Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry spends the next three days in briefing meetings with his team, complaining vociferously to Shacklebolt about his assignment, being gently laughed at by Shacklebolt in return, and brushing up on his knowledge of natural magic.

It's a stressful three days, and when Malfoy comes over for a takeaway one evening, Harry can see that he's having a tricky week of it too.

Malfoy is sitting on Harry's couch and he's almost translucent with tiredness. His skin is milk-pale, the muscles in his cheek drawn tight, the faint expression lines around his eyes more prominent. He's tucked himself into a corner of the couch, bolstered by the padded armrest and balancing his biryani precariously on one of Harry's favourite cushions. Under his work robes (long discarded over the back of a chair) he's wearing an infinitesimally less dressy work outfit than normal—his concession to the Ministry's enthusiastic adoption of the Muggle tradition of Casual Friday. Under the open top button of his shirt (a heavy, cream cotton affair that manages to look breathtakingly expensive and effortlessly smart), Harry can just about follow with his eyes the coy invitation of Malfoy's jutting collarbone. Malfoy has his sleeves rolled to reveal the golden sheen of his strong forearms, and his trousers are of a well-worn tweed that Harry knows from experience is touchably soft. He looks pared back and young and comfortable and devastatingly himself. Harry wants to lick him.

Instead, he pins himself to the opposite end of the couch and concentrates on his chana chaat. He can tell that Malfoy has something to tell him—something about the unofficial side of their official state visit to the Sidhe kingdom, Harry presumes. He knows from experience that if he licks any part of Malfoy once, it'll only lead to much more licking. And while he can't deny the appeal of that, he knows that they need to stay focused. They only have the weekend, really, to do all the preparation they need to do for this trip.

"Right, Malfoy—spit it out. What was it that you weren't telling me in that meeting?"

"Oh, you picked up on that, did you?" He's pleased-looking and slightly pink in the cheeks, though his eyes shift away from Harry's questioning look.

Malfoy clears his throat and sets his mouth, as though he's made his decision, though his gaze is still oblique and thoughtful as he begins to speak.

"How much do you actually know about the Sidhe as a society, Potter?"

Harry thinks about lying, but Malfoy would know, so he shrugs instead.

"Yes, I thought as much. In your defence, they are fiercely private and notoriously reclusive, even amongst the magical community.

"The kingdom is called Faoin Talamh, which literally means underground in Irish. Irish is the Sidhe mother tongue, but they all speak English fluently, so at least we won't need translators along.

"Basically, it's hard to identify exactly how much we have in common, but magicologists believe that wizards and the fair folk are all descended from the same magical antecedents. We diverged at some point, and wizarding folk stayed out in the world, while the fairies took their magic under the ground. But you'll notice a lot of similarities in our methods of casting, though the Sidhe tend to work wandlessly. They also work with their surroundings—their command of natural magic is staggering—and you'll see a lot of instinctive casting that seems to resonate with the surroundings. Often, when the Sidhe perform spells or incantations, you'll feel it in the soles of your feet, or notice waves forming in water, or a wind whipping up. It's glorious. It's also part of the reason I want you on as an envoy. Of all the wizards I know, you're the most instinctive caster. You are so tapped into your power. I think they'll appreciate you.

"Anyway, as you can imagine, they would have been hugely advantageous allies in both of the wizarding wars. Riddle, for all his power, had about as much instinct as doorbell. The Sidhe would have taken him down without batting an eyelid."

Harry has now been part of the magical world for far longer than not, but there are still so many ways in which magic can still evoke that breath-stealing sense of sheer wonder in him. As Malfoy speaks, Harry feels the familiar dip and swoop deep in his chest, that low clamour of excitement that plucks at his very core. He turns to lean against his own armrest, now facing Malfoy, their socked feet barely grazing as they stare at each other with the same light of adventure in their eyes.

"Tell me more," Harry says.

"Well, the Ministry has been working for years to try to foster a political relationship with the Sidhe. They would be strong allies, but they've always resisted getting involved with the rest of the magical community. However, we believe they keep tabs on the world aboveground—changelings, and so on. They essentially plant fairy spies in our world. It's nearly impossible to find them, though; they're so proficient at modulating their magic and passing as wizards.

"But then, quite out of the blue, I got involved with them.

