Title: Saving the Lives of the Living
Author: ashe_frost
Team: EWE
Prompt: 15. He who can, does. He who can't, teaches the Dark Arts.
Wordcount: 5374
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slight voyeurism.
Summary: When the wards start failing at Hogwarts, workaholic Harry takes a holiday to help.
Author's Note: Special thanks to my great team and my super amazing last minute beta.

Saving the Lives of the Living

Harry had never meant to come back to Hogwarts, but here he was, feeling over-large and out of place in the foyer with his broomstick in his hand and his jeans covered knee-high with mud. Water dripped out of his hair and echoed off the stone, sharp and bone chilling in the vast silence.

He moved to the staircase, went to put his hand on the railing, but—

"It's different," Neville interrupted.

Harry had thought he'd be in the headmaster's office, talking to portraits and thinking up strange analogies and silly hats. He turned. "Yeah?"

Neville nodded. He was broader-jawed now, but his face was still round, and somewhere under the neatly trimmed fringe and pointed hat Harry could see echoes of the chubby eleven year old, in frantic search of his frog on the train.

Neville took in an audible breath; ran his finger along the railing. "Less alive somehow."

Harry lay his palm flat against the stone. It was cool and strangely empty, if not a little rough on his hands. Just like any other stone. He felt a twinge clenching in his chest. "There's no magic."

"No." Neville met Harry on the stairs, and indicated that he follow. "Not just here. There are bits all over the castle like it—the new bits, I suspect."

"New bits?"

Neville made a sharp turn behind a colorful tapestry book ended by angry looking suits of armor. He held it open so Harry could follow him through. "After the reconstruction."

"Right."

"I thought Hermione'd have gone on about the whole thing. It's in the newer editions of Hogwarts: A History." Neville grinned.

Harry tried to muster the energy to grin back. It mustn't have worked, but he wasn't sure it mattered: Neville made one final turn into a long hall and stopped at an alcove.

"Trolly-whumpet," he spoke. The alcove pulled itself apart and was replaced with a large wooden door, which Neville opened. "It's not quite Gryffindor Tower, but it's near the kitchens," he said cheerfully. "What do you think, Harry?"

Harry stepped into the room. It was decorated in purples with a lush four-poster in the center, but aside from that plain and rather Spartan. It was still better decorated than Harry's room at home.

"You can use the employee baths. They're near the owlery. Or you can have a shower—there's one in your loo."

"Thanks, Neville."

Neville put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. Harry remembered eyes blazing with glory and the sick sound of sword separating flesh. "Thank you, Harry. I know this whole thing is a bit—well, not quite what you'd imagined, but I appreciate it, really."

Harry was able to manage a smile. "I reckoned I owed you a favor."

Neville smiled back. There seemed something wistful and out of place in the way his smile went all the way to his eyes.

Harry woke late the next morning to tea and toast on his night table, and his robes crisp and folded on the end of his bed. It made him think of his own home in Godric's Hollow, of crawling out of bed at nearly eight, sucking down a cup of poorly made coffee, and apparating to work without taking a look at his hair.

Sometimes it was different, like when he Ginny had tried it on again for a bit. It fell apart in a dramatic, flaming mess and nearly two years later, Harry still hadn't given himself time to look back.

That had been the problem, really. Harry didn't have time. ("You don't have time, Harry, you make it!" Ginny had screamed at him in the heat of one of their more violent battles, charming dishes to fly madly toward his head.) He went to work in the morning, came home, had supper, did paperwork, went to bed, and started all over. ("How is it he's the one denying me sex?" Ginny had asked Hermione once, loud enough for him to hear. "A bit too into his job, this one.")

It's not that Harry loved his job, really. Or even that he liked it. He actually disliked most things about it—getting up early, dressing appropriately, behaving accordingly, following the rules—but it was important, and it had to be done. There were still Death Eaters out there. There were madmen and kidnappers. There were illegal potion makers. There were little boys who learned to make schoolyard bullies pay with the power of their minds. There were people to protect. There were lives to save. Harry Potter, vanquisher of Dark Wizards. It was an easy niche to slide into. He was persistent and effective and was able to draw enough power on name alone to intimidate most suspects into confession, whether or not it was for the crime they purportedly committed.

