First Place- Alternate Universe

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Hedge of Thorns

1.

As Harry packed his trunk for the last time ever at Hogwarts, he kept glancing at a scroll of parchment that lay on his bed, propped open with a book at either end.

I am pleased that you find our terms agreeable, and that you can join our household as soon as you leave Hogwarts. We look forward to your arrival.

Most sincerely,

Miranda Fairfax

'Join our household,' thought Harry, rather than 'start work.' She sounds friendly. And the terms are more than agreeable. With room and board supplied, I'll be able to save most of the astronomical salary they've promised to pay me, and maybe after a few years...

But his imagination stubbornly failed to conjure a vision of what he would do then. In frustration, he turned to the mirror beside his bed and looked at his reflection.

"I like your new haircut," said the mirror cheerfully. "Your hair looks much neater now, although it still stands up in all directions when you forget and run your hands through it, so watch that, okay?"

"It's not my hair," Harry murmured. "It's my life."

As if it hadn't heard him, the mirror continued its inventory. "Emerald green eyes and glossy black hair, striking combination. Your features are nothing special, but you've got a Keeper's shoulders--I know how much work it took to build those muscles--and lovely clear skin now that your acne's cleared up, not a scar or blemish to be seen. When you blush, like you're doing now, you're almost attractive."

Harry realized with resignation that he was blushing. "That's the surface," he told the mirror. "Inside, I've always had a feeling of...falling short. I worked hard at Quidditch, but Ron is the star who's turning pro. And I studied hard, but I never caught up to Hermione, and now she's got an appointment in Magical Research and Development, with her own lab and everything. I've worked on my music, but it's Neville who composes new pieces, I just play them." Harry sighed. "I'm always in the background, tagging after my friends, never discovering who I am. Sometimes, oh, you'll think this is crazy..."

"Try me!" said the mirror cheekily.

"...I feel there's another life I'm supposed to be living. Except I missed it, somehow."

"Your visions," the mirror said quietly. "I've seen you sketching or painting, at night, when everyone else is asleep."

Harry ran his hands through his hair and, just as the mirror had warned him it would, it stood up awkwardly. "Painting my visions," he said softly. "Trying to capture them, even though I can't ever fully do them justice. Those are the only times I feel...truly alive."

The mirror sighed in sympathy, but didn't offer any suggestions. Carefully Harry sorted his paints, pencils, and pastels before tucking them into his trunk, hoping he'd be able to find the time and privacy to use them at Malfoy Manor.

2.

Dear Hermione,

It was so great to get your letter! I'm glad that both Seamus and the Ministry are treating you properly. No one deserves to be cherished and respected more than you do. Ron and I are so proud for you, whether we remember to say it very often or not.

Speaking of Ron--I've just had a great letter from him, by the way, bubbling over about his welcome at the Cannons' summer training camp--please don't embarrass me or the Weasleys by making such a fuss about their offer. If I was in any trouble I'd move in with them like a shot, and I hope they know they can count on me, too. But it means a lot to me to support myself and not to be beholden to anybody. And you wouldn't believe the salary. I won't be able to get away this summer, and I'm not allowed to entertain visitors either, but when I see all of you at Christmas, look for the most ferocious presents ever.

I promised you a full report. My pupils are the best part: Angelo is five and Vittorio is eight. They've had a surprising number of tutors already, who apparently spoiled and neglected them by turns, but they're not bad kids. It's as if nobody ever paid attention to them before now, so when I first started listening to them they went a little crazy. You know how I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings? Well, now I know! I don't say any of this to A&V, I act somewhat stern and tutor-like, but I think they can tell I am coming to love them, and I've already noticed them beginning to mind me. We spend as much time as possible outdoors--the grounds here are fantastic: elaborate gardens, flowering trees, orchards, and ancient woods to explore--because I'm trying to encourage their bodies and hearts as well as preparing their minds to do well at Hogwarts (which is what I'm officially being paid for).

Another reason I stay outside is, well, the manor house itself is a sad place. Make that a HUGE sad quiet place where everything is either brand new expensive or more than five hundred years old. The lady of the manor is so ill that I've never actually met her. The week I arrived I got lost and found myself near her room, and that night I believe I heard her talking, but since then I've been told to keep the boys away from her wing of the house. The estate manager, Mrs. Fairfax, and the head housekeeper, Miss Poole, are cordial (although formal) to me, and for meals other than breakfast (which is brought to my room on a tray! the Weasleys would laugh themselves hoarse to see it) I have a choice of dining with them in oppressive state, or eating informally in the boys' rooms. (Did I say there are both human servants and battalions of house elves? Hermione, it's a different world. I was totally lost until one of the serving maids, Carol Hopkins, took pity on me and explained all the etiquette about who eats where and when.) I'm glad I'm only an employee who can give two months' notice any time and doesn't have to live in this gloomy house for the rest of my life!

Am I sounding depressed? Please don't worry, it's not that bad. One good point indoors is the library: masses of books, you would go crazy! That's just in the library I am allowed to use; I understand there are several more. There's an exercise room, so I can work out regularly. And there are three excellent pianos, and I'm the only one who plays them. I've got the boys learning basic rhythms, now, drumming, and once I get the rest of their studies organized I may start them on piano, I'm not sure yet.

Definitely the oddest part of this job is how long it's taken me to figure out what's what and who's who. It's as if Fairfax and Poole are under orders to tell me nothing, and I have to trick information out of them and pick up hints by listening when they don't know I am. When I took the job I assumed Mrs. Fairfax was my employer, but it turns out she's an agent (as well as some kind of distant relative) acting for the real owners. Their name is Malfoy, as you will say I should have guessed from the fact that the house is called Malfoy Manor. I thought that was just the house's name until I saw hallway after hallway of Malfoy portraits (few of whom are friendly). At least two Malfoys are not portraits: the woman who is bedridden here, Narcissa Malfoy, and her only son Draco Malfoy, who lives on the Continent. He seems to be in charge and is constantly sending Mrs. Fairfax instructions by owl. It was his idea to fix up the grounds so beautifully, and if I ever have a chance to meet him, I'm going to suggest that he let some light into the house as well. So it doesn't look and feel so much like a Museum of the Dark Arts Through The Ages. (I've struck that, I'm certain I'm overreacting to the funereal atmosphere.) Meanwhile, A&V aren't Malfoys at all but orphans that Draco Malfoy has taken in for some reason, and no one will tell me their history; the boys themselves don't even know it. When I found out they'd lost their parents just like I lost mine, that only made me more willing to love them, but it's all rather mysterious.

Dear Hermione, I know what a dab you are at research. If you could ask at the Ministry for some history of the Malfoy family, and let me know anything interesting you find out, I'd be grateful. I've become quite curious.

The boys are calling, so I must close, but please, write again. It's so good to hear from you and Ron.

Ever your friend,

Harry

3.

Malfoy Manor was not so quiet that its staff failed to celebrate Midsummer, in a sedate way of course. At midday the human staff members ate an informal but festive luncheon in one of the pleasant gardens. The sun was brilliant, but under a flowering arbor the shade was pleasant; the air smelled drenched in honeysuckle and Harry could hear the droning of bees in the small white flowers overhead. Mrs. Fairfax presided genially, even Narcissa's day nurse made a brief appearance, and Angelo and Vittorio seemed to be in heaven as they ran gleefully around the table. In honor of the day, Harry let them stuff their pockets with delicacies to eat later.

