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"There are five ways out of the manor," the tour guide drawled, "but only four ways in. Madam, please keep your children under control; some of the older furniture finds small fingers surprisingly digestible. No, sir, the public toilets are accessed via the entrance hall; be good enough to follow the signs. Thank you for visiting Malfoy Manor, we hope that you enjoyed your visit. Teas are now being served in the café in the stable yard, where you can buy souvenirs and owlcards. Please follow the house elf. Thank you."
He watched as the last of the idiots – guests, he must remember to think of them as paying guests – tugged a very small child away from the urn that was gaping hopefully in the corner and wandered out. Once he was sure that he was alone, he allowed his glamour to drop and returned to the blue drawing room.
The fireplace was filled with flowers, arching stems of lilies and ferns, the jewel-bright petals of roses. The heavy perfume met him as he walked across the room, his footsteps muffled on the luxurious carpet. He placed a hand on the carved stone below the mantelpiece, spreading his fingers over the shield of the Malfoy arms. He let out a breath and relaxed, feeling the magic respond to his touch, arching against him like a satisfied cat.
The house had protected generation after generation of his family from birth until death; it could handle the brief influx of nosy tourists wanting to sit where Voldemort had sat, or catch a glimpse of one of the disgraced family members, or try to find old bloodstains on the floor.
"It will be all right," he whispered and felt the manor house respond with reassurance of its own, a brief wave of warmth washing over his skin like sunlight. It was a reminder of the simple pleasure he had felt as a child, wandering through the long gallery on a Sunday afternoon, conversing with the ancestors who seemed so much more risqué and fascinating than his tight-lipped parents, or watching the house elves light the candles and dust the treasures that he trusted would be his.
Now many of those treasures were gone, sold by Lucius to fund his final, doomed attempt to regain Voldemort's favour and then to pay off the heavy fines and debts incurred after the Dark Lord's defeat.
Draco squared his shoulders and opened a door in the panelling, making his way along narrow corridors that the paying public would never see, until he knocked on a white door. A voice instructed him to enter.
Narcissa stood before a table piled with flowers. She smiled at him and languidly waved a spray of fragrant freesias.
"Hello, dear. Did you have a nice day?"
"Yes, mother," he lied, because there was no point upsetting her with the truth, not while she struggled so hard to retain her tenuous hold on reality.
"Good. I finished the displays for the dining room and the hall. I hope that Tassy put them out exactly as I instructed, you know how careless she can be."
"Yes, they were lovely. Thank you," Draco said, for this was the one way in which his mother aided him in his task to support them in the manor. The place looked immaculate yet lived-in, which appealed to the hoi polloi. They liked to see flowers and magazines, riding crops and gloves, books and quills, as if the family had just got up and left the room a moment before they arrived.
The door slammed back against the wall and Narcissa gave a genteel squeak of surprise. Draco schooled his expression into impassivity and nodded a greeting.
His father glowered, standing tall in the doorway. Lucius' hair fell like a silvery cloak about his shoulders, his grey eyes were as cool and aloof as ever, his mouth still pursed into an expression of well-bred disdain, yet there were signs that he was fraying at the edges. His clothes were as immaculate as house elves could make them, but there was a suggestion that the velvet robe had been cleaned one too many times, the white shirt underneath was a little limp and there were smears in the polish of his shoes.
"Did you realise," Lucius said, enunciating precisely, "That there are only three bottles left of the elf-made Chateau Margaux?"
"Yes, father."
"What have you done with the others?"
Draco sighed.
"Pettigrew went through the wine cellar and helped himself, the Dark Lord was partial to a glass with his dinner and I sold a selection of bottles to finance the transformation of the stables into a café."
"Malfoys do not run catering establishments," Lucius said through his teeth.
Draco faced him, controlling an urge to tighten his hands into fists. "Malfoys don't file for bankruptcy either, Father."
"You have turned this house into a – a Muggle circus!"
"However, we are still living in it."
"This isn't living, this is existing!"