Except it was soulless somehow. Even the difficult cases were unchallenging, and the easy ones made Harry feel like a paper-pushing drone. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it some of it—he quite liked the camaraderie of the office and the idea that the world was safer when he left the office than when he got there—it just that he didn't have anything else.

Most of Harry's friends didn't keep very close contact with him after the chaos from the war died down. Going on six years later, and Harry mostly spoke to Ron and Hermione, maybe a terse, polite conversation when Ginny was about. Sometimes he went ‘round the pub with Ron and his shop owner friends on weekends, but these days, Ron and Hermione spent more time in Australia than they did in their London flat. He got dragged out more than once with a few others, and got lost in a throbbing, anonymous nightclub on a scarce occasion with one of the Junior Auror Corps.

The thought of it all tasted like cardboard in his mouth. Harry had never been good at maneuvering social situations, and trying to be himself in a crowd when he wasn't leading the troops was harder than hardly being at all. So mostly he stayed home or stayed out with a whiskey in his hand, then went to bed, woke up, rushed out the door, and went to work again.

When Harry made the decision to come back to Hogwarts again, Kingsley had joked, "Of course you may use your holiday to work harder, Harry." He smiled, warm and soft, and shook his head affectionately. "Go on, then. Maybe you'll actually use some of it to take a load off."

Of course, Harry had no intention of taking anything off. Except for his quidditch sweats: the ride from London to Hogwarts was a long one, and an exhausting one for bored, athletic flyers who had trouble at the best of times sitting still. He contemplated, for a moment, heading to the faculty baths, but at the last minute turned to his own shower. It would be quicker this way. And besides, he didn't feel much like being social today. Who knew who he'd run across in there?

The second Harry made it to the Great Hall for lunch, he wished he'd gone to the faculty bath instead. He hadn't thought much about it, but assumed he was meant to sit with the faculty at the front table. He'd just stepped into the hall, and hundreds of little eyes bore into him already. He felt his skin stinging from the contact, his hair standing up on end. Harry's hands grew clammy, and for some reason, he remembered walking to his death that time, before.

The door sounded heavily behind him, and when the room broke out into excited whispers, Neville waved him over. "Up here, Harry."

For a moment, Harry got a flash of grammar school when the world was against him, and was flooded with mixed sense of apprehension and relief. He sat to Neville's left. The whispers died down, but all of the eyes didn't leave him.

There was a plump but pretty witch to Harry's left, and she extended her hand to him. "Cecelia Combs," she intoned. Her accent was sharp and he couldn't quite place it.

"Harry." He shook her hand.

She smiled, her cheeks pinking and happy wrinkles scrunching up beneath her eyes. "Welcome, Harry. It's nice to finally meet you."

Harry hated this part. He tried to smile.

Cecelia gathered a careful forkful of cold chicken and offered a water pitcher to him. "Professor Longbottom speaks of you a lot. I'm sure you've quite a few stories of him, as well. He always says he was an awkward youth, but I don't believe a word of it. He's so strong and commanding, now. Deputy Headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in Brittan at twenty-three is quite an accomplishment, you know."

Harry tried to arrange his face in something other than an alarmed stare. Cecelia was going on about Neville like Hagrid about dragons or Hermione about books, cataloguing his lifetime of accomplishments to the color of his hair. It was refreshing, for once, not to be the celebrity. And to think of Neville, shy and awkward, Ginny ashamed of him as they walked into the Yule ball, garnering this sort of adulation.

Harry spoke to Neville sideways. "Looks like you've got an admirer, mate."

Neville grinned through a mouthful of potato. "A bit. But she's all right. Teaches Muggle Studies."

"Ah."