Malfoy Manor doesn't seem like the same sad place today, he thought to himself. Maybe because we're all outside. We should do this more often. Suddenly he felt like taking a holiday of his own. In response to Harry's polite request, Miss Poole agreed that her staff could look after the two boys until suppertime, and when Harry heard that he excused himself from the feast and returned to his room. There he changed into his oldest Muggle clothes, a shirt and jeans and worn-out trainers, and grabbed his rucksack full of art supplies, before threading his way through the Manor gardens and out into the wilder woods.

It was blissful to stride along at his own pace, without worrying about the boys minding him and whether they were learning their lessons fast enough to suit Mrs. Fairfax. Not for the first time he wondered whether the Malfoys themselves cared how the boys progressed, but he thrust that thought away and lost himself in the beauty of the woods, the way dappled sunlight came through the trees and drenched everything in a soft glow, and the joy of throwing himself against a tree trunk to sketch whatever caught his eye.

The afternoon light was golden and Harry was on the brink of deciding to turn back, when he saw up ahead a curious hedge of...thorns? It was twenty feet tall, a wall of closely woven brambles and thorn bushes, whose dark branches, covered with both green leaves and sharp black spikes, stuck out in every direction. Clearly human-made, Harry thought, and also clearly magical. The top of the wall was curlicued with fanciful battlements and towers sculpted from living thorn bushes. Harry chose a good angle, threw himself down on the ground, assembled one of his folding canvases, and pulled out his acrylics...the way the golden light fell on the thorny towers (burnt sienna, Harry decided) simply screamed out for color...he ran his hands though his hair in excitement...

Painting happily, racing to capture the essence of his picture before the light changed, Harry didn't notice when a human-sized space in the hedge opened and a figure emerged from it. By the time Harry glanced back up at the hedge, to check one of his lines, the figure had closed the gap and had begun walking briskly towards him. Harry's mouth fell open in shock.

The stranger's white-blond hair fell in a cascade to his shoulders, glowing as the golden light touched it. His eyes were grey above sharp cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. His lips were full, potentially even sensuous, but just now tightly pressed together. An expensively tailored brown cloak--That fabric exactly matches the thorn bushes! And he's so striking-looking, thought Harry--if I could only put him in this painting--flowed behind the stranger as he strode forward.

Harry realized how he himself must look, sprawled on the ground in shabby clothes, his hair very likely sticking up, his fingers covered with paint. He closed his open mouth and scrambled to his feet.

The stranger was Harry's height, but his haughty air made him seem taller. He looked down his nose, seeming to find humour in the situation. "Spirit of the Midsummer woods...hmm, I think not," he murmured. Brusquely he asked, "Where do you come from?"

"M-Malfoy Manor," Harry said. "Pardon me if I was trespassing, I just--"

"The Manor," said the stranger thoughtfully. "Then, who are you? Not a servant..."

"I'm the tutor." Harry said, biting his lips with nervousness. He wished he dared ask, "And who are you?"

"The tutor," said the stranger, his eyes losing their look of humour and becoming distant. "Of course." Then the stranger Apparated away without another word.

Well, you didn't think he was a Muggle, did you? Harry scolded himself as he threw himself once again onto the ground. If I could just get his face down before I forget...and that hair...in the golden light... As the twilight faded Harry splashed paint on canvas, almost as recklessly as he did when he painted his visions, except that this vision had been real, almost close enough to touch...

Knowing he'd utterly failed to get the stranger's beauty on canvas, and had missed the staff's supper into the bargain, Harry stopped painting only when it was too dark to see. He decided to follow the stranger's example and Apparate back to his own room. As he was washing the paint from his hands and changing into the sober robes that he wore on duty, he realized the atmosphere of the gloomy house had subtly changed. From the kitchen and the cavernous dining room he heard a wholly unaccustomed hubbub, and the whole house seemed to vibrate with life.

He walked down the hall to the boys' sitting room, where he found his pupils arranging toy figures in a mock battle on the hearthrug. "How are you two doing?" They smiled and nodded. "What's all the excitement downstairs?"

"Mister Malfoy's home," said Vittorio importantly. "He sent for us before supper, and asked about our lessons and everything as usual."

Mrs. Fairfax didn't warn me. Aloud Harry asked, "As usual? Does he do this a lot?"

"Midsummer and Midwinter," said Vittorio. "Like clockwork, Poole says. But he never stays long. He comes to see his Mum."

"We don't have a Mum," said Angelo with a squeak, arranging his soldiers.

"No, pumpkin," said Harry, ruffling Angelo's hair. "That's why I'm here, and the others, to teach you and take care of you." He turned to Vittorio again, hiding his trepidation. "Did it go all right? When Mister Malfoy asked what you were learning?"

"Sure," said Vittorio. "He said we should run along and play. So we are."

Shaking his head as he left the boys to their game, Harry walked down to the kitchens. No one tells me anything. It's a good thing I can ask the boys what's going on. The kitchen staffers were cleaning up after what had clearly been an unusually spectacular meal, but at Miss Poole's nod they found him a thick sandwich and a cold glass of milk. He learned that Draco Malfoy was indeed in residence, and that having eaten in solitary state in the main dining room, he was now with his mother. "No more questions," said Miss Poole magisterially, and Harry scooted quickly out of the kitchen.

Still thinking about the handsome man he had just tried to paint, Harry walked through the halls without noticing where he was going, until he found himself at the foot of the stairs that led to Narcissa Malfoy's rooms. They never said I shouldn't go back up there, exactly. They just told me to keep the boys away. As he thought these words he was already on the stairs. You idiot, and I have to know, were the two things he said to himself, alternately, as he climbed quickly up to the long hallway that ran alongside Narcissa's suite.

Up here the floors were thickly carpeted and there was a sharp medicinal smell. No one was around. Outside one of the doors he paused as he heard voices.

First he heard a woman's voice, soft and low. He couldn't make out the words.

"Be strong," said a man's voice.

The woman spoke again, too softly to hear.

"You must, and so must I. It's the only way." Now Harry was certain he heard the brusque voice of the stranger he'd met in the woods. "I'll hold you up..."

Suddenly afraid to be caught eavesdropping, Harry walked quickly away down the corridor and took the back staircase to his own part of the house. Not a 'stranger'. I met Draco Malfoy, my employer, and of course it had to be when I was wearing ripped jeans, with my mouth falling open. I wonder what Mister Malfoy and his mother were talking about. Harry continued to wonder as he got into bed and lay there for several hours, tossing and turning, sensing the unaccustomed energy in the house, liking Malfoy Manor better than he ever had before.

4.

Harry awoke the next morning with the feeling that he'd had a delightful dream. He couldn't remember it, but it had left him with a sense of well-being. As always he rose early to work out and then shower before he started the boys' lessons. As he took Vittorio and then Angelo through the material he'd scheduled for that morning, he tried to put his Midsummer adventure out of his head. But it wasn't until after lunch, when Harry took the boys out for an afternoon's rambling science lesson, that he managed to forget Draco Malfoy entirely for a few hours.