"As you may remember, when I took up this position I had previously been involved in the big diplomacy drive with the Merfolk. I'd spent years building a relationship with the British Mer—that was before you and I were a thing, of course." He gestures vaguely between them, and then glares at Harry, as if daring him to laugh at Malfoy's neat and wholly inaccurate classification of the past few years of their challenging, complicated, brilliant, undefined relationship as a thing.

"Anyway, I'd spent all that time building up a cordial relationship with the Mer, and then we worked together to push through the Cleaner Lakes and Rivers in Ten Years programme, to ensure magical assistance in maintaining the integrity of their domains. It was quite the coup. Anyway, after that, I got a promotion, started managing my own little corner of the Creatures department, and working away to try to do away with that outdated thinking around Beings of different magical inclinations.

"One day, I was contacted by an emissary from the Sidhe. A fairy, brought up in a wizarding home and raised in our world. She told me that the Sidhe were interested in treating with me, that they had seen evidence of my strong advocacy of non-wizarding magical Beings, that they believed I could be the one to broker a fair, equitable trade agreement between our world and theirs."

Despite his serious demeanour, Malfoy takes a moment to preen a bit. Harry rolls his eyes fondly, and gestures rudely around a forkful of curry to make him continue the story.

"I struck up a diplomatic relationship with them—very hush-hush of course, need-to-know basis and all that. We didn't want to scare them off. I even visited Faoin Talamh—a few times, actually—over the years. I've never known anything like it, really. They have a whole civilisation, it's incredible. You can lose yourself, down there, and you don't even really care. I can see how visitors lose track of time.

"I had a particularly cordial relationship with one of the Queen's sons, Prince Fíachu, who had been appointed the official envoy to our world. We became more than colleagues—we were the best of friends. Through him, I learned all the very best about Sidhe traditions and culture. It was...enlightening."

Harry has a moment to wonder why Malfoy is looking a bit flushed and tense, before Malfoy continues.

"However, a few years ago, things became somewhat complicated. I began to suspect that Fíachu's feelings for me had begun to move beyond the platonic. You must understand, Potter, that the Sidhe take love very seriously. They believe that love is the purest expression of the soul, and that it should be protected and cherished above all else. As a young man, I was not uninterested in Fíachu; he is fascinating, kind, clever...handsome." Malfoy flushes slightly, and Harry can't quite squash his scowl.

"As time passed, however, it became clear to me that I could never reciprocate in the way he would expect. I hoped that we could ignore the issue, but on one visit he made an official proposal—he requested a soul bond, the Sidhe equivalent of our marriage. I had to say no."

Harry is wrestling with the small, meanest part of himself, the part that wants to roar in envy, to possess. He looks away, and Malfoy continues.

"He accepted it graciously, and we continued our friendship and our diplomatic relationship. However, after a while he made it clear that the Sidhe would never truly be interested in allying themselves with the wizarding world. I have been continuing to work on it, but the response has not been encouraging. Until now."

"But...it's a good thing that they're coming round again, surely?" Harry is confused, and then irritated by Malfoy's vigorous eye-rolling.

"Think about it, Potter. The Queen won't even meet with me one minute, and then we're being invited to attend the court of the Sidhe over Bealtaine, and to sit down with her negotiating team? I have one question: why now? What is her ulterior motive? Because you can be sure she has one."

"Maybe—and bear with me here, Malfoy—maybe she just wants to actually negotiate? Crazy idea, I know."

Malfoy is starting to get pissed off now. The eye-rolling intensifies, and his lip has that curl of scorn that Harry particularly dislikes.

"Jesus, Malfoy, no need to be a pain in the arse about it. Are you trying to tell me that the Queen of the Sidhe stopped negotiating with you because you dumped her son, but now she's concocted some evil scheme which consists of... what? Inviting you to a big party in her luxurious fairy palace? Seems a bit thin to me. But I suppose you're the expert. You love this stuff, you figure it out."

They so rarely argue properly anymore, that Harry had forgotten how lethal Malfoy can be when he's coming from a place of proper rage.

"Potter, you absolute fucker. I'm trying to explain something to you, and maybe even get your insight, as someone who I trust and respect, and this is how you help? I am telling you, as the foremost expert on Magical Beings and a long-standing ambassador to the Sidhe, that Something. Is. Up. And I want you to help me figure it out."

He's getting into his stride now, hair slipping into one eye, voice impossibly snide.

"And yes Potter, actually I do love this stuff. Which is why I want to fix things with the Sidhe, to get back to the negotiating table and really benefit both of us with a strong trade agreement. But do you really think I do this job for the love of it? When I started in the Creature division, do you think I skipped merrily into the office every day with joy in my heart?