"Hannah doesn't mind. The thing is, teaching at Hogwarts is quite like attending Hogwarts—we're stuck together all the time and news travels just as fast."

"And now the cat's away," came a clipped tone from over Harry's shoulder. Draco Malfoy reached around him to grab an apple off the table, and took a seat to Neville's right. He looked different than Harry remembered him. Stronger somehow, with softer hair and dark grey robes that didn't leave him looking quite as pale. He sat with perfect posture, still managing to look as if he were lounging.

"Draco's our charms instructor."

Harry's mouth opened without his permission. "I thought it would be potions."

"I thought so, too, when he was applying," Neville replied.

"Clearly, your lot was too busy cheating at quidditch to fully understand the cleverness of Draco Malfoy," he took an infuriatingly elegant sip of tea, "I was never great at potions."

"You were great at kissing up to Snape."

"Only because you were taken by everyone else, Potter."

Harry's spoon cut into his hand as his fist clenched around it. "Didn't you fail your Charms O.W.L., Malfoy?"

Neville put his hand over his mouth—he was either choking or holding back laughter.

Malfoy bit emphatically into his apple. "I'm brilliant at charms, Potter, not concentration in the face of loathing."

"It's fitting, in a way, Harry. Think of all the charms you made him practice."

"The Potter Stinks badges," Harry remembered.

"An amateur attempt. The ones that sang at your Weasley were much cleverer."

"Until they backfired and we stomped you into the pitch."

"Please, Potter, all this reminiscing is giving me head ache."

"The truth hurts, Malfoy."

"So does your haircut. Also, you smell of oxen." Malfoy stood, took another apple, and left. "Good day, all."

Neville laughed heartily. "Good on you, Harry."

"Sorry?" Harry looked up from poking at his food.

"You've won me a bet."

"What sort?"

"We had a pool going on how long Draco could go without insulting you. I guessed he wouldn't get through the first half hour."

"We tried to have him promise, you know," said a wizard across the table, "use logic—a wizard of your status is kind to guests, Draco, that sort of thing."

"He didn't take to it much," Cecelia added, watching events unfold with rapt concentration.

"Slytherins don't bet, only bargain," Neville mocked, in a fair impersonation of Malfoy's accent. "He wanted an extra week's pay. I flooed Minerva—she wasn't having it. So we told him we'd do a pool and if he won, he could have it all."

"I don't expect him to be best pleased to see you for the rest of your stay with us, Harry," said another witch—Harry recognized her as Hermione's Runes teacher.

Suddenly, Harry was starving. He grinned. "Good."

Harry spent the rest of the day walking around the castle. McGonagall was off on sabbatical somewhere, and when the wards starting failing, Neville had sent him an owl:

The letter had lain wrinkled under a pile of papers for days before Hermione discovered it. "I didn't know you were going back to Hogwarts."

Harry was working on a bottle of beer. "I haven't said yes."

Hermione regarded him for a long moment. "I'll just make the arrangements for you, then, shall I?"

Ron rolled his eyes, "Don't argue with her, mate, it only delays the process."

Hermione beamed at him. "Oh, Ron, I've trained you so well."

Ron leaned toward Harry, and whispered theatrically, "I'll distract her, you go for the door. Save yourself before she gets her hooks in you, too. Go! Go before it's too late!"

Hermione's laughter rang like happy bells through Harry's house in Godric's Hollow. She dropped a kiss on Ron's head from above before sitting on the sofa beside him. "I really think you need some time off, Harry. All you do is work and sleep."

"That's not fair, Hermione," Ron interjected, "he gets pissed a fair amount, too."

Hermione scowled at him. "Like you're one to talk about drinking."

Ron held his hands up in defense. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"The co-conspirator, more like. I can't count the times—"

"Guys," Harry interrupted. He had to repeat himself more than once before anyone finally listened.

Hermione let out a slow breath, as if calming herself, "Go on."