Harry and the boys arrived back in time for tea, flushed and laughing from a quick run homeward through the gardens. Mrs. Fairfax met them at the door, smiling. "Go on up, you two," she said to the boys. After they'd vanished up the stairs her face turned somber. "Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy has asked to see you tonight. After supper, in the drawing room."

Harry took a deep breath. Suddenly his salary didn't seem as astronomical as he'd previously thought. "You could have warned me that he would visit. That he'd interview the boys."

"I told him you were an honors graduate of Hogwarts, doing an excellent job, but he may think you're too young. If you speak only when you're spoken to you'll seem smarter than you are, and get through it fine." Mrs. Fairfax had ignored Harry's rebuke, so he plunged on to ask the questions that had been in his mind for some time, which suddenly seemed vitally important.

"I've wondered," he said, "why the boys have had so many tutors in their short lives. What happened to the tutors before me? Did they leave in frustration when no one would tell them what was going on? Did Mister Malfoy fire them? What?"

Mrs. Fairfax looked at him sternly. "Best robes, and comb your hair."

"I don't have 'best robes', as you well know," Harry said crossly, allowing her to distract him again.

Mrs. Fairfax sighed. "I'll see if I can borrow some, and have them brought to your room." She turned and strode away, the keys at her waist clanking and echoing in the cavernous hall. Harry sighed with frustration.

5.

Harry had been too nervous to eat much supper. As soon as a housemaid had come to supervise the boys, he had showered for the second time that day, and combed his hair down flat. The borrowed robes were velvet, emerald green; he loved the feel of them against his palms, and wondered whose they were. Now he was waiting outside the double doors to the drawing room.

Mrs. Fairfax came out and surveyed him with one of her distant smiles. "You can go in."

It was a warm summer night, and the drawing room windows were open, letting in the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine bushes at the edge of the magnificent lawn. Even so, there was a fire burning in the fireplace, and Draco Malfoy was wrapped in a silky blanket as he sat in front of the fire, his face in shadow. Harry walked into Malfoy's line of vision and stood there, waiting quietly.

"You." Malfoy's voice sounded tired. "What's your name?"

"Harry Potter."

"Potter." A sigh. "Take that chair. No, leave the chair where it is, but move the lamp forward a bit." Clumsily, Harry dragged the lamp so it stood between him and Malfoy. "That's right."

When the light fell on Malfoy's face, Harry had to suppress a gasp. He looks...sick. Awful. Well, no one could look awful with that hair, those cheekbones, but he looks very different from the way he did yesterday. Harry noticed the way Malfoy was leaning weakly against the back of the sofa and the lines of--pain?--in his hard young face.

For a long moment the two young men simply stared at one another. As Mrs. Fairfax had recommended, Harry waited for his employer to speak.

"You've improved the boys, already," Malfoy murmured. "They seem smarter, and more cheerful. How did you do it?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Hard work. Outdoor exercise. Love."

"Love?" Malfoy's voice drawled the word, almost sarcastically. "You love them? After such a short time?"

Harry blushed. "I try to." Someone has to try to.

Malfoy looked up piercingly, as if he'd sensed Harry's unspoken thought. "And now I repeat my question of yesterday. Who are you, Harry Potter?" His face twisted in a grimace. "I'm in pain, and I'm bored. So. Your life story, please, in short sentences."

Harry felt irritated by Malfoy's peremptory tone. I'll give him short sentences. Aloud he said, "My parents died in Diagon Alley, the night Voldemort's forces bombed the Hogwarts reunion. After that I spent ten years in a home for wizards' and witches' orphans. I attended Hogwarts Academy myself. Mrs. Fairfax hired me." As Harry's irritation faded he made the last sentence a pleasant one. "I'm enjoying your gardens."

Malfoy smiled. "And my house...do you enjoy my house?"

"No." The blunt word was out before Harry realized he'd said it, and he blushed fiercely.

"Me either," Malfoy said with a small gasp of pain, stretching within his blanket and seeming to ignore the way Harry's face had turned red. "Maybe someday I'll be able to do something about that."

For another moment the two of them were silent. Harry watched the way the firelight danced on Malfoy's pale skin. He's so beautiful, even when he's not well. Now that he'd seen Malfoy properly, up close, Harry was sure he would be able to paint his handsome features, and almost couldn't wait to return to his room and try...

"Piano." Harry looked up, startled. "Fairfax says you play. Do it now."

Harry stood up, moving his shoulders under the velvet robes. He frowned at Malfoy.

"You're thinking I'm rude," Malfoy murmured. "You're right. Now, either play, or stomp out of here, but don't waste my time deciding which."

Harry walked to the piano. He's not only rude, but utterly infuriating. But I admit...ever since I first saw him yesterday, I've felt, oh, alive. Like my life is finally moving forward... Harry sat at the keyboard and stared at his hands as if he'd never seen them before.

"I'm waiting, Potter." Malfoy's voice was soft, but insistent.

Harry blushed again as he came back to himself and began the second of Gershwin's three preludes for piano. He thought this slow, melancholy piece might match the mood of his fretful employer, wincing in pain, surrounded by ancient and oppressive grandeur.

Malfoy heard the piece out in silence. "Not bad. Perhaps your playing is a bit tentative, more timid than it needs to be. But not at all bad."

Infuriated again, Harry pounded into the first chords of Liszt's Mephisto Waltz.

"No." Malfoy's voice cut harshly through the quick chords, like the crack of a whip. "Not that, I know it too well. Play me something new, something I don't know."

He's right about the Waltz. It's too violent for his mood. I have to not let him draw me so easily. He thought quickly. If Malfoy wants something new, it'll have to be Neville to the rescue. He's going to be famous, but he's not that well known yet.

Harry settled himself on the bench and began Neville Longbottom's Third Piano Concerto, a piece that was by turns melancholy and triumphantly passionate. As always, Harry found himself pouring his heart into playing this music. He thought of how he had come to admire Neville, to love him, even though Neville was straight and couldn't love him back the way he wanted. And his dear friend Ron, of the strong arms and the mischievous smile, was exuberantly straight. And Draco Malfoy, a man more beautiful than he could ever have dreamed existed, even though he was also shockingly rude (not to mention his being my employer, let's not forget that), was probably also straight. But Harry knew that even if all these men were out of his reach, he couldn't change who he was, and as he pounded out the chords of the final movement he felt somehow that the adventures of his visions were true, somewhere, waiting for him to seize them, and that perhaps even love would be waiting for him as well. Neville's music often made him feel that way...

The final chords shuddered into silence. Harry stood up, feeling that he'd played enough. I've offered my best, and if Malfoy doesn't like it...I'm here as a tutor, not an entertainer. He returned to his seat by the fire.

Oh! Were those...the tracks of tears...on Malfoy's cheeks? But Malfoy's voice was as sardonic as ever. It even sounded stronger than it had at the beginning of the evening. "And that was?"

"Neville Longbottom's Third Piano Concerto," said Harry quietly.

"I'll want it again, tomorrow night. Now get your portfolio." Harry looked up. "You paint, right? I saw you painting yesterday." At the look of shock on Harry's face, Malfoy sighed. "I'll send for it." He rang the bell for a footman and gave him humiliatingly detailed instructions.