"Draco, dear, do pour your father a glass of wine and I'll have a small dry sherry," Narcissa said, waving a long-stemmed rose at a crystal vase. Nothing happened. She frowned, swapped the rose for her wand and then her expression relaxed into a smile as the vase filled with water. "And you may have a glass of sherry if you wish."
"I'll have pumpkin juice," Draco muttered. Lucius sneered, as only Lucius could.
"Unless Draco has sold the sherry too, which I wouldn't put past him. Is your next project to build a merry-go-round on the front lawn and turn the carp pond into a paddling pool for the kiddies? Dress your mother up as a milk-maid to sell ice creams in the summer, perhaps?"
"Speaking of which, Father," Draco said, "There's a dinner tonight in the Great Hall. The house elves have everything under control, but I think that you might prefer to eat in here."
"What is it this time?" Lucius asked, his tone growing frostier by the second. "Order of the Phoenix anniversary get-together? Ministry retirement party?"
"A costumed mediaeval banquet."
"Lovely," Lucius muttered. "Tassy! Bring me a bottle of the Chateau Valandraud Saint-Emilio and I'll take dinner in my room."
A slight unsteadiness to his tread was the only indication that Lucius Malfoy had been steadily drinking his way through the Malfoy wine cellar since the defeat of the Dark Lord three years previously.
Narcissa sighed gently, but when Draco turned towards her, she merely gave him a misty look worthy of Professor Trelawney at her most impenetrable and murmured, "I do hope that Tassy remembered to check that the biting orchids can't reach the buds on the Strelizias again, they are prone to nibbling them before they open."
"I'm sure Tassy has done everything perfectly," Draco assured her, and the strong, sweet odour of the flowers almost made him gag. He stretched his mouth into a smile and left his mother pondering over a selection of vases and pots and a vast array of hothouse orchids.
oooOOOooo
Draco would stand here as a child, half-hidden behind a curtain on the gallery, watching as the pureblood witches and wizards drank, ate and played their games of politics. He wondered how many of those arrogant aristocrats were still alive. Most of those people, whom his parents had once considered friends, had vanished like mist after the fall of the Malfoys.
There was a time when he would have done almost anything to be allowed to join the formal dinners and cocktail parties; now he all could hear were the voices of shop-keepers and accountants on a night out, paying for the privilege of drinking and eating at the table where Voldemort had held court.
He walked down the stairs to the hall, his soft indoor boots silent on the stone treads. The elves had assured him that his costume was historically accurate but he wished that he wore a robe and he could definitely have done without the tights. His embroidered green velvet tunic with its silver snake motif and trailing sleeves might be elegant but it could have covered more of his arse. As for the codpiece – he inwardly cursed the idiot who had demanded that this evening's shindig should mimic the first feast given in the Great Hall.
Draco took a deep breath and strode across the flagstones towards the guest of honour, a tall, intimidating figure in sweeping robes.
"Good evening, Minister," Draco said in his most politely professional voice. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor."
Shacklebolt nodded a greeting. Draco was painfully aware that people were watching him, laughing behind his back, nudging each other and pointing out the Malfoy fallen upon hard times. He told himself that he did not care, because Malfoys still owned their ancestral home and he would retain the house no matter what he had to do, even being polite to his father's former enemies. As Shacklebolt turned back to his companions, Draco caught a glimpse of a figure in a deep wine-red doublet and hose. Smallish with short dark hair and elegantly muscled legs, the young man was exactly the type to make Draco's mouth water. He risked a second look and admired strong shoulders and a trim waist, before the object of his momentary lust turned to face him and he stared into green eyes, narrowed in suspicion behind fashionable spectacles.
"Malfoy," Potter said coolly.
"Potter." Draco could have kicked himself. "Enjoy your evening." He stepped away but Potter, never one to take a hint, immediately followed.
"I want a word with you."
There was no overt threat in the tone but neither was there anything reassuring. Draco had managed to survive the last three years without coming face to face with the Boy Who Lived, so why did this have to happen in his own home? He nodded and felt Potter following him as he walked to one of the small side rooms. Candles illuminated small tables set up for card games and a sideboard loaded with bottles of port and liqueurs.