"I'm fine. My job is fine. The amount I drink is fine. Everything is just fine." Maybe his voice was tenser than it should have been. When he showed aggression, it was usually Ron who spoke first.

"Only, we're a bit worried about you, mate. Well, Hermione's worried. I mostly think you need a good shag."

Hermione elbowed him. "What Ron is trying to say is that you don't seem very happy."

"I'm fine."

She reached over Ron and put her hand on Harry's knee. "Fine isn't happy, Harry, it's just fine. Please, go to Hogwarts, catch up with Neville, take time to really think about where you are in your life and where you'd rather be."

"Go down to Hogsmeade and find a star struck young witch to have your way with," Ron added, his sincere, droning tone matching Hermione's to comedic exactness. "Or wizard," he added as an afterthought.

Harry rubbed at his aching head. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

Hermione straightened. "Only if you promise to think about going to Hogwarts."

"Fine."

Ron mimicked Hermione's posture. "Fine isn't yes, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "All right."

That had been weeks ago. Harry hadn't seen them since. He didn't often seek out company, and he wasn't sure he missed them, technically, but it seemed strange to have them away so often, together, as a unit. He thought of them sometimes, like now, as he walked around the perimeter of the castle in the drizzling rain.

Harry remembered blue waterproof flames and the three of them fitting under his Invisibility cloak. Things seemed simpler then: the three of them against the world, then Harry against Voldemort, and now, Harry for done up collars and twelve hour work days.

He sunk against the side of the building and sighed. Being at Hogwarts wasn't helping him do anything. He was mostly moping about and running scans to detect magic. So far, he'd discovered that the new construction wasn't holding wards the way the old castle had been. It was an easy diagnosis, but a tedious cure: every bit of new material needed to be isolated and re-warded in an boring display of slow, careful spell work.

Harry didn't realize he was so exhausted. He decided to make a night of it, tucked his wand into his back pocket, and headed to his rooms for bed.

Harry spent most of the next day in the library, researching. Madame Pince still looked down her nose at him disapprovingly as his feet echoed loudly through the section on wards, but he found what he needed quickly and settled down at Hermione's preferred table in the back.

He yawned. Even when it pertained to a case, Harry still found research boring. His ears perked up, and his eyes started to wander.

He zeroed in on two boys attempting to enter the Restricted Section to no avail.

"There's nothing for it," one said to the other.

"Malfoy's going to kill us."

"He'll kill us worse if we're late for DA."

"Bollocks. What's the time?"

The two rushed off with their heads bent together, speaking frantically in hushed tones.

Harry hastily shoved the books he'd chosen into his charmed bag and followed.

He cast a Disillusionment charm on himself as he was leaving the library, and pulled his Invisibility cloak over his head as they rounded the first corner. It seemed like he walked hunched over (he was too tall for the Invisibility cloak; it showed the soles of his trainers) for ages before one of the boys opened a door.

It wasn't until he saw the singed stone that Harry realized he was in the Room of Requirement. He felt his heart in his throat.

"Appleby, Stoneworth, how kind of you to join us," Malfoy said without looking away from the rest of (what Harry could only assume was) his class. "Which of you will stand to be my first victim—I mean, volunteer?" The class snickered.

"I'll do it, professor," Stoneworth said. He stood with the wand at the ready.

"Count us off, Emily." Malfoy trained his eye on his pupil.

"Three, two, one."

"Sectumsempra! ” Stoneworth shouted.

"Ereptum!" Malfoy cast back. A bright white enveloped him, and Stoneworth's spell bounced off it and fell into the floor.

The students watched raptly, speaking admiring phrases like, "Wow" and "Cool."

Harry was furious. He waited until Malfoy had the students in pairs and left.

Malfoy followed. "Take the bloody cloak off, Potter."

Harry did. "What the hell are you playing at, Malfoy?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"The bit where you're teaching or the bit where you're teaching Dark spells to school kids?"

"It's none of your concern, Potter."

"You're right, Malfoy, it's Neville's."