Harry gripped the edge of his chair with both hands. This was awful. He didn't mind playing music, but--and now Malfoy was giving him orders again. "Bring that table over in front of me, Potter. That's right." And Harry found himself obeying.

All too soon the footman was back with, not just the portfolio Harry showed people if they insisted on seeing his work, but, well, everything he'd drawn or painted since his arrival, as well as several of his favourite finished pictures that he'd brought with him. Malfoy put Harry's work on the table and pored over it in silence, looking first at the exercises, studies in light and shadow and line and colour, and then at the finished pictures of the heroic adventures Harry dreamed of, colourful paintings of epic struggles between light and darkness, and then of otherworldly bowers where the triumphant witches and wizards rested after their victories, or perhaps their deaths. Harry stayed bolted to his chair, trembling inside, hoping his agony wasn't too obvious.

Finally Malfoy sank back with a sigh. "In my rude way, I was going to ask what's the point. Why draw when magical cameras are so much quicker." He frowned. "But now I see what drawing can achieve, that a camera can't. Your pictures are from...out of this world. Where did you get these scenes?"

"My own head," Harry said softly, turning his face away.

"You see these things in visions, is that what you're telling me?" Malfoy's tone was insistent. Suddenly it was too much, that harsh voice intruding on his private world. Harry stood up fiercely.

"May I have my work back now?" Without waiting for Malfoy to answer--as if anyone at Malfoy Manor had ever answered a single one of his most important questions, of course they hadn't--Harry scooped up his pictures and walked quickly away, hoping to get out of the drawing room before his eyes overflowed with tears. He was weeping as he climbed the stairs, and once in the privacy of his room he put his pictures down, quickly tore off the borrowed robes so that he wouldn't crumple them, and threw himself onto the bed, sobbing with embarrassment and emotional strain.

Harry might have been comforted if he'd seen Draco Malfoy's eyes follow his retreating back, with a glance full of pity and gratitude, almost as if they said, "Potter, for over an hour you took my mind off my own problems, and you have no idea how precious a gift that was."

6.

Harry sat, alone, under the honeysuckle arbor, reading the letter he had just received. Hermione had left off both its salutation and signature, but Harry would have known her careful script anywhere.

This won't be a proper letter, but I did find out something about your employer's family (not using names in case this letter goes astray) and I wanted to let you know immediately.

Your employer's father was a very Dark wizard indeed. He was in Voldemort's high command, but was not captured with the others in the final siege. Nevertheless he's been missing, presumed dead, since the end of the War. When he was lost his wife collapsed and she has rarely been out of the manor house since.

No one has accused her of Dark magic, but she was clearly devoted to her husband and there's no question about him. So that's who you're working for, I'm sorry to say.

I don't know why they didn't teach us more recent history at Hogwarts, especially about the wizarding war that ended in our second year. If they had, you would have recognized the name immediately; his cruelties were notorious, even amongst the Death Eaters. I wonder if I will someday get a chance to revamp the curriculum. But I digress.

The point is, if you're picking up Dark influences, I'm not surprised. Especially if the house hasn't been changed at all since the commander's death. I strongly recommend you start looking for another job, a safer job.

The family member in your own generation may not be all bad, but no one in Britain knows for sure because he's been at Durmstrang (first of his year), and then living on the Continent, where he studies dragons, and breeds and trains them. That takes pots of money, but as you know better than I, the family has it. For three years now he's sponsored a bill to legalize dragon-keeping in Britain, proposing to lift the current ban for dragon keepers who follow appropriate security precautions. The ministers working for him on this think it'll pass, if not this year, then soon. (I'm sure the pots of money help, plus I hear he's determined and stubborn. To get his own way he usually just wears his opponents down.)

I've discovered why we didn't meet him during the Triwizard: he wasn't in the delegation because he was too young to compete. In fact, he's our age. He left last year though because Durmstrang skipped him ahead a year, when he was younger. Oh, and you know how I feel about Quidditch, but since I know how you feel about it, I'll tell you that he was their second Seeker, substitute for the one you met through me (blush). He only got to play regularly when the first string Seeker was touring with his national team.

I know you're determined to stand on your own and not be beholden to anybody, but I can't believe you took this job without making a few obvious inquiries. Sometimes I think you're not fit to be let out alone. Look for a new position as quickly as you decently can, and in the meantime, watch out for yourself. I'll write a real letter soon, with lots of news, and I expect the same from you.

Harry trembled as he read that his employers were deeply involved with Dark magic. He didn't doubt Hermione's information, which confirmed the foreboding of his own heart. But at the thought of applying for a different job, leaving Malfoy Manor, Harry's heart pounded with an even more profound disquiet. The boys need me. They've just begun to trust me. It would be cruel to make them change tutors again, so soon after I've arrived. Now the part that was hard to think about. And Malfoy--I've been helping him get healthier, even if only by distracting him from his pain. I'd like to think he needs me, too, in some small way. And now for the frightening part, the truth that Harry had to force himself to admit. I need Malfoy. I'm sure his blood is as bad as Hermione says it is, but I feel alive as I never have before. I can't leave--never to see him again--would be like death--even now I'm afraid that every time I see him will be the last--

With a blissful sigh, Harry thought about the last two weeks, the most delightful weeks of his life.

Almost every evening, Malfoy had summoned him to play the piano in the drawing room. As if by mutual consent, Harry's paintings hadn't been mentioned again; instead Harry worked through his favourite piano pieces, often returning to Longbottom's Third, which Malfoy seemed to enjoy as much as Harry did himself. Each day Malfoy looked stronger, and more handsome; he'd discarded the blanket, and stopped wincing in pain, and either paced energetically around the room, or moved his sofa so that he could watch Harry play. You couldn't call him kind, exactly, but the smile that Harry sometimes saw in his eyes...

Each day Harry expected the delight to end. He'd forced himself to ask Mrs. Fairfax about it. "When will Mister Malfoy be leaving? The boys tell me his visits tend to be short."

She had pursed her mouth sternly as she had (no surprise) refused to answer. "It's not up to me to say what Mister Malfoy will say or do. His mother is very happy whenever he stays a bit longer, that I do know."

So Harry gave himself up to enjoyment. He admitted it: just being in the same room as Draco Malfoy was ecstasy. He'd done several very satisfying portraits of his employer, in fact, more than several...

And outdoors...Harry remembered the afternoon, last week, when he and the boys had returned from a ramble through the orchard, and come upon Malfoy sitting in the garden, reading. He'd ordered the boys to turn aside without disturbing their guardian, but Malfoy had closed the book and gestured for them to approach. "Gentlemen," he'd said. "What have you been busy with this afternoon?"

Harry watched with a smile as his pupils explained. "Natural history," said Vittorio importantly.

"Bugs!" squealed Angelo.

Malfoy smiled faintly. "Let me see," he said, and the boys showed him the shoebox and the collecting jars Harry had given them. "Worms...slugs...and what's this, a beetle?" Suddenly he looked grave. "What are you going to do with them? You're not going to keep them imprisoned forever?"