The tension was thrumming through Draco, making him tremble like a nervous horse, and he spoke without thinking. "Come to gloat, Potter?"
Potter's eyes widened slightly and he cocked his head to one side, staring at Draco as if he was looking at him for the first time, as if he was unsure what kind of being Draco was.
"Do you really think that? After all that happened?"
Draco blew out a breath and stared at the framed portrait of his great-great-grandmother. She graced him with a frosty look and returned to her embroidery.
"I don't know," he said; an admission of weakness that made his ancestor sniff audibly. "I don't know why you're here."
"Well, it is supposed to be my birthday party," Potter said in a reasonable tone. "My friends insist on throwing a party for me every year to make up for all the years I didn't celebrate. We do something different every year. This was Hermione's idea." He ran his fingertips along the edge of the polished mahogany sideboard, staring at the display of crystal glasses and decanters as if he saw something else there, something only he was aware of. "I wanted to speak to you."
Draco folded his arms. "Yes? I wouldn't have thought you would have much to say to me."
"How's your mother?"
Draco blinked. "She's well enough. She copes."
"Like you do."
Draco nodded. Neither mentioned Lucius, which was probably significant. Potter sucked his lower lip into his mouth for a moment and Draco felt a sudden spike of arousal. He cleared his throat and asked, "Is that all you wanted to know? Because I have a banquet to supervise."
"I very much doubt if the Malfoy house elves need constant supervision," Potter said with a faint rasp of amusement that made Draco want to both throttle him and throw him down on the priceless rugs and rut against him, all at once. "Look, I know we're not friends and I doubt we ever will be, but we both went through hell and there should be some sort of closure, some – I don't know, some recognition of that."
"I'm unsure how I can help you, Potter." Seeing the Gryffindor flounder like a Hufflepuff ought to have been more satisfying than it actually was.
"I suppose," Potter said with that distant look in his eyes, "I'm trying to make my peace with Slytherin house and you're the only representative that I can talk to without risk of being hexed. To apologise, to try to explain – we were only kids, we inherited all that house rivalry claptrap from our parents and teachers and it's about time we forged our own relationships."
Draco wondered if he had accidentally wandered through a portal into fairyland, and if Potter would run like hell if he saw the relationship that Draco's wayward imagination was conjuring up.
"What kind of relationship are you talking about?" he asked, keeping his face impassive and his voice bland.
"A working one would be good," Potter said and gave a wry grin that did awful things to Draco's insides; things that he could never admit to. "You've built up an unexpected kind of business here."
Draco shrugged. "It isn't how I envisaged my life, but one does what one must."
"And you'd do anything to keep your home."
Draco shrugged again, irritation warring with some other, more elusive emotion. "Indeed, Potter"
Potter paled slightly and his green eyes widened behind the glitter of his glasses. "God," he said, "You sound just like him."
"Who?" Draco asked, genuinely confused. "My father?"
"Him! Snape. You sounded just like Snape."
"And? Is this a problem?"
"Do you realise what I'd give, just to hear him once more, to apologise for doubting him and not respecting him as he deserved? He died before he even knew that his efforts weren't in vain."
"So this is rather more personal than wanting to make peace with Slytherin; you really want to make peace with Professor Snape."
"Yeah, I suppose I do."
"I thought for a minute that you were being subtle," Draco sighed and earned another wry little grin.
"You know me, Gryffindor, subtle as a house brick."
Draco stared into the green eyes, clear as pools of still water. "Come with me."
The decision made, he led the way quickly back into the great hall and out of the nearest entrance.
"It never occurred to me," Potter said as they hurried along a corridor lit by the minimum of lamps, "that even though he isn't in the headmistress' office, you might have his portrait here since he was a friend of your family. It isn't quite the same as speaking to his ghost. He'll never know what we say because the real Snape has gone on, but I'll feel better – where are we going, Malfoy?"
"He likes dungeons," Draco said shortly.
"This had better not be a trap."
"Since everyone knows you're here, and a dozen people saw us leave, I'd be a little obvious if I decided to murder you now. It would be terribly bad for business."