Malfoy smirked. "Neville already knows."

"I'll bet."

"D'you want to? I don't work for fun, you know. I hear your vaults are stuffed full."

"Don't push it, Malfoy. I'm an Auror."

"Arrest me."

Harry shrugged. "All right, I will." He trained his wand on Malfoy, who looked calm and determined, and not scared.

"Go on."

"Why?" There was something about the familiar set of Malfoy's jaw that made him ask.

"You think I've broken the law. Arrest me."

"No, Malfoy. Why that spell? Why the class?"

"It's a club, actually. And like Professor Longbottom, I think we should send our students into the world prepared to fight against those who are actually against them."

"The war's over, Malfoy." Harry lowered his wand a fraction. He could see Malfoy's jaw clench.

"But the battle's just begin."

"Sorry?"

"Some students aren't born into a fabled destiny, Potter."

"Right. Because fighting Voldemort was a piece of cake, wasn't it?"

"Choosing to fight him was. Not all students wake up one day and realize they're born to fight evil. Some of them are taught to believe the lies of crazy undead wizards and are to terrified and foolish to turn those beliefs away."

"So you're giving them access to Dark magic?"

"No, Potter, I'm giving them a choice. I'm giving them something else to believe in," Malfoy said. But what Harry heard was, "I'm giving myself a second chance."

He lowered his wand completely. "I'm still going to Neville."

Malfoy looked down. "I don't teach them to do the spells, you know. I show them what they look like. They're in there using shield charms against jelly-legs curses."

"Okay, Malfoy." Harry sighed.

Malfoy stepped closer. "I'm doing a good thing, Potter."

"Having them make up for the things you ruined yourself?"

Malfoy shrugged, shoulders tight with palpable fury. "If you can, do. If you can't teach."

"I have work to do," Harry told him. He didn't go to Neville's office, and instead went straight to bed.

Harry skipped breakfast the next morning in favor of a quick snack in the kitchens. He had a lot of work to do, he was still exhausted, and sick to death of being in the castle.

He decided to ward the grounds first. He started with the Forbidden Forest. He remembered unicorn corpses and Malfoy's terrified scream, his own calm voice as he walked toward death and mad laughter. He remembered Grawp, and Hagrid, and Ron, and giant spiders. He remembered Dolores Umbridge and angry centaurs and running for his life from a werewolf that mostly just wanted to save him.

When he got to the lake, he felt queasy. He remembered dementors, and the sunlight glinted copper-gold in Ginny's hair. He remembered kissing her for the first time in the tower and how new it felt. He remembered being young and passionate and alive.

Harry had no idea what happened to himself. He must have been some sort of masochist. There were moments from his youth, when Voldemort was chasing him, that he remembered as being the happiest he'd ever felt. Now, it was if he didn't feel at all. His days were long and mind numbing, his nights spent in dreamless sleep, his mornings spent in attempting to drag himself out of bed.

He felt dead, in comparison, and here he was, going around saving the lives of the living.

Harry looked at his watch. It was past four. He went into Hogsmeade to drown his thoughts in Butterbeer.

Harry spent the next day working over the quidditch pitch. He was re-warding a patchy bit in the showers of the boys locker room roof when he heard voices coming up behind him. He strained for bits of conversation, but made out only muffled sounds.

Then it was just a loud crash of lockers slamming, and the echo of shoes thudding onto the ground. Then a grunt, and a moan and Harry was looking around the partition.

One student had the other shoved against the locker with a fist full of hair, shirtless with his chest pressed against the other's. Their mouths met, then the taller of the one with his back against the lockers went to attack his partner's neck.

Harry wasn't sure the boys knew what they were doing as one reached his hand into the other's pants, trousers discarded on the floor. It felt strange watching them. They were so stupid and so young. They looked as if they were devouring one another. One of them gave a particularly impressive groan.

"Someone," he panted, "coming."

The other boy buried his face in his hair. "Me too, me too."

Footsteps echoed in the locker room. Harry hid himself more fully.