Vittorio answered, "We're going to study them, and see what they like to eat, and after a few days we'll let them go, back in the orchard. We've done it before." His enthusiasm seemed to warm Malfoy's mood, and Harry rejoiced to see Malfoy taking an interest in the boys, speaking to them kindly. Suddenly Malfoy seemed imperious again as he looked through the boys' collections.

"Let me check those mushrooms."

"They're all perfectly safe," Harry murmured, then listened, stunned, as Malfoy rattled off the Latin names of each type, including several names that Harry didn't know. "Sir. You know your mushrooms."

Malfoy smiled again. "I'm quite fond of mushrooms. So many of them are poisonous. And call me Malfoy, as I call you Potter. After all, we might have been at school together."

After that Harry had not been surprised to find Malfoy often in the gardens in the afternoon, almost as if he was waiting for the boys--and Harry--while he enjoyed the beautiful grounds that he had designed and caused to be built. And then two days ago--Harry caught his breath at the memory--

Malfoy had summoned him after luncheon. "What have you got planned for the afternoon? Cancel it. It's past time for Vittorio to learn to fly, don't you think?" Staggered, Harry had agreed. Equipped with three of the late model brooms that Malfoy Manor maintained for the use of staff, he and Malfoy had coaxed Vittorio into the air, watching over him carefully at first, then relaxing as he became more confident.

"Take him out as often as you need to, until he loses his fear," Malfoy murmured to Harry as they watched Vittorio starting to soar. "Seven is the age to start teaching them--I should have thought of this before. Don't forget to start Angelo at seven, please."

"You've made both boys very happy, these past two weeks," Harry said softly. And of course his heart leaped within him at the idea of Angelo being seven--two more years, here at--

Malfoy was brusque again. "No, you have. I'm just trying to catch up to you, in their eyes."

Harry laughed. "Don't worry about that."

And then Malfoy had sent a footman for his own broom, a sleek custom racing model that made Harry's knees go weak, and cast a special spell that linked it to two of the regular brooms. "I often used to do this at school. Vittorio, Potter and I want you to see what it'll be like when you really know how to fly. To show you it'll be worth all the hours of practice." They flew in parallel, first Malfoy, then Vittorio, then Harry. Malfoy and Harry each held one of Vittorio's hands, carefully and firmly, and because of Malfoy's spell, whatever his broom did, the other two brooms followed exactly, twisting and turning and dipping, giving Vittorio and Harry the equivalent of a Muggle roller coaster ride...without rails or restraints. "It's safe because they're temporarily enslaved to mine," he explained.

Harry felt faint again for a moment, remembering how he'd thought, As my heart has become enslaved. And it doesn't feel temporary, but he had roused himself to say out loud, "This spell is terrific! How come I've never heard of it?"

Malfoy looked smug. "My own invention. We used it at school, to train the juniors..." And then Harry had given himself up to the pleasure of simply riding, gripping his broom tightly and holding Vittorio's soft hand as Malfoy caused them to dip and turn and weave. Vittorio squealed with delight. They came to earth before Vittorio grew too tired, and just as Harry was about to take him in the house, Malfoy put his hand on Harry's arm. It was the first time they had ever touched, Harry was quite sure, and it was just for an instant, but...

Somehow he'd found himself agreeing to hand Vittorio over to Mrs. Fairfax, and returning to pick up one of the brooms, and rising into the summer sky at Malfoy's side. On Malfoy's racing broom and a broom once more under Harry's own control, they showed each other tricks and acrobatic stunts, and also talked as they never had in the drawing room.

"You must've played Quidditch," said Malfoy, watching Harry spin sharply around in the air. "I can tell you've been practicing that move."

"Keeper," said Harry shortly; both the spinning and the proximity to Malfoy were making him somewhat short of breath.

"I would have tried you as a Seeker," Malfoy murmured. "You fly just like one. Funny no one noticed."

In the ecstasy of flying, and talking, Harry was surprised that he'd remembered his own responsibilities. But he had finally said, "It's time for me to go back. The boys get a bit wild at teatime, I want to be there."

"Back," Malfoy had said grimly. He stared back in the direction of Malfoy Manor with a grimace of pain and...was that hatred, or something even more frightening...on his beautiful face? For a long shocking moment Harry felt he was seeing something private, that he was never intended to see, and then Malfoy turned his face away and the two men flew towards the Manor, not speaking...

As they landed on a graveled path by the kitchen garden, Harry screwed up his courage to say something. "May I ask, are you...all right?" he asked. "I know you've been ill, but...you seemed to be getting better, so I didn't..."

"I have quite recovered, thank you," said Malfoy, rather coldly. And then he seemed to unbend again. "It's been working for me, too, Potter. Your formula."

"What?" For a moment, Harry couldn't figure out what Malfoy meant.

"Hard work. Outdoor exercise. And...what was that third thing...?" Malfoy had smiled at that point. He had definitely smiled, with his eyes as well as his lips. And Harry, remembering what the third thing was, had blushed, as if his whole body had been dipped in boiling water. And then Malfoy had taken both of the brooms and walked inside the house, leaving Harry standing on the gravel with his heart pounding.

Even now, as he sat quietly under the honeysuckle, the memory of Malfoy's smile made Harry feel faint. The situation was awful and delightful at the same time. I love Draco Malfoy. I'll admit it, I call him Draco when I think of him, when I draw his face, when I dream of him at night. He's my employer. I take his money. And I'm sure Hermione's right, his family's loyalties frighten me...and he's got such a horrible house! But his eyes...his face...his hair...his body, his hands. I can't help what I feel. But I have to help it. He's said nothing, well, if you don't count that one remark that could have meant something else. Neither have I, but of course I can't, I won't. He's my employer. It always came back to that. They were worlds apart. Malfoy could be toying with him, playing with his affections, for his own amusement. Harry was shocked by the strength of his own longing. I don't care if he's toying with me. Using me. As long as it brings him any pleasure or ease. Whatever pain he feels, now I feel it too. Awful. Delightful. Awful. When Harry went in to tea, he was still undecided whether his predominant feeling was more delight or fear. He only knew he was lost in it...

As had become customary, when Harry returned to the house, Mrs. Fairfax was waiting. "My sitting room, Mister Potter," she said. "You're being measured for dress robes of your own."

"I am? Mister Malfoy hasn't seemed to mind the regular robes, these last two weeks."

"Mister Malfoy's orders. He's invited a party of guests to stay at Malfoy Manor next month. You'll be asked to play for them, and dress properly while you do it."

Harry was distracted by this news. "A house party? Isn't that going to be a lot of work for you?"

Mrs. Fairfax smiled, and for the first time, answered one of Harry's questions. "Yes, but Poole and I enjoy the chance to show our quality. Mister Malfoy has given us sufficient time to hire extra staff, furbish up all the guest rooms, and plan some very elaborate menus. Everything is to be of the best. That includes your appearance, apparently, so run along and be measured. The boys have already been measured for their new robes."

Harry sighed, then brightened. "Music tonight, or not?"

"Mister Malfoy is not in residence. He has said he will return in time for the house party." Mrs. Fairfax was volunteering information; this was unprecedented. Was that compassion Harry saw in her eyes, or was she just thrilled at the opportunity to manage a vastly augmented staff? "My sitting room, immediately."

7.