"Speaking of business, I've just bought an old Wizarding manor house in Devon."
"Really, Potter, isn't that a little nouveau riche for you?"
"I'm going to turn it into a high-class Wizarding hotel and country club. I wondered if you'd be interested in setting it up and getting it running for me? Sort out the house elves, find a good manager and staff, stop me making too many mistakes."
Draco was too startled to respond immediately. He swiped his wand across the door of the dungeon to release the wards and the door sprang open.
The cellar room smelled strongly of camphor, hot metal and ginger. A cauldron bubbled glutinously and a lean, middle-aged wizard glanced up with a scowl.
"Draco, you are causing a draught…"
Potter's breath hitched and he went utterly still, staring at the hooked nose and dark eyes, the long black hair and robes of the man whom he had last seen bleeding to death on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. Snape set down his ladle with a click that sounded very loud under the corbelled stone ceiling. "I will throttle you for this, Malfoy," he said in an almost conversational tone.
"Why?" Potter demanded, shaking off his shock with a visible effort. "Why did you let me think you'd died?"
Snape sneered with all his old ferocity. "Because I died, Potter."
Before the Boy Who Lived had chance to draw his wand in anger, Draco held up a hand.
"When Mother and I went to collect his body, we found Severus unconscious. We brought him here and nursed him back to health."
"That isn't possible," Potter snapped.
Draco could not resist smirking. "There was a phoenix sitting on his chest, weeping. I think anything is possible when you have enough magic."
"Draco, why did you do this?" Snape demanded. "Once he tells all his Gryffindor friends, I will never get any peace."
"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want, Professor. I wanted – I needed to tell you that I'm sorry, that I should have believed in you and trusted you."
Snape gazed at Potter, who stared back almost defiantly.
"Had you not acted independently and had you not refused to believe what you were told, things would have turned out very differently." Snape sniffed and leaned over his cauldron with a sigh. "Potter, if you had trusted me, my cover would have been blown, for you would have told the world."
Draco watched a smile creep slowly across Potter's face.
"Do you want those comfrey roots mincing, Professor?" Harry asked.
Snape looked at Potter's velvet doublet and hose. His gaze lingered for a moment before he shook his head.
"Go back to your party and forget that you saw me."
"Why?" Potter approached with that typical Gryffindor foolhardiness that had earned him so many detentions in Potions class. "You're a hero, everyone knows how Dumbledore used you, how you were forced to kill him to secure your place at Voldemort's side."
"Maybe I do not desire the adulation of the crowds, unlike some."
"Where have you been, what have you been doing?" Potter leaned on the workbench. "Have you been hiding here all this time?"
Snape snorted.
"I mind my own business, but Draco invites me for an occasional visit."
"Potions?" Potter asked. "Research?"
Snape gave him a piercing glare but Potter seemed unabashed. He turned so that he leaned backwards against the bench. "I bet you've been working on potions. I'd have said the Dark Arts, but I bet you've had enough of them for a while."
"Potter, why don't you just sod off?"
The Boy Who Lived laughed, and it was a sound that had seldom been heard in Malfoy Manor over the last few years, the sound of honest, carefree amusement. "You have to really mean it, you know."
The revelation came upon Draco all at once. Despite his Gryffindor openness and lack of guile, Potter was far from being the idiot he sometimes pretended to be. He knew exactly what he was doing here and Draco, who had watched and listened throughout their years at Hogwarts, suddenly recognised the heat between Snape and Potter for what it was. His heart slowed as if his chest was filling up with ice.
"Potter," Draco said, through lips that felt numb and rigid, "Your guests will think that I have abducted you."
Snape glanced at him; a sharp and cynical look that proclaimed that he saw Draco's unease and was intrigued by it. Then Potter turned and stared from one to the other, his eyes wide.
"Oh," he said, and that simple exhalation carried recognition and surprise.
All three stood still in that moment of comprehension, and Draco waited to see which way Potter would jump.
