‘I think I adore you, Harry, my harry, and I’m absolutely smitten? Please do come back home with me, to that god-awful house, 10 Downing, and make me feel likes it is really home by fucking me straight into the mattress?’

Oh, it’s all that…it’s all that. Draco would dearly love to say all of that. But…there’s people—so many people!

“Draco, come on!” Harry urges him along, grinning with infectious excitement, and they duck around a couple, clogging up the open area before the school…well, when he says ‘open area’, it’s not so much.

Everyone in the world has apparently gathered to witness the youth of Wandsworth present their bloody Christmas play. In fact, Draco even overhears a snatch from one the gabbling conversations going on all about them, and feels a bit of sympathy for the little blond chap standing directly in his way. Just there, tucked in neatly and securely under the wing of the tall dark cheeky looking one standing next to him. Poor sods; they seem to be having a bit of grilling from yet another fellow?

“John's been very mysterious,” Draco hears. “Where did you two meet? Exactly?”

“Erm...erm...?” The poor sod goes brick-red and fumbles. “I...we?”

The tall one scowls instantly, hovering protectively, his great black overcoat all a’swish with indignation.

“I hardly think that’s any of your business, My—”

Then a kid darts past, nearly knocking Draco off his feet, and he stumbles forward and around them, losing the thread completely, but no matter.

“No!” the tyke shouts. At someone, somewhere in the crush; Draco doesn’t catch who.

In a flash it’s behind him and Harry, that little knot of people-in-the-way, and Draco will never know, will he, how it is the Blusher fell in with the Scarecrow—not that it matters a whit to Draco’s life.

(Excepting it’s a bit nice, to see them happy; gives him a spot of hope for his own plight, yeah?)

“Draco, come along, hurry inside,” Harry invites him. “We can watch from backstage.” He’s treated to a big wide smile, and a roll of green eyes, amused at him.

“Okay.”

Still it leaves Draco all wobbly, as this is it—they’ll be alone, behind scenes, and Draco’s been nothing but a giant arse to Harry before, dismissing him, and the word ‘love’ is very encouraging word to hear, yes, but he may also have mis-heard, completely?

“Vince, I won't be long.” He faces up to Harry with his best soldierly bearing, though he’s never been a soldier, and cannot imagine it as a career. “Look, this has to be a very secret visit, okay?”

Harry’s grin never falters. “Don't worry. This was my school. I know my way around. Come on.”

Draco goes. He’s come this far. Can’t stop now, can he?

Naturally the first person he runs across is bloody-psychic-sister-Hermione, she of the niece Rosie Draco’s (possibly) in the midst of letting down right this moment. Except he hasn’t, somehow. He’s here, at the very play she wanted him to attend, isn’t he? Though through no design of Draco’s own.

“Look,” Hermione’s bustling about the kids, and she seems rather terribly strained to a fast glancing once-over, but Draco’s not sure what to even do about that, if it’s true, or how to address it, as he’s feeling a bit strained as well, cheers. “The sheep are ready already and you're not even... Oh, Draco.”

“Ah!” Draco manages to not gurgle like an idiot. He puts his best game face on instead, well aware of Harry at his elbow and just how awkward this is all likely to be. “Oh, how are you? Hi, guys.” Then he gets a second good long look at his sister, and whatever it is with her, it makes the hairs on the back of Draco’s nape rise. “Hey, hey, hey. Are you all right?”

Bloody-minded Hermione naturally shrugs his concern off. She’s a trooper, sometimes, but Draco can’t say he’s not grateful. This is clearly neither the time nor the place to get into a heart-to-heart chat as to why her eyes are so sad.

“But!” she exclaims. “Draco? What the hell are you doing here?”

As if it’s unimaginable that a kindly, well-meaning uncle might just manage to show up at his niece’s big do? Draco snorts, in fact nearly huffs, and yes, he can hear Harry, the little minx, laughing at him. And Greg, too. Beast!

“Well, you know...I…”

Hermione’s not giving him even a half a chance to finish.

“I always tell your secretary’s secretary these things are going on! But it never occurred to me you'd actually turn up.”

Draco snorts again; he’s not such a bad brother…is he? Gawd, he hopes not!

“Well, I thought it was time I did. I didn't want anyone to see, so I'm going to hide somewhere. Good luck, Rosie, good luck, Hugo.”

Hermione’s genial ‘so-glad-to-see-you’ mask slips for one split-second, and Draco steals a fast glance at his brother-in-law, looming nearby. Who is a good guy, generally, but—what?

“I've never been gladder to see my stupid big brother. Thank you.”

Right, no, Draco cannot get into it, much as he’d like to, not now. It would be doing his sister no favours.

“All…right.” Though a well-placed waggle of the Killer Blond Eyebrow expresses to Draco’s satisfaction he’ll be taking Hermione to task later. Oh, yes, definitely. “Bye, now.”

He’s rewarded by a sisterly gleam of approval, before she’s abruptly attuned to poor unsuspecting Harry, and swooping down verbally, like some hawk on an unwary mouse.

“Oh, now,” Hermione coos at Harry, practically chortling. “We haven't been introduced.”

“Right.” Draco is not PM for nothing. He can obfusticate with the best of them. He nods to his security goon, who has trailed along behind them all this while. “Well, this is Greg.”

“Hello, Greg,” Hermione replies kindly, but Draco can see she’s not to be diverted that easily.

“My copper,’ Draco pipes up, bollocks to the breach. “Ah! Hah...haha.” He gulps uneasily. “And this is Harry, who's my, erm... who's my, erm, catering manager.”

“Oh.” It is profoundly unfair his sister can say so very much with just one single solitary syllable. Profoundly.