"That's rhetorical, you idiot. The answer is no. I hated this bloody job at first. Me with all my outstanding NEWTs, and a Malfoy to boot, and the only Ministry job I could land was a dud assistant role crawling and sucking up to things I considered beastly? I fucking hated every second of it. You think I enjoyed having werewolves snapping their jaws at me and laughing when I flinched, knowing I couldn't think of anything but my old friend Greyback and his visits to the Manor? Do you think I felt at ease negotiating with vampires—with my skin?"

He brandishes his wrist at Harry, and it's true; his skin is paper-thin and almost translucent, and Harry can see the greenish-blue rills of his veins running below the surface.

"No, Potter, you arrogant twat. As it happens, I did come to love it—because that tends to happen naturally when you're doing something you care about, that you're good at. But I had to learn how to love it. And how do you think I did that? I worked at it, Potter. I educated myself. I learned what a bigot I was, and I changed. I fucking changed, Potter. It may have taken me ages to unlearn everything I thought I knew, but I did it. So no, I'm not doing this because I love it, or because it benefits me. I'm doing it because I think it's the right thing to do. So thanks for your support with that."

They're both quiet then, Malfoy probably still simmering, and Harry thinking. He hasn't ever really considered that Malfoy didn't join the Creatures division by choice, that he might have hoped for a different path. He hadn't thought a huge amount about Malfoy at all, back then. He was floundering himself, and Malfoy was an indistinct blur in the distance most of the time. By the time Malfoy became Harry's star to sail by, Malfoy was already established in the Ministry; in all their years of friendship and desire and longing, Malfoy has never been anything other than completely passionate about his work. It shakes Harry to imagine him differently, and reminds him sharply of all that he knows Malfoy has left behind.

It's a profound statement about Malfoy's character, that he's managed to work through a childhood based on indoctrination and prejudice, and become a bastion of tolerance and liberal thinking. Harry knew it was true, he just has never thought about what it took for Malfoy to get there.

He knows he has to apologise, and he flicks his wand to get rid of their dinner plates and leftovers before he reaches out a hand tentatively, and touches Malfoy's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy. That was stupid of me. I didn't think."

"You didn't. Do you ever?" Malfoy's voice is gruff, but he relaxes into Harry's touch a fraction.

"I do, sometimes. But I'm just being pig-headed for the sake of it right now. I'm tired, and I'm worried about this mission. You're right, something's off about it."

Malfoy brightens a bit, and turns to face Harry along the couch. "Good, Potter. I just need someone I can trust, keeping an eye out with me. It won't hurt that you're an annoyingly strong and subtle caster either, if we need to do a bit of snooping while we're there."

Then Malfoy is moving closer, sliding across the couch cushions until he has his hands wrapped around Harry's ankles. Harry's mouth goes a bit dry—Malfoy touching him with that speculative look on his face tends to have that effect.

"Okay, Potter—time to go over the most salient details relating to our trip. Let's see how well you've been listening. But since we've agreed to keep things professional while we're on the trip, I think we should make the most of each other while we still can. Wouldn't you agree?"

Harry nods enthusiastically, and in a second, Malfoy has hooked his arms under Harry's bent knees and yanked him flat on the couch. Malfoy is lying over him, his body a distracting, delicious weight on Harry's.

"Right, Potter, talk to me. If you can show me that you've been paying attention to me, then you'll get a reward. Is that clear?"

His voice is crisp, but the look on his face is almost wild, eyes half-lidded, mouth glistening where he's licked his lips. Harry tries a roll of his hips, gasps at the friction, and then has to suppress a groan as Malfoy pins him down with a hand on each hipbone, thumbs moving in a slow drag over the taut skin just above Harry's waistband.

"First question. What sort of spells are safe to cast in Faoin Talamh?"

As he speaks, he's steadily unbuttoning Harry's jeans, tugging them down and then off. Harry has to swallow hard before he can think of the answer.

"Most spells are safe to cast—though we should steer clear of any offensive spells at all costs, as it will be taken as—ah!—hostile."

Malfoy's mouth is moving along the line of Harry's hip into the crease of his thigh, and Harry can't control the shudder that passes through him.

"Go on." Malfoy's voice is a low growl, and he pauses in his path to speak.

"We…we should try to stick to smaller spells: Lumos, Accio, Wingardium Levi— oh fuck, Malfoy, your mouth…"

"Because?"