"Jones, Thurston," came Malfoy's voice, calm, but cutting through the sounds of the couple's labored breathing.

"Bollocks!" one of the boys shouted, then Harry could hear the rustle of clothing.

"Look, Professor Malfoy, we were just—"

"I saw perfectly well what you were doing."

"It's just that—my mum, and she doesn't—"

"And mine does, but not with—"

"I mean, it's hard—"

"Oh god, spare me the details." Malfoy's voice carried a strange tone of laughter.

"I—I didn't. I mean, I wasn't—"

"Stop blathering, Nigel."

"Yes, Thurston, blithering is quite unbecoming of a Slytherin. Please step away from Mr. Jones and do up your flies."

"Yes—yes sir," Thurston stuttered.

"Where will we be doing detention this time, professor?" Jones asked. He sounded bored.

Harry could hear Malfoy's stifled laugh. "Been caught before, have you?"

Thurston this time, "Only usually they threaten to owl our mothers."

"Welcome back from the brink, Nigel," Malfoy said to him.

The embarrassment was evident in Thurston's voice. "Oh god."

Malfoy laughed aloud. "As I've no desire to explain to the delightful Mrs. Thurston that she shouldn't expect an heir to carry on her vast fortune, I shan't be calling anyone's mum. However, I will ask that the two of you use more discretion in the future, before my own mum organizes an owl tree to invite your mums into the support group." The boys let out audible gasps.

"And punishment?"

Harry could imagine Malfoy's bored yet bewildered expression. "Does he have a fetish, Thurston? Dear god. There won't be a punishment. The embarrassment is punishment enough."

"Thank you professor," the boys intoned together.

"Go on then," Malfoy urged, "you'll miss supper." Harry heard footsteps echo down the corridor, then Malfoy say, "Oh, and Thurston? That's 20 points for getting off with a Gryffindor."

"You're just jealous," Jones yelled back.

Then Thurston: "Oh my god, Marcus, we've just been flicked off by a professor. Can he do that?"

Harry couldn't stifle his own laughter. Maybe he should've. Definitely should've.

Malfoy's voice rang out, stern and suspicious in the air, "Who's there?"

Harry could do nothing but stand there as Malfoy came around the partition.

"Potter?" He looked far more surprised than he sounded. "Peeping on students, were you?"

"I was re-warding the roof, actually," Harry replied hotly. “As far as the students, I didn't have much choice in the matter."

"You could've stopped them."

"I'm not the professor, Malfoy. They were having a bit of a go at it. Who am I to interrupt?"

"Interrupt? Harry Potter shirtless in the quidditch showers? They probably would've asked you to join in."

"Ugh, Malfoy, that's enough."

Malfoy leaned against the shower wall and smirked. "Come now, Potter, being queer is almost in this season. There's a program about it on Muggle television and everything. Think of it this way: men who shag men leave more women for the rest of you."

"It's not the shagging men so much as the shagging children." Harry took his glasses off to polish them on his shirt when he realized he wasn't wearing one. Malfoy reached over and took them from his hands. He pointed his wand at them, then slid them onto Harry's face. He could see again. "Thanks."

Malfoy waited a moment. "Look, Potter, keep quiet on Jones and Thurston. Getting along with things is hard enough without having to be terrified that you can't live your life."

"I wasn't going to tell, Malfoy. It'd be a bit hypocritical for one thing."

"So you're—"

Harry felt his cheeks get hot. "I like both."

"Oh." Malfoy leaned against the wall next to him. "All right, then."

They stood for a moment in thick silence before Harry felt as if he would burst if he didn't speak.

"I guess it's back to work."

Malfoy tilted his head inquisitively. "What are you working on, then?"

"The wards. Isolating the new bits, and re-warding them to match the old."

"Ah," Malfoy intoned.

Harry sighed. "Let's have it, then."