Surely a Gryffindor would Do The Right Thing; Potter the brave and self-sacrificing would step back, allowing Draco the one solace that made his struggle to rebuild his family's reputation bearable. Yet Draco knew with numb despair that Potter the schoolyard rival could reach out, all bright and golden and laughing, and take Snape away just as easily as he had snatched the Quidditch trophy and the House Cup. Draco knew that Snape would go. Snape had resisted while they had been at school, because he was, in essence, an honourable man and he would never touch a student in his care. Snape had twisted that subtle heat of frustration into anger and spite, holding Potter away by strength of will, but now that Potter not only recognised the attraction but also apparently returned it, how could Draco, the tarnished outcast, possibly compete?
Draco should have remembered that Harry Potter specialised in achieving the impossible.
"I hadn't realised that you two were together," Potter said quietly.
All the time, Potter was watching them both, living utterly in the moment. Draco thought that this was how they had flown as rival Seekers, nerves strung tight, aware of the slightest shift of focus, the merest flutter of muscle immediately before the other moved.
Snape licked his lower lip. "What is it to you?"
That was Snape, defensive and prickly, acutely protective of his privacy.
Flick, went Potter's green gaze. "You want me."
Draco almost gasped. Was the idiot insane? No, he was just a Gryffindor.
"Potter..." Snape said in a clearly warning tone, but Potter held up both hands with a placatory gesture.
"You do, and so does Draco. You see, I feel that the three of us were linked in this cycle of attraction-repulsion that goes a lot deeper than just the obvious house rivalry and teacher-student dynamic."
Snape blinked. "So you do understand long words, Potter?"
"Yeah, I just can't be arsed to use them very often."
"What are you suggesting?" Snape glided closer, his head thrust forward and beaky nose pointing towards Potter like the needle of a compass.
"I'm suggesting," Potter said, and paused to run the pink tip of his tongue across his lips, "that you, Draco, and I, have the potential to be good together."
There was silence in the room, except for the soft plop of the potion, bubbling in the cauldron.
"Then I suggest that the two of you return to your allotted places at the banquet," Snape said, drawing himself up and folding his arms. He stood square, his boots firm against the stone flags and his lean outline wrapped in potion-stained black robes. "We can discuss this unique suggestion later, when the guests have gone and we are unlikely to be interrupted by a search party of Weasleys or my ex-colleagues."
Watching Potter's open expression turn to a smile was like watching the sun rise.
"Yeah, right, we'll do that. Don't run away."
"Do not drink too much." Snape waved a hand in dismissal and turned back to his potion.
As Draco glanced back into the dungeon as he closed the door, he caught Snape's eye. The older wizard nodded once.
"Come on, Draco," Potter said, and marched off along the gloomy subterranean corridor as if he owned the place. Then he turned and walked backwards, grinning widely. "You don't mind if I call you Draco, do you? I want you to call me Harry."
"Harry," Draco said, "Whatever."
Despite his assumed nonchalance, Draco's balls tightened in anticipation.
oooOOOooo
Between his duties as Master of Ceremonies and overseeing the scuttling waves of house elves, Draco did not have time to snatch more than a few gulps of mead and a sandwich. The centrepiece of the meal was a roasted peacock, an indulgence of which Lucius was mercifully unaware. Draco could not bring himself to try it.
The guests gathered in groups to chat, drink, dance or play card games, and Draco edged around the knots of witches and wizards. Potter was lifting himself onto his toes to seek him over the crowd, his eyes searching, green as Crème de Menthe, new grass or the spell-light of death. As soon as Potter saw him, he murmured something to his companions and their heads swung around towards Draco, staring openly.
"Malfoy," the Weasel said with obvious reluctance. His sister frowned and nodded, while Granger looked at Draco as if he was a specimen on a slab, about to be dissected for a potion. She abruptly took the Weasel and the Weaselette by an arm each and said brightly, "Harry, we'll see you at the Burrow on Sunday. Come along, Ron, I promised your Dad we'd make up a foursome and I'd teach him how to play bridge."
"All yours," Potter said, beaming openly at Draco.
"What in Merlin's name did you tell them?"