"Okay, okay, don't stop, please. Because the Sidhe have such strong elemental magic, they form a…a…symbiosis? with their environment, and any magic that we produce can be absorbed into the atmosphere more quickly, leading to…ah…headaches, tiredness, a stronger than normal depletion of our magical cores. Oh, you bastard. I need…" and he trails off into a gasp.

"You have been working hard," Malfoy purrs approvingly. "Good boy." And Harry does groan then, loud and broken-sounding. And then Malfoy's tongue is licking a hot, greedy trail down Harry's cock, and then further back, unceasing and relentless and demanding, and they both forget about doing any talking at all for quite some time.

Harry and Malfoy are standing on a bridge in Dublin, a bridge so old that the very stones have been softened and gentled by age and the ceaseless lap of the River Lee. Below them, at the place where night and black water meet, are the bricked-up remains of an old dungeon gate. Harry's not superstitious, but he feels a tendril of dread tug at his gut, the barest flicker of unease reminding him that the mission still lies ahead.

Ahead of and above them is a cathedral, spire seeking the sky and bricks gleaming bone-white against the night. Malfoy has just dropped a Sickle over the side of the bridge, and is leaning over the wall, elbows pinned to the limestone, and the wings of his shoulder blades taut with effort as he peers into the water. The night has a spongy, indistinct quality borne of too much recent rain and the low press of cloud. Around them, the lights of passing cars wink and glimmer and fade. Malfoy is serene and beautiful in this light, with shifting shadows at play on his face. Harry can't stop watching him, eyes dropping unbidden from the curl of Malfoy's mouth, to the stretch of his shoulders, to the thoughtless elegance of the press of his thighs against the stonework. He wishes suddenly, fiercely, that there was no mission. That this was just them. That he could just be somewhere with Malfoy for no reason other than to see him and touch him under the lights of some other city. He pushes his hands further into his pockets, and tries to tear his eyes away.

Malfoy is moving now, hands rising in what could be a greeting or an imprecation. Harry can see the water below them roiling black and rising, impossibly, creeping and thrusting higher. Harry throws up a Notice-Me-Not so strong that the old walls creak and grumble at the intrusion. It may be late but the bridge is bounded by high old houses, and the windows might not be as sightless as they seem.

Water, white-tipped and frothing, rushes upwards, until out of foam a shapes emerges, balanced on the crest of the water. It seems to be—it is—a horse, the dull gleam of its coat somehow darker again than the water and the night. But it's bigger than it should be, muscular flanks shivering and tensing, hooves dancing over the current in a delicate piaffe, mane and tail snapping and fluttering in the wind. It's breathtaking.

Malfoy sighs, a soft delighted noise of awe, and he's grinning as he mutters, "That part never gets old."

Then he's leaning over further, body straining out as far as he can reach, and he's laughing as he shouts a greeting. "Pooka, old friend! It's been too long!" And the horse-creature is rearing, and the water is crashing and thrusting against the spandrel wall, and all of a sudden the creature is nudging its great head into the welcoming press of Malfoy's outstretched arm. It whickers gently, and in the blissful roll of its dense black eyes Harry can see a pulse of red flame. It's both more and less like any horse Harry has ever come across, and he supposes he shouldn't be surprised when it presses the velvet flesh of its muzzle against Harry's cheek and says, "Welcome to Dublin, a cara mo chara."

Pooka and Malfoy are old friends, it seems, and Harry watches delightedly as they catch up, talking over each other in excitement.

Malfoy can't stop stroking Pooka's glossy withers, hand moving hypnotically under the ribbons of its mane. He sounds amused when he murmurs, "You make a beautiful horse, you mad beast. Did you get tired of being a mutt, then?" Pooka snorts, and the shake of his muzzle ripples down his crest through his shoulders.

"I was the handsomest dog you ever saw, little dragon. That first time we met, when you were trailing around with your little notebook and feathery pen, you couldn't take your eyes off me."

Malfoy's laugh is bright and unguarded, even as he's nodding in agreement. "I couldn't, you were the most magnificent creature I'd ever seen." And then, to Harry, "It was my first event after I started as an assistant in the then-Creatures division. We were attending the Magical Beings Concord ratification on behalf of the United Kingdom. Pooka was along with the Irish division. I actually thought we would go blind from all the poteen we drank that first night. It made for an interesting conference the next day—trying not to be sick into the sleeve of my robes. Clúrachán-brewed booze—totally resistant to Hangover Potion of course." He shudders, then grows serious.