Harry, perversely, smiles sweetly at Hermione and extends a hand in a cordial shake, the darling cheeky little blighter. “Hi,” he says, as there’s nothing gone awry here. “Hullo.”

“Catering manager,” Hermione muses, smiling in that horribly secret way she has, the cunning bint. “Oh, I see. Watch he keeps his hands off you,” she advises Harry, meditatively. “Twenty years ago, you'd have been his type.”

One second thought, Draco hastily concludes, there will be no chance of a heart-to-heart chat with his sister later, as he will have already murdered her. In cold blood. For humiliating him dead rotten before Harry.

Harry is quite possibly the best bloke in the universe. His smile never slips and he plays along with it, exactly as the man Draco’s smitten with should do.

“I'll be very careful,” Harry assures her and earns an approving nod. He turns his lovely, lovely chin and hands Draco a wicked wink, a barely-there drop of an eyelid and a knowing loft of one slashing black brow. Draco twitches, because it seems he’s not the only one with extremely expressive eyebrows and that’s just not bloody fair, as Harry’s already got Draco tied up, lock, stock and barrel, and doesn’t need employ eyebrows on top of it. “Don't you try something, sir, just because it's Christmas.”

Hermione giggles. “No, seriously! Oh! I must just—” She’s back to the kids and hastily shooing them off, and Draco’s been thankfully dismissed. “Come on. Come on, you lot! Showtime. Quickly.”

“Hermione.”

“Draco.” He’s given one more extremely rapid sisterly assessment, and is contrarily quite satisfied despite it, seeing the lost look in Hermione’s eyes has been replaced quite thoroughly by a gleam of speculative interest. Oh, the things he does for his sister, what? “Look, see you after, yeah?”

“Er…probably?” Escape never has seemed quite so appealing, really. “I..uh, yes?”

Hermione elbows him, but nicely. “Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“It's all right.”

“Draco. Sir.” Harry jiggles his elbow as well, impatient. “Draco! Come on. We’ll miss it!”

“Right. Yes. Okay?”

The schools in greater Wandsworth must be quite well funded. As the backstage area is much larger than Draco would ever suspect. One could easily get lost there. There’s props and scenery backdrops and any number of large objects where two people can hide themselves well away. And Greg? (Draco will be giving him a raise in salary, first thing, despite the goonishness; Greg has had the good sense to slouch off to a quite decent distance.)

Draco opens his mouth. He’d a whole string of things to say to Harry, and—

The best part is when they both don’t talk. There’s been quite enough talk—people do it all the time, don’t they?—and it’s ever so much more satisfying to put two mouths to a different use entirely.

Until?

There is nothing quite the same as being outed before a population of voters, caught in flagrante delicto with a young man of the decidedly male persuasion and practically laid flat up against something theatrically proppy and delightful convenient.

Nope, nothing like.

“Right,” he breathes, looking over to a blinking Harry hopefully nonetheless. “So, not quite as secret as we'd hoped.”

Draco also hopes to hell his flies are still done up. He grins and blushes despite that, because Harry—his Harry—is all sparkly-eyed behind his specs, and Draco has just experienced the very best snog of his lifetime. With the distinct promise of more to come. Sans trousers. With more privacy and less Minerva.

The gods have apparently decided to smile. People are clapping, hooting out encouragement and whistling and they are smiling, and Harry only asks of him, simply enough, “What do we do now?”

Draco takes a deep breath. Both expedient and right, then. So be it.

“Smile,” he replies, and daringly catches up Harry’s hand. Which he’ll never let go, now he’s caught him.

“Take a bow,” he adds and Christmas has come early, at least for Draco, and it is the best of all possible holidays ever. “Harry.”

“And a wave.”

Because if he’s going out, it will be all out, and it will be with a fucking ‘BOOM’.

Epilogue:

“God, you weigh a lot.”

“Draco! There you are—I’ve been waiting ages!”

“Oomph! Did you even eat anything while I was away?”

(Harry doesn’t, not at all; he’s far too skinny again and Draco’s instantly resolving he’ll have to make certain to feed his Harry an excess of biscuits and beefsteak to make up for it. And to provide them both energy, because it’s been a long trip away and Draco needs this one little thing? One little thing, that’s all. Which is to say, ‘shagged’. Yesterday.)

“Oh, shut your face,” Harry sasses, hustling up even more closely to Draco’s chest and forcing him to drop his satchel altogether. “Deceitful prat, I’m perfectly well, cheers, and what’s more? I happen to know exactly what you want, what you need. And…I’m game, ever so game. You?”

Harry grabs Draco’s arse cheeks, a double handful, and that leads to heated snogging.

“Oh! …God, yes.”

“And you’ll have it, every bit of it, ducks, and never mind what I ate or didn’t. Not important.”

“No…”

And the popping flash of the cameras makes not a damned difference; been there, done that—no longer important.

“I’ll give it you, with all of my heart. Also all my nice fat dick, Draco,” Harry whispers for Draco’s ears alone, and that’s all he needs hear to make this journey’s end brilliant. “That’s yours, too. Right where you want it.”

“..Aungh!”

(And this is without a doubt ‘actually love’, because Harry does, actually. He does, and Draco, too, and he positively cannot wait for a great lot more of Harry’s brand of Biblical ‘knowing’ when they’re finally at home again and not stuck in this bloody airport terminal. And that’s not to even mention all the bloody queers and poor closeted souls in the whole of the country, who are likely glued to their tellies as their favourite-ever PM is blissfully molested by his boyfriend, and who will keep their blatantly ‘out’ PM firmly appointed for years to come.)

(Heh!...To come.)

End.

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