"Said I wanted to talk to your mother. She did save my life. I would like to see her, actually, but I can wait until tomorrow."
"Just as well. She'll be happy enough to see you but I can't say the same for my father."
"Um. He won't hex me, will he?"
"Severus won't let him, but we'll keep out of his way anyway."
Potter followed for a while, then enquired, "Can Snape stop Lucius Malfoy doing anything in his own home?"
"My father has changed," Draco said carefully. "We have all changed; we had no choice."
"You became a pragmatist."
"Among other things, yes. My mother retreated from reality and my father retreated to the wine cellar."
"Both of them left you to sink or swim on your own."
"Not quite on my own. Mind the trip step, third from the top."
"We're not going to the dungeon?"
"Potter, I don't force my guests to sleep in the cellars. This way, don't let the screaming skull bother you, it'll shut up when it realises you're not scared."
Potter stuck out his tongue at the skull but instead of lunging at him, the damned thing retreated into the corner of its shelf, teeth chattering like castanets.
"Doesn't look very scary to me," Potter said and waggled his fingers at it. "Was it one of your ancestors?"
"Not that I know of, more likely an enemy."
The house elves had already attended to the green guest bedroom. They had opened the windows to catch the evening breeze, curtains blowing softly into the room. There was a jug of iced water and a vase of fresh lily-of-the-valley on the table. The elves were probably not responsible for the naked Snape sprawled facedown on the bed.
Potter stopped dead, staring as if unable to believe the scene of casually erotic domesticity. Snape must have showered after working on potions all day; his dressing gown was laid across the foot of the bed, and he had been reading a book from the Malfoy library until he had fallen asleep.
The silence was broken by Snape's soft snores. That commonplace sound stole Draco's breath away and turned his heart over inside him, leaving him hollow and aching. So few people had ever seen this side of the man in his everyday existence. No one else slept beside Snape, heard him clean his teeth, watched him comb his hair or trim his fingernails, and now Draco was planning on sharing this extraordinary ordinariness with Potter, of all people.
Draco took in a breath, knowing that he could not articulate all that he felt, for all he could do was warn Potter what would happen to him if he dared to harm a hair of Severus Snape's head. For Snape, Draco would face up to the Boy Who Lived even if it meant his own downfall and the utter obliteration of the House of Malfoy.
Before Draco could speak, Potter moved across the room, so that his knees pressed against the side of the bed. He reached out, very slowly, until his hand was spread out in the air an inch above Snape's back, then he brought it down lightly, smoothing his fingers across the pale skin. Snape made a small sound of sleepy contentment as Potter placed the other hand on the opposite side of Snape's vertebrae and began to massage the muscles of his back.
This was unexpected. Draco thought Potter would fling himself at the older wizard, demanding attention; he would never have predicted this degree of caring or sensitivity. As Potter increased the pressure, running his thumbs up and down Snape's spine, Snape settled his arms more comfortably and undulated against the bed. Potter chuckled, not unkindly, obviously pleased to elicit such a response.
Snape's position barely altered, yet Draco saw his sudden tension as Snape realised that the hands belonged to the Potter brat. Potter leaned down and spoke softly against the side of Snape's head.
"Relax and let Draco and me look after you."
So in just one sentence, Potter defined the dynamics of their relationship. Draco had no reason to argue, not when he was deliberately included, or was given the opportunity to watch as Snape met his match. This was not the sulky adolescent Potter of the classroom and Quidditch field; this was an adult who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.
Snape subsided into the mattress again and Draco wondered if he even realised that he had just obeyed an instruction from one of his ex-students.
"Harder, Potter, I'm not made of glass."
Potter let his hands fall to his side and waited. Snape's head turned and one dark eye peered up at him between strands of still-damp hair.
"Potter?"
"I will, but only if you call me 'Harry.'"
"Oh for Merlin's sake…harder, Harry."
Draco Accioed a jar of moisturising cream from the bathroom and held it out.
"Face cream?" Potter mouthed with an expression of incredulity.
"Hand cream," Draco drawled. "Because of the solvents in the potions. You know, potions? Those things you were never very good at brewing?"