Harry sat on the mahogany piano bench in the drawing room. The piano had been moved closer to the windows, and the scent of jasmine was overpowering. The rest of the furniture had been rearranged, and new lamps brought in; Harry hadn't realized, when he and Malfoy sat near each other in front of the fire, how large the room really was. His new dress robes were magnificent, green and black velvet in wide vertical stripes with a severe collar. "Those colors call attention to your eyes and your hair," his mirror had gushed approvingly. "And it's great to see robes that drape properly around those big shoulders of yours." Malfoy had chosen the robes (four new robes, each in a different design), as he had specified everything about the house party, providing detailed instructions to Mrs. Fairfax, who had conveyed some of them to Harry. Harry had not seen Malfoy since the afternoon they had flown together...except in his dreams, of course. Soon he would be in this very room. Harry felt lightheaded.

He heard voices in the hall; the supper party must finally be breaking up. The voices came closer. Chopin preludes, he thought to himself, and began to move his hands over the keys.

As he played he gathered impressions of a number of people, dressed up, glittering. Mrs. Fairfax, in resplendent robes, was acting as the hostess, arranging the guests in groups for conversation or cards or games of strategy. The house staff served coffees and cordials. But still he didn't come. Ah! there was Draco Malfoy, in magnificent black robes with silver trim, walking through the door, moving towards the roaring fire, turning his back to the fire, surveying the room with his mocking, haughty look, seemingly very satisfied with his party. I'd forgotten just how beautiful he is. Harry's heart sang as he bent again to the keyboard.

Harry played a number of gentle preludes as he continued to sneak glances at Malfoy, like a dehydrated desert traveler reaching an oasis, afraid to drink too deeply, but thirsty to his very core. After almost an hour he moved on to Debussy and was able to spare some attention for his employer's guests. There were several he knew from Hogwarts and, sadly but perhaps not surprisingly, all of them had been members of Slytherin House, fiercest rivals of his own house, Gryffindor. In particular he was sorry to see the unofficial leader of Slytherin from his own year, Pansy Parkinson. She was lovely (for a woman, Harry thought to himself), tall and slim with blonde hair swept up in a chignon, wearing a dazzling black evening robe with one bare shoulder. But Harry had long known that her beauty and charisma and undeniable leadership qualities failed to make up for her personality, which had always reminded Harry of a pile driver crossed with a chain saw. She was coming over to the piano...standing there...watching him with a sneer. He finished his piece calmly and stood up.

"Potter," she said disdainfully. "This is an unpleasant surprise."

"Parkinson," he said politely. "How have you been?"

She ignored this overture. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here," he said calmly. "Tutor to the boys."

"Those brats." She shook her head. "What Draco was thinking..." Harry's jaw dropped in shock as she used his first name.

"How do you know the Malfoys?" he blurted out.

She shrugged her creamy shoulder. "Our parents know each other. Knew each other, before Lucius Malfoy's death." She frowned. "I'm sorry Narcissa's so ill. Draco won't even let me introduce myself." There it is again. His first name. "Tutor and piano player, that's your level, Potter. One of the pair of musclebound paupers who hung out with that know-it-all Mudblood..."

Parkinson never did 'play well with others.' But at least with her I know where I stand. Harry's defense of his friend was quiet, but firm. "Hermione certainly does know it all. She was first in our class, as you may recall."

What Parkinson might have retorted was lost forever as Malfoy strolled over to join them, his flowing blond hair glittering in the soft lights, a faint smile on his face. "Good evening, Potter," he said, nodding to Harry as he put his arm around Parkinson's waist and drew her body close to his own. As Parkinson turned to simper into Malfoy's handsome face, Harry felt all the blood drain from his face and hands, which were suddenly like ice. He looked down at his fingers and wriggled them as he tried not to see or hear...they were calling each other "Draco" and "Pansy" as they giggled sweet nothings. So Malfoy was straight. And dating her? Harry wished he could tear his heart out of his body. I must have imagined it. The way he looked at me. It didn't mean what I thought. It's over. No, it never even existed. It's more proof that I'm crazy, first the visions, and now this insane fantasy.

"Potter." Malfoy had said his name for the second time before Harry came to his senses. "Longbottom's Third."

Parkinson laughed. "Not Neville Longbottom! At Hogwarts he couldn't mix a simple potion without melting his cauldron." Even lost in misery as he was, Harry couldn't help but be impressed by the fluency and rapidity of her insults.

"Trust me, Pansy. You'll enjoy this." With a smile Malfoy steered Parkinson to a brocade-covered love seat, in full view of the piano, and the two of them sat down. Malfoy crossed his long legs and leaned back sardonically, caressing Parkinson's hand.

Feeling utterly desolate, Harry sat back down on the piano bench. He took a deep shuddering breath and began the opening passages of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Malfoy frowned, and for a long moment his whole frame went very still. Then he sat up and murmured something to Parkinson--Harry thought he caught the words, "I'll be right back. Trouble with the help,"--and stood and walked back to Harry.

Harry's hands fell still as Harry watched Malfoy oh what does it matter now, Draco walk towards him. His eyes devoured Draco as he let himself admit the heartstopping desire he felt...now that it was pointless.

Draco came and leaned on the piano, looking into Harry's face. So close. "She's a stunner, isn't she?" Draco murmured.

Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't look at him.

"Third Concerto, Potter." The quiet words had the force and shock of a blow. Harry felt that in one more second he would lose control. Finally he managed to look up and find some words.

"I play it for you. Not for them."

"And you'll still be playing it for me." Draco's voice was soft now, almost caressing. Despite himself Harry felt himself responding, his heart swelling with hopeless love. "Play it just the way you used to, when we were alone."

Harry wanted to say, It's become our piece. What are you trying to do to me? But he couldn't get the words out. And when had Draco ever answered any of his questions? His eyes glistened.

"Tears, Potter?" Draco's voice was distant again. "Don't disgrace me." He turned away and walked back to Parkinson. Pansy. Holding her hand, he sat back and watched Harry struggle.

All right, Harry thought. If that's what he wants, I'll play it, flat out. Just being in his presence...even like this...what more do I need? From the first note he made Neville's familiar melodies a celebration of his love for Draco, a love that had awakened him and changed his life for ever. He immersed himself in the music and fed himself greedily on the soft, sated look that grew in Draco's eyes as the concerto continued. Harry's playing became incandescent. He was physically aroused, his face was flushed, and every square centimeter of his skin felt like it was on fire. I've put it out there, he thought as he finished and the guests applauded. I've tried to show him what he's missed. He bowed his head once and stood, unsteadily, and walked to the door. As he shut the door quietly behind him, he realized that he'd never felt so exhausted, not even after the fiercest game of Quidditch he'd ever played.

And suddenly Draco was there. Harry was grateful for the loose robes that concealed his body. "You're not done," Draco said.

"I am, for tonight," Harry said, meeting Draco's eyes firmly, swallowing as he did so.

Draco reached out and took Harry's right hand, running his fingers over Harry's. Tongues of fire played up Harry's arm and nerves sang all over his body. "You played superbly. But you're upset." Harry shuddered and pulled his hand away, even though it was agony to do so. "You can go. But tomorrow night I expect you to play for the entire evening. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "If you want me to make it through the evening, don't ask for the Third. Just don't."