"Pooka, I'm sorry to cut this short, but we're here on business." He gestures to Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "This one here hasn't a clue what he's doing, and we're setting off first thing in the morning. Tell me, pal, have you heard anything about wizards being invited to Faoin Talamh for the Fire Feast?"

At the mention of the Sidhe kingdom, Pooka's ears flatten against his skull, and he bares his teeth in a grimace. His face darkens. "I won't go next or near to that place. Yer Wan's queensguard took me down there one day and Dagda tried to put a bridle on me and ride me up and down the court for sport."

Malfoy actually gasps at this, and Pooka's laugh is wry and bitter. "Well, he didn't try it for very long after I took a chunk out of him, and she knew as well as I did that I was well within my rights to do so, and she sent me off home with honeyed words and her queenly blessing. But Dagda is her eldest boy and her heart's love and all the honey in the world from her can only make things sticky for me.

"So I've heard nothing, little dragon, but you know no good will come from taking your wizarding light under the ground. And do you presume to negotiate with Yer Wan down there?"

Harry's interested now, and opens his mouth to ask Pooka more, but at the minute shake of Malfoy's head he relaxes back down against the bridge and stays silent.

"We're spending Bealtaine in the Sidhe court at the invitation of Her Majesty, yes. It's a legitimate diplomatic mission involving prominent dignitaries from our government. She can't be up to anything political or she'll bring the combined weight of all the Beings in the Concord down on her, diplomacy be damned. She's not going to risk all-out war with any trickery. I just wonder, why now? Is there something else she's after?"

"Always after something, that one. You can't trust her as far as you could throw her, and you couldn't throw her far, even with all the fizzbangs you can conjure with that little wooden stick of yours. But…" and his expression turned sly and teasing all of a sudden, "don't you have a source closer to the underground throne than me? What about that gentle dark-eyed boy of hers that you were so fond of?"

And then Harry's frowning and Malfoy's blushing, that delicate, creeping flush reminding Harry that there's at least some truth to what Pooka's saying. Harry pushes against the ugly, mean little tug of bitterness that tightens in his chest.

"Fíachu is Her Majesty's appointed delegate and liaison with the wizarding world. We have a harmonious working relationship insofar as is possible considering that the Sidhe rarely venture above ground. We'll be seeing him tomorrow, of course, but as one of the princes, and third in line to the throne of the Tuatha Dé Danann, I hardly think that Fíachu is likely to step over the diplomatic line we're all toeing." Malfoy's properly frowning now, and Harry tucks his selfish jealousy away to worry over later, because he can tell from the concern on Malfoy's face that they need to concentrate on their mission.

Pooka gives another of his expressive snorts and nudges Malfoy with his whiskery nose. "Of course, little dragon, just remember that when he's staring at you across that throne room with a raging hunger in his eyes, and half the court mad with jealousy for having lost the prince's heart, and the other half sighing in delight at the way he's giving himself over to you. The Sidhe don't love lightly; he won't have forgotten you."

And Harry steps away from the wall and clears his throat then, because maybe this is Malfoy's show and he's just supposed to be a supporting character but really he's put up with just about as much of this sort of talk as he's willing to. But Malfoy is ahead of him, both hands scratching Pooka behind the ears as he murmurs quiet goodbyes.

And then Pooka is trotting over to Harry for a farewell nudge, and the amusement in his eyes is fast fading into a sort of abashed astonishment as he really looks at Harry's face. His muzzle is once more raising a shiver along Harry's cheek as Pooka leans into him and whispers, "I'm sorry, little wild one. I didn't see it until now. You are a deep well. But don't fret, my friend. I've seen his heart and you have nothing to fear. But remain wary while you are below ground. They have ways of rippling the fabric of the world, making you see wrinkles that aren't there. Hold onto your trust!" Then he rises up above the parapet of the bridge before crashing down into silence, leaving nothing behind him but the wash and swirl of foam on the skin of the river.

They follow the river for what seems like a long time, going further out of the city in the heavy silence that comes with that deepest, slowest part of the night. They don't talk at all, but as they walk along the quays, Harry very carefully and deliberately takes Malfoy's hand, and the cool slide of their palms acts as his anchor and his reassurance. They pass under a railway bridge and then go by what used to be a pub, perched precariously on the slip down to the river, its windows matte with old dirt. Malfoy steers them across the road then, to a teetering flight of steps that leads them up and then up some more along a rutted laneway carved into the cliff face. They go higher and higher, as bats swing through the golden pools of light cast by old wrought-iron streetlamps.