"Ha ha, very amusing." However Potter dipped his fingers into the jar and smoothed the cream across Snape's shoulders. Snape gave a sigh of satisfaction.
"My strengths lie elsewhere," Potter remarked. "I'm really rather good at Defence against the Dark Arts."
Snape snorted.
"The skull didn't scream at him," Draco explained with slight reluctance. "In fact, it cowered."
"It cowers from me."
"Only because it got pissed off with being hexed every time you passed it."
"What did you do, blast it with the Glare of Messy Disembowelment with a Blunt Spoon?" Potter enquired.
"You can't disembowel a skull, Pot- Harry," Draco said impatiently. "A paper party hat and daisies sprouting from its eye sockets completely offended its sense of dignity. It sulked for weeks."
"God, I've missed you Slytherins." Potter looked down at Snape and the green eyes behind the modern designer spectacles were suspiciously bright. "You just can't imagine how much I've missed you. I love the way you see everything from such a skewed angle."
"Thanks, Potter."
"No, I didn't mean it in a nasty way. Am I doing this right, Professor?"
"I'm no longer your professor," Snape growled, although the effect was diminished by the way his voice was muffled in the pillow and his hips were shifting in small, impatient circles. "You make me sound like a child-molester."
"Severus, then. Is this okay?"
Snape suddenly rolled over onto his back, interlaced his fingers behind his head and smirked. As well he might, Draco thought, admiring the lean lines of the man's body and the long cock that reared up from its nest of black hair.
"Are you going to attend to the front, now, Harry?"
"It's Draco's turn," Potter said, although he could not stop staring at that twitching cock.
"I suppose that you might learn something if you watch closely – oomph!"
Potter had leaned over and closed his mouth over the older wizard's lips, swallowing his words. Draco took out his wand, sighted along it, aimed at Potter's back and whispered a charm, nodding with satisfaction as Potter's clothes whisked themselves away and folded up on a chair beside the window, boots and all. Potter twitched as the cool evening air chilled his skin, but did not remove his mouth from Snape's. Draco admired his taut, muscular arse for a while then charmed away his own clothes.
Without breaking the kiss, Potter slid onto the bed until his body lay parallel with Snape's. They were a study in similarities and contrasts. Potter was six inches shorter, but quite muscular now that he had been on a decent diet for a few years; broad in the shoulder with strong thighs. Snape was long and lean, pale against Potter's summer tan, but they had in common dishevelled black hair, scars and a look of hard-won competence. More than competence as far as kissing went, Draco had to admit. He'd rarely seen anything as hot as the two wizards writhing on the bed. Snape slid his arms around Potter's – no, Harry's torso and appeared to be attempting to suck off his face.
The Boy Who Lived made an enthusiastic humming sound in his throat and muttered "Draco, where the hell are you?" in between placing little nibbles and kisses along the side of Snape's jaw.
"Oh, just wondering if I should leave you to it and go off to my bed."
Draco had not intended to sound so petulant or needy, but he was tired and hungry and here was his lover, rolling around with the Boy Who Lived.
Snape raised his head, turned the full force of the Head-of-Slytherin-House glare in Draco's direction and growled, "Malfoy! In this bed! Now!"
As Draco clambered on board, Harry reached up and slid his open palm along the side of Draco's cheek, gently digging his fingers into his hair and holding him still. "This has never been just about fucking for you, has it?"
"Oh sure, Potter, it's all about twue wuv."
"Because I don't do one-night-stands," Harry continued as if Draco had not spoken. "This isn't a casual fling."
"Right, we've been together fifteen minutes and you're giving us chocolate and flowers –"
"We've known each other for ten years," Harry said. "Has anything about our relationships ever been casual? I doubt that Severus Snape has done anything casual since he was a teenager. Just saying, because you're afraid I'll try to take him from you, and I won't, ever. I don't do things like that to people." He gave a small grin. "Okay?"
"Okay." Draco launched himself at the wretch, flinging him backwards onto the bed, and kissed him. It seemed to work just as well at shutting up chatty Boys Who Lived as it did on bossy ex-Potions masters.