Draco smiled and changed the subject. "Boys all right?"

"They'd gotten used to having you around." Harry was surprised at how calm he sounded. Only inside his head did he finish his thought: And so had I.

Draco nodded and turned away without another word, opening the door and walking through it and closing it behind him.

Will I survive this?

8.

His excruciating schedule, Harry decided, was making him stronger. Nightmares. Hasty breakfast. Fierce morning workout, trying to burn out the passion that seemed to have taken possession of his body. Lessons, trying to focus and give the boys the love and attention they needed. Dinner, trying to keep up his strength, rarely tasting the food. Outdoor lessons or exercises or walks with the boys again, sometimes cut short for naps that he freely admitted were more for him than for them, wrought up as he was preparing for another emotional evening. Tea or supper, he could rarely manage both. Flying around crazily in the twilight, considering suicide (make it look like a flying accident?!) but always discarding the idea and returning to the Manor in helpless thrall. Painting picture after picture of new and disturbing visions (the naked-in-chains ones were not at all inhibited by the fact that he'd never actually seen what he drew; that problem had never daunted Harry, accustomed to his visions of impossible adventures). Reading Mrs. Fairfax's written instructions: which of his four dress robes to wear, whether any particular pieces had been requested, or whether (rarely) he had the night off because the whole group was going out somewhere. Finding the music for any requested pieces that he didn't know by heart. Fumbling his way onto the piano bench. Waiting. Burning. Seeing him arrive and feeling, as he always did in his presence, despite the agony and torment, somehow complete. Drinking him with his eyes. Playing for him (and her) and his guests, everything from classical to romantic to jazz to musical theatre to folk songs to faux Keith Jarrett noodling, until he released Harry, so weakened by strain and heartbreak that he could hardly walk. Throwing himself between the sheets and waiting for the nightmares to return.

That's not quite right, Harry thought as he carefully combed his hair. My nightmares are during the day. The summer house party had gone on for weeks and looked like it might go on for ever. Didn't any of these people have careers? Of course, Harry had eyes only for Draco and Pansy, as he now called them in his head, and he had had ample time to observe them. An engagement was openly mentioned; apparently it hadn't been announced yet only because solicitors and other agents for the two families were still working on a detailed agreement...

Today Draco had requested something different. The guests were going to have lunch in the woods, and Harry had been told to accompany them, and bring the boys. He had given up trying to figure out what Draco was up to. Now he was just trying to endure. Would it help him endure, to enumerate the nightmares? Of course not. But he was going to do it again anyway, he couldn't help himself...

First. Harry loved Draco. Who was going to marry Pansy. That was devastating all by itself. And it was just for starters.

Second. Pansy wasn't good enough for Draco. She had money and beauty, but she was a scheming, conniving, small-minded, vicious, Slytherin bitch. Potter, tell us what you really think! She wasn't fit to polish Draco's boots. (Harry himself would have cleaned Draco's boots with his tongue, and enjoyed it. During these weeks of torment his imagination had gotten totally out of control.) Draco was too good for anyone, but if Harry could have seen Draco with someone wonderful, he felt he could have dealt with it a tiny bit better. As it was, he raged with jealousy.

The third nightmare was closely related to the second nightmare. Pansy certainly didn't seem to love Draco. She was thrilled to be marrying him, but for her this alliance seemed to be all about money and high social position (of the Dark flavoured variety). Harry was afraid to develop this theme, lest he become both apoplectic and suicidal (yet again).

Fourth. Draco didn't love Pansy. Harry knew Draco, and he'd watched him obsessively, and he was certain he was right about this. Draco saw all her faults: when Pansy was vicious to the staff, or savaged one of the other guests, or said something stupid or shallow or brutal, Draco's clear cold eyes saw and recorded. He knew Draco's eyes could glow with soft affection, because Draco had looked that way at him. But Harry never saw Draco direct the slightest hint of warmth or tenderness towards Pansy. Maybe Draco thought that Pansy would regard tenderness as a sign of weakness, and so hid it from her, whereas Harry was so far beneath him that it was safe for Draco to reveal his occasional gentle impulses without any risk? (Harry felt suicidal again for a moment.) No, he felt certain that Draco didn't feel love for her. Even when Pansy was looking away he still watched her coldly, always...when he wasn't watching Harry, which he seemed to do a surprising amount for someone who had absolutely no idea of how he had wrecked all of Harry's hopes. Shredded them, savaged them, disemboweled them. Anger, jealousy, despair.

Fifth, last, and worst nightmare. None of this made a blind bit of difference. Harry had no idea what Draco was thinking, why he had chosen a loveless marriage with a heartless bitch (and her solicitors), but the worst of it was, Harry still loved him, more than ever. Harry had given Draco his heart and couldn't seem to take it back, and what was more, didn't want to. Harry burned with unsatisfied desire, he sobbed himself to sleep, he took terrible physical risks in an attempt to distract himself, and fluttered around as helplessly as any moth that the boys had trapped in a collecting jar.

Five simple nightmares that tormented his waking hours. He looked forward to the afternoon's outing. He didn't expect to be able to forget, but he could hope to be distracted.

9.

Wearing the dark brown cloak that he had worn on the day Harry first saw him, Draco led his guests into the forest. They laughed and talked as they walked, in good spirits, having been promised an al fresco luncheon at the end of their hike. Several of the kinder guests spoke to the boys, who answered politely; Harry was proud of their behavior. A couple of the guests frowned at Harry in a puzzled way, as if trying to figure out where they'd seen him before, but none of them spoke to him, which was as he preferred it. He wanted nothing to interfere with his obsessive watch on Draco and Pansy.

His jaw fell as he realized the party had walked up to the magical hedge of thorns where he had first met Draco. The hedge was even taller and more elaborate and thicker than it had been before; if Draco had constructed it, he had been working hard. The forest was quiet except for the noise of someone working a large bellows nearby. Correction, several bellows...

Next to the hedge, a table with a white linen cloth held rows and rows of slender champagne flutes. Mrs. Fairfax and her staff were filling them with champagne and pumpkin juice and passing through the crowd making sure that everyone had one. Harry made sure the boys chose pumpkin juice, and took wine for himself. Even though he was standing at the back, he could see Draco clearly as he threw his cloak back over his shoulders and prepared to make a speech. If Draco announced his engagement to Pansy, Harry was prepared to break his glass and do something drastic with its shards. But he didn't think that was what this was about. The hedge of thorns was such a special, private place...and Draco looked much happier out here than he had, lately, inside the Manor.

"Thank you all for hiking out here. I'm very happy to have you with me on an occasion that is very important to me personally and to the future of magical research in Britain." Polite murmuring at this. "I have this week received the news that decades of superstition and ignorance have been repudiated, and the U.K. Ministry of Magic has once again legalized dragon-keeping, for scientific purposes. As a dragon breeder myself I am naturally thrilled at these developments, and I brought over several of my favourite dragons right away."

Brought them over right away? More likely, had them here all the time. Harry smiled. He couldn't judge the man he loved, and was also thrilled to find out that in the mornings and afternoons, when Harry had assumed Draco was sleeping in and then loafing with Pansy, he had instead been pursuing such an interesting project.