Breathless and warm, they're finally on the brow of the cliff that overlooks the river below. From this height, in the dense almost-light of the hour just before dawn, the surface of the Lee shivers and writhes like a living thing.

"Can you feel it?" Malfoy's voice is hushed, and when Harry stops and just feels for a minute, he notices the insidious creep of magic in his very bones. It's an old magic, cold and stern and somehow remote. Harry's own magic is like a living creature, bristling with heat and energy, and it comes from within. It's a part of him.

This magic, though. It feels like it's running through the very earth itself, like it's been summoned from solid rock and damp soil, like it carries a memory of ages past.

"That's fairy magic," Malfoy whispers. "This place is called Beale's Hill. Muggles have some story or other for who it's named after, but we believe that Beale was a wizard who was taken to Faoin Talamh as a child, but who came back aboveground as an adult. Of course, time can move differently there, so when he came back it was to a different world, all his family dead, and everything he remembered utterly changed. The story has it that he bought this land on the site of an ancient Sidhe fort and lived here for the rest of his life, hoping the Sidhe would come back for him."

He shakes himself, and laughs a little even as Harry feels the pinpricks of goose pimples rising on his arms.

"Right, Potter, our hotel is this way, but I suggest we Apparate. We have about four hours before we have to join the delegation and we should use the time wisely." He holds his arm out enquiringly, and with a smile and a turn he has them spinning through space to land gently in the bedroom of Malfoy's suite.

Harry steps back and pats his pockets in search of his own room key, stifling a yawn. Malfoy is stepping away, and with his customary elegant precision, he sends his outer robes swooping to their hook on the back of the door, and his shirt is trying to fold itself almost before it slips from his arms at a touch of his wand to the row of buttons.

Then he's standing in front of Harry wearing only a white vest of cotton so fine that Harry can't seem to stop staring at the shadows and lines of Malfoy's body through it. Malfoy chucks his wand onto the bedside table, and very deliberately starts undoing the button of his trousers.

"Are you just going to watch, Potter?" he asks drily, and Harry has to wet his lips before he speaks.

"I thought we agreed to keep this strictly professional, Ambassador," he replies, though he can see Malfoy's amused eyebrow raise as Harry's hands twitch towards Malfoy involuntarily.

And because he has never had any willpower when it comes to Malfoy, he continues, "You, in that vest, are looking the very opposite of professional. Although I suppose we're not quite on the clock just yet…"

And even as he says it, he's moving and reaching out and then finally—blissfully—touching. Malfoy is solid and strong beneath his hands, and he's reassuringly brimful of the spit and crackle of his vibrant, living magic. And then Malfoy's mouth is moving warm against his, and when Malfoy pulls him back onto the bed, Harry feels a rush of desire so intense that he can't stop the groan from leaving him in a hot, helpless exhalation. Afterwards, with sweat and come drying sticky on his skin and Malfoy's heartbeat thrumming beneath his cheek, Harry feels that, on reflection, the time was very wisely used indeed.

By the time the wizarding delegation meets to begin the journey, Harry has snatched a couple of hours of sleep and a large number of cups of coffee. He's pleasantly achey and has a darkening line of bruises running from below his ear to his left nipple, and he's left them unhealed, though they're hidden under the starched collar of his Robes of Merlin.

Malfoy is magnificent in his plum and gold robes of office—dazzling, remote, and untouchable. Harry's fingers actually itch to touch him—to slide his hot hand into the silky fall of hair at the nape of Malfoy's neck; to lick a disruptive trail along the ridge of Malfoy's jaw; to feel the quickening rush of Malfoy's breath as he mouths from Malfoy's hip socket to his inner thigh. All these parts of Malfoy were so accessible to Harry only a matter of hours ago, and now Malfoy's locked the heat and pulse of himself away, trussed himself up in a pristine costume, put on his public face. He's no more Harry's than anyone else's, for now, and Harry hates it.

Harry feels obtrusive, extraneous, but he has to admit (grudgingly) that at least he makes an impressive sight. The mantle of the ceremonial robes of the Order of Merlin is made of a dense, ultramarine velvet lined with white taffeta. It's not uncomfortable, as such, but it's heavy and cumbersome. The black hood and surcoat are merely decorative, and Harry still feels slightly embarrassed at the fact that the Order's tailor embroidered the Hallows symbol onto the shoulder, alongside the insignia of the Order of Merlin. Still, if Malfoy wants the Saviour of the Wizarding World, then the Saviour he shall have. Harry sets his mouth, knowing that his face is stern and impassive, and he brushes his hair back from his forehead. Let them see Voldemort's mark on him, and know who they are dealing with.