Draco felt as if his senses opened wide, drinking in sensation like the summer fields absorbing rain after a drought. He could smell the light, distinctive scent of the lilies of the valley in their vase, wafting on the breeze from the window. Snape smelled of citrus shampoo and Harry had a faint odour that was simply of clean, healthy young male.
Draco ran his hands across Harry's back, feeling the unfamiliar shape of him, the slope of ribs and the smooth elasticity of his skin. Snape sighed and his breath gusted across Draco's face, warm and moist. Harry's kiss was flavoured with mead and peaches. When Snape reached to grasp Draco's head and redirect him to his own mouth, he had a darker but no less heady taste of red wine and chocolate.
"Yes," Snape breathed, "Oh yes. Draco, show Harry what you are capable of."
Draco leaned over and kissed his way down Harry's back, until he had to part the cheeks of his arse. He felt Harry quiver in surprise or anticipation. When he licked across the tight little pucker, Harry jerked.
"Fuck, Draco, what are you…. oh my God!"
"Do not tell me you are a virgin, Potter?" Snape purred. He was lying with his chin propped on one hand, long and pale in the candlelight, his hair all over the place and his cock glistening.
"No! But no one's ever done that before! Is that your tongue? "
Draco blew across the moist orifice and then pushed the tip of his tongue inside, tasting the sharp muskiness that was subtly different from the flavour of Snape.
"Ah-ah." Snape reached out and caught Harry's hand on its way towards his groin, "No, do not touch that. If we have to educate you, we will do it properly."
Gracefully, he leaned down and closed his lips around the end of Harry's prick.
Draco suspected that this would not take long. When Snape intended to teach anything, he ensured that he first thoroughly mastered the lesson. Within minutes, Harry's entire being seemed to clench as he thrust into Snape's mouth with an inarticulate cry of warning, which Snape naturally ignored.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, "oh, fuck…." He gave a little sobbing kind of laugh and collapsed in a sweaty heap.
"Now there is an excellent suggestion," Snape said in his low, sinful voice. "Would you prefer to be seduced by a Snape or mastered by a Malfoy?" He ran a finger across Harry's chest, tweaking a small brown nipple in passing.
Draco saw a bright green eye swivel in his direction.
"Later," Harry declared. "I'll decide later. Now I want to watch you two together while I get my breath back."
"Draco?" Snape said and held out his arms. Draco went willingly into the embrace of his protector, lover and mentor, and as he tipped back his head to allow Snape to kiss the fragile skin beneath his jaw, he felt Harry lightly slide a hand up his thigh.
"God," Harry said, "You're beautiful. Did you know that?"
So are you, Draco thought, but did not say so out loud.
"Beauty," Snape murmured against Draco's throat, "intelligence and power. What more could we ask for?"
Draco pretended to think, difficult when cunning hands were sliding across his skin and a mouth was sucking delicately at the lobe of his ear.
"Hm, how about money?"
"I'm working on that," Harry said with an air of slightly smug contentment. "I think that the Malfoy fortunes will soon be on the upturn."
Snape stopped licking Draco's ear and smirked.
"I should like to see Lucius' face when he finds out that it is thanks to Harry Potter."
"I shall be doing the hard work, if you don't mind. Harry has asked me to turn some old mausoleum into a superior Wizarding hotel and country club." Draco paused, and then, in a rather different tone of voice, said, "Could I bring my mother along for a while, to oversee the elves and do the flowers?"
"Of course. Erm, does that mean you'll be bringing your father…?"
All three of them considered that prospect.
"I think not," Draco said, and shuddered as Snape blew into his ear. "One wine cellar at a time is quite enough."
Draco allowed himself to be lowered onto the bed. Snape began running a hand-cream-slicked hand across his arse, teasing, pushing the very tip of his finger inside then withdrawing it again, maddeningly slowly, building the anticipation until Draco's balls ached.
There were five ways out of the Manor, Draco reflected, but never would he have imagined that he would be leaving with Severus Snape and Harry Potter, on his way to seeking his fortune and, just maybe, finding love.