Draco continued, "Dragons are intelligent, and strong, and so much more more fiercely magical than we are ourselves. I'll spare you the scientific lecture today, but we have so much to learn from them." With a wave of his wand, he made a large part of the hedge transparent, and everyone gasped. Inside the enclosure, which seemed to be extensive, were three dragons, golden, green, and red. One was flexing its wings and spouting fire from its nostrils, and the other two were lying down, resting. The boys (and several of the adults) squealed with delight.

"A toast, to dragons, and what we can learn in partnership with them!" Draco said, and everyone drank. Even through the subsequent hubbub, Harry could distinguish Draco's voice. "They're difficult with people they don't know, so my enchantments prevent them from seeing or hearing you." He walked through the crowd of guests, talking about his plans to move some of his breeding and research facilities over to Britain. "I did this on my own but eventually we'll have staff here, and a proper facility."

Pansy watched the dragons with a fierce frown, and Harry watched Pansy. Is it that she doesn't want to share him with his work, or that she just doesn't like dragons? It can't be that two of them are the Gryffindor colours. Shaking his head, Harry put Pansy out of his mind and walked forward until he reached the hedge and stopped with a start--it still felt like a hedge of thorns, he noticed, even though it was transparent--and stared and stared. The iridescent dragons were magnificent in their power and beauty, and their half-lidded eyes couldn't conceal their obvious intelligence. They're just like Draco...iridescence, power, beauty, brains...and that mocking expression they all seem to have. Harry couldn't get enough of them and--this was the weird part--although he'd never seen a live dragon before, these looked just like the dragons he'd drawn, when he painted his visions. Does that mean other parts of my visions are also true? And then he lost himself in staring. The boys had joined him and as they stood together in awe, each of them quietly took one of his hands.

Suddenly he realized Draco was nearby. "Don't forget to eat lunch," he murmured to the three of them. "They're mesmerizing, aren't they?"

"Yes," Vittorio said with a gasp, and Angelo merely nodded happily.

"I'm going to take these two back," said Harry. "We'll have lunch in our own rooms. But thank you for including us." Draco smiled at the boys, and perhaps at Harry, too. "And congratulations. I know you've been working hard to get this law passed."

"How did you...?" Draco looked only momentarily puzzled. "Oh, your friend at the Ministry, I expect. Well, everyone will have told her that I'm terribly stubborn. In the end, I always get what I want." He turned away, holding his hand out to Pansy, and Harry shook off the glamour of the dragons and the shivers he always got from speaking with Draco and prepared for the long walk back to the Manor, since the boys were too young to Apparate.

The walk was pleasant, and he managed to teach the boys a bit of natural history on the way, too. But fluttering fritillaries didn't take his mind off the dragons, and Draco. Not for the first time, Harry wondered how long he could take the strain. But the thought of leaving Malfoy Manor, leaving Draco, was far worse.

10.

The house party had finally broken up and the guests, including Pansy, had gone. Harry stored his dress robes in a moth-proof bag in his wardrobe. Draco spent long hours with his dragons, while Mrs. Fairfax and Miss Poole supervised the process of putting all the guest bedrooms back under dust covers, and restoring the house to its accustomed, somewhat dull, somewhat melancholy order. Either this task or something else had made Mrs. Fairfax cranky--she's not going to like working for Pansy, if the newlyweds live here, Harry thought with sudden sympathy--and she was back to not answering any of Harry's questions.

On his part, Harry cared less about the answers. His heart was one giant bruise, which he was trying not to touch. Spared the daily torment of watching Pansy and Draco flirt, he was able to put more energy into teaching the boys, and his heart found some comfort as he saw how quickly they continued to learn and how warmly they responded to him.

Harry had seen almost nothing of his employer for a week, when Draco appeared suddenly at the door of the boys' sitting room, during an extremely informal tea. He greeted the boys warmly, looked at the insects they were feeding, and accepted a biscuit. "I need to speak with your teacher," he said to Vittorio and Angelo, with a piercing sideways glance at Harry. "Come with me, Potter." His heart in his mouth, cursing the fact that underneath the robes he always wore on duty, he was wearing the ripped jeans again, Harry murmured, "You two, the nursemaid will be right up. Be good for her, won't you, and I'll be back to read to you later on."

They stopped off in the staff room to speak to Miss Poole, and then took the long stairway out to the gardens, walking side by side, silently. Draco was wearing close-fitting aquamarine velvet robes that complemented his white-blond hair and his grey eyes. The thoughts, What fresh torture? and My beloved! alternated in Harry's head. Just as he had that first night, he resolved to let Draco do the talking.

Draco led Harry to the center of the Manor's extensive herb garden. In the late summer afternoon the air was chaotically fragrant, humming with the buzzing of bees. The arbor here had red and white roses climbing over it, with a long bench beneath them. "This is my favourite part of the grounds, if you don't count the dragons' enclosure," Draco said. "Magic is especially powerful here." He seated himself on the bench and crossed his long legs in front of him.

Harry chose to stand in front of Draco, not too close, drinking in the fierce masculine beauty of the man he loved. Harry's lips were pressed tightly together, but if his eyes could have spoken they would have been saying, Make it quick, so it's as painless as possible. I'm begging you.

As if he'd heard, Draco murmured, "I'll get right to the point. I've decided to send Angelo and Vittorio to boarding school."

Harry closed his eyes in pain. "Why?"

"Pansy hates kids. You know what she's like. She'll be cruel to them, if I let them stay here."

Harry swallowed. "This is their home. I mean, the only home they've ever really known. And I--"

Malfoy smiled bitterly. "Don't worry, Potter. I've already found you a new job."

This was mercifully quick, perhaps, but Harry hadn't known it would hurt quite this much. He wanted to wrap the long trailing roses around his body until his skin was a tortured mesh of bloody scratches. He wanted to scream. Instead what he said was, "Y-you have?"

Draco sighed. "One of my suppliers in Romania needs a tutor for his son. Wants to improve his family's English, so they speak it all the time. It's settled."

"Romania?" Harry could only gasp the word.

"We may even have a chance to meet," Draco said with a glinting smile. "I go out there in person every couple of years."

It was too much. Something inside Harry snapped. "No," he said quietly. "If I can't even see you, I'll die."

"Potter?" Draco had a curious light in his eyes, but Harry paid no attention. His heart had begun speaking at last, and he was no longer able to control himself.

"I may be poor, and a nobody, like Pansy says, but I love you. She doesn't. And you don't love her, so your marriage will be a sham. Marry her if you have to, but just...don't send me away."

Harry had begun to pace back and forth, stopping to look fiercely into Draco's blazing eyes. "And don't send away the boys. Whatever is going on--your mysterious illnesses that nobody will talk about--or settling in the dragons--or cleaning all the damned Dark artifacts out of this awful house of yours--let us help." Harry tore off his robes and stood trembling in his old t-shirt and his ripped jeans. "Maybe I'm not as intelligent as a dragon, but I'm strong, and I love you more than my own life. Whatever you need, I'll do it. Just don't think you can send me to Romania, because I'm not going. I'm not leaving you. I belong here. I belong to you." Harry was breathing quickly, shocked at his own daring, but also relieved that his heart had spoken at last.