"Have you tried a bonding charm? It's just—it might be easier integrating the new bits into the old structure instead of finding the new parts and trying to make them the same as the old." Malfoy tilted his face up to look at the roof. A bit of hair fell into his face.

Harry thought he might like to touch it, and couldn't stop the warm feeling in his chest from bubbling up. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, and he pointed his wand at the roof. "You know, Malfoy, it just might."

It took the rest of the week to finish re-warding the castle. Malfoy had been right—it was easier binding the new materials into the old ones of the castle. He’d taken time out between his classes to follow Harry around, and help. Harry realized just how much Malfoy had helped when he put his hand on the railing as he took the stairs into the foyer. Magic jumped into his fingertips.

Neville met him at the bottom of the staircase. "It feels right, doesn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"The castle. There's something—it seems—I don't know. Something has fallen into place. It seems—"

"Alive?" Malfoy suggested. He came up behind Neville with his robes undone, a green jumper blazing beneath his robes, and a dark scarf hanging open around his neck. He kept taking his hands in and out of his pockets and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from him.

Neville looked between them and grinned. "Quite." He held out his hand when Harry reached the bottom of the staircase. Harry took it. "Thank you, Harry. You did wonderfully."

Harry smiled back. "It was mostly Malfoy's idea."

Malfoy propped his elbow on Neville's shoulder, and faux-conspiratorially whispered in his ear. "I am a secret genius, you know."

Harry couldn't stop smiling. "Secret's out."

"Damn my wild creative streak," Malfoy retorted.

Neville rolled his eyes, and shoved Malfoy's elbow off him. "Listen, Harry, I know you like being an Auror, and all, but Ezphelda has just put in her request for retirement."

Malfoy was making faces behind Neville's back. Harry was trying not to laugh. "Mmhmm."

"I'm going to recommend you for the Defense Against the Dark Arts, position, Harry."

"Mmhmm."

"Promise me you'll think about it?"

"What?"

Neville shook his head. "I'm over here, Harry."

Harry felt his face heat. "Sorry, Nev."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Will you think about it?"

Harry was smiling again. "Yeah. Sure, Neville. Thanks."

"Farewell, then, Harry. Have a pleasant trip." He held his hand out again, and Harry shook it. "I'll just be off, then."

Malfoy waited until Neville's footsteps faded before he said anything. "Are you traveling by broomstick?"

"Yeah."

"Is that what your wearing?"

"Fashion critique for a broom ride? You're ten kinds of stereotype aren't you?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You're going to catch your death, Potter."

"Nah. I've done it loads of times."

Malfoy moved in front of him. "Here," he said. He pulled his scarf off his shoulders and wrapped it once around Harry's neck.

Harry's hands were still in his pockets. He licked his lips. "Thanks," he said.

Malfoy gave a nervous twitter of a laugh. "I'll want that back, mind."

"Right." Harry felt like smiling.

"So you'll have to return it."

"Okay."

"It's very expensive. Cashmere, obviously, and hand knitted by house elves. In France."

"Sure thing, Malfoy."

"So you'll have to return it in person. It won't travel well by owl, and anyway—"

Malfoy stopped rambling when Harry kissed him. It was quick and sweet, and Harry felt the warmth bubbling in his chest crawling lower when Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered closed against his cheek.

Malfoy's arms went around Harry's back. He pulled Harry in close. Harry hugged him back for a long moment.

"I guess I'll be off, then," he said when they pulled away.

"Best be."

"I'll see you, Malfoy."

"Good-bye, Potter."

Harry turned. "Hey, Potter," Malfoy said almost shyly, "you can keep the scarf if you take the Defense position."

Harry smiled, Cheshire-wide. "I'll think about it."

"Think about it, Potter. You only live once."

"Well, technically—"

Malfoy shoved him hard in the shoulder. "Get out of here, I'm sick of your face."

Harry laughed. "I'll owl you, Malfoy."

Malfoy gave him a look of fierce determination. "You better."

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy and other Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her associated businesses. The Harry/Draco World Cup and its participants make no claim upon them.