Malfoy and his team are at the head of the delegation, along with the Deputy Minister of the UK Ministry, the Minister of Magic herself from the Irish Ministry, and various members of both countries' Wizengamots. Everyone is in official regalia, chains of office and ceremonial medals winking in the sunshine. There's a hush in the air, a heady in-breath of anticipation and expectation. Harry swallows against the lump in his throat, and reaches again for that bowstring of adventure deep in his gut and lets the nerves twang until they feel more like excitement.

They've all been Portkeyed in from the wizarding hotel to the location on the other side of the city as specified by the Sidhe. A team from the Irish Ministry have had Muggle Repelling charms up for two days now. Ronayne's Court is a high, grassy sward with curious, overgrown stone formations standing imposingly at intervals.

Harry can feel that same cloying, insidious creep of fairy magic, but it's thrumming now, moving through the ground below them and vibrating through the very air. The old magic is on the move, Harry thinks, and he shivers.

And then he realises that it's not just magic that's sending tremors up through their feet, juddering and jolting up their spines and setting their teeth to rattling. The ground itself is splitting, gaping like the skin of a windfall plum, the two sides of the fissure widening with a wrench until before them lies a road into the hill.

The way is smooth and surprisingly mundane: wide, creamy blocks of sandstone fitting together like a hand in a glove. It stretches on to where it's swallowed by the dark mouth of the crack in the grass. No one moves. Harry knows without having to meet anyone's eyes that they're all feeling as reluctant as he is to enter the ruined maw of the hill.

Then, there comes a noise so familiar and humdrum that it has them all shaking themselves and smiling ruefully at each other, feeling slightly foolish at their discomfiture. It's the sound of a gathering, of friendly voices moving nearer. The steady drumbeat of horses' hooves is a measured counterpoint to the merry chatter of the approaching party.

And suddenly, just like that, the Sidhe welcome delegation is there. There are around twenty of them, some on horseback and some on foot. The road is wide enough for them to stand five or six abreast, and Harry can see that they are all beautifully arrayed. They are all wearing what looks like silk, their robes the colours of gemstones and so finely wrought as to seem as insubstantial as cuckoo spit or dandelion clocks or Queen Anne's lace. They look as though they might fly away on the breeze, like nothing is tethering them to the earth except their own capricious whims. They are all beautiful, although Harry feels that he can catch a sense of something ancient and a little sharp and sly in their smiles when he looks out of the corner of his eye. They are uncanny.

They stop at the edge of the underground road, keeping back to the shadow cast by the hill. Their horses, though the right overall shape, are not really horses at all, Harry can see now, though they have the same nervous shake of the head and quick sidestep of some of the more highly-bred racehorses. Where they should have a furry coat, they have wrinkled, plump, obscenely pink skin. Where they should have manes, Harry can see that they instead sport some sort of gluey, cobwebby substance. When one particularly fractious specimen teeters in a quick semi-circle before being wrested into submission by his amethyst-clad, wild-eyed rider, Harry can see that the creature has a muscular, ridged, fleshy tail, like that of a rodent. It whips and lashes as the creature struggles against the bit in its mouth. The rider leans down to whisper into the creature's ear, but his words are clearly meant to madden the beast further, and he laughs, sloe-eyed and dangerous-looking, when the creature trembles and paws the ground.

Then there's a sudden hush, and one of the Sidhe steps forward. He is glorious, resplendent in silks of purple and teal and a grey the exact colour of mist lifting off a river just as dawn breaks. His arms are bare and his hair is long and he wears gold rings on every finger and in his nose and his ears. He raises one hand and holds it out into the sunshine, the whipcord muscles of his upper arm trembling and rippling with effort. And Malfoy is stepping forward and gripping the outstretched arm, and they're both looking at each other and smiling what look like warm, proper smiles, and Harry thinks that surely there's no need for a welcome touch to last so long.

Then Malfoy drops to one knee and inclines his head, with a murmur of, "Your Royal Highness," but the Sidhe is tugging him to his feet and holding him by his shoulders and laughing, "Really, Draco? After all this time? Will you be such a stranger to your old friend?"

And Harry realises that this must be Fíachu.

It's all very well to know that Malfoy's feelings for Fíachu are merely friendly, Harry reflects glumly, but it's quite another to have to see just how clearly Fíachu's feelings for Malfoy are not just friendly. Fíachu and Malfoy have been chatting and walking together since the delegation entered the fairy hill. There was an initial period of hush when the fissure in the ground sealed itself with a groan, and they were all left staring at each other in the sickly blue light of the orbs that bobbed above and ahead of them to mark their way.

Once the visitors get used to the heavy, cool weight of being underground, the chatting starts. Harry himself falls into a group with two of the Irish delegates and a golden-eyed Sidhe woman who informs them that she is the Ard Brithem of her people—the chief justice, responsible for assessing wrongs and meting out punishment or absolution. Her tales make for fascinating listening, and in the stories she tells them, Harry can piece together information about the social structures and civil responsibilities of the Sidhe.

They seem a remarkably peaceable society, with fluid concepts of ownership and a relaxed approach to sexual mores. The few judicial problems seem to arise through marital conflicts. Though the Sidhe are happily polyamorous as a society, some members do enter into bonded unions (mostly couples or threesomes, but the Ard Brithem had once presided over the bonding of five people, who were still happily bonded to this day). Bonded unions are taken very seriously amongst the Sidhe, and Harry understands that they took the spirit of "til death us do part" as an instruction rather than an option. The Queen herself has two bonded partners, and between them all they have seven children. Infidelity outside of a bond is seen as a grave offence, and the Ard Brithem speaks soberly of the few times she had pronounced a sentence of death or exile (both equally bad in Sidhe eyes) upon someone who repeatedly and cruelly broke their bond oath.

Fascinating as it is, Harry can't help but sneak glances at Malfoy, striding at the head of the delegation with Prince Fíachu. Their two heads, one a dark froth of curls and the other a gleaming fall of satiny gold, are bent towards each other confidingly. They haven't stopped talking since they met, and even as Harry watches, Malfoy throws his head back and laughs at something Fíachu says, a sweet, unguarded sound even in the echoing half-light of the underground road. Fíachu is watching with what Harry can only describe as pure fondness, dark eyes glittering with delight and tenderness as he watches the inelegant scrunch of Malfoy's nose and the expressive curve of his lips. Harry feels a reluctant sort of kinship with Fíachu, then—he knows that expression so well, because he has felt it spreading treacherous and telling across his own face countless times before. He sighs, then gives himself a little mental shake and turns his attention back to his companions, determinedly ignoring the amused, questioning look in the sharp eyes of the Ard Brithem.

He isn't sure how long they walk for, in the end. The way seems endless, but it may just be the unremitting press of the arch of hollowed out earth around them, and the unearthly glow of the fairy light making time seem fuzzy and stretched out.

Then the blueish subterranean light seems to be warming, and the tunnel through which they're walking starts to expand until it opened out, suddenly and spectacularly, into a cavern so vast and beautiful that Harry has no choice but to blink, and then gape foolishly around him.

It's dazzling there, literally—the near sides of the cavern glimmering and winking with mineral deposits, and stretching up and out so far that Harry can't see where they end. The place is teeming with Sidhe folk, a swarm of colour and bare skin and blade’s-edge smiles. The air is warm, uncannily so, and richly scented with geranium and honeysuckle and something peppery and sharp—so much so that the cloying underground smell is almost a scent memory. In the middle of everything, surrounded by a bower of stalagmites that seems to have been cultivated and shaped into tree-like formations, sits a rock-hewn throne. And on the throne is the Queen herself, waiting for them.

The introductions take an age. For what seems like an egalitarian, free society, the Sidhe are remarkably formal when it comes to diplomatic protocol. Every guest is personally introduced to the Queen, in order of rank. It means that Harry is fairly far down the list, considering that he doesn't have an official political role in the delegation. His audience is blessedly brief, kneeling at the foot of the throne with his mantle held over his right arm and his head bowed. The Queen is an imposing figure, made even taller by her tiara, which is a gleaming yellow-white like polished teeth, but which Malfoy assures him later was actually formed from a rare milky feldspar much prized by the Sidhe. (Malfoy, the insufferable suck-up, has of course brought some specimens along with him as a gift, hand-carved and polished and set into platinum and gold.)

The Queen seems vague and disinterested when faced with Harry, her voice a cool, low thing as she instructs him to rise. However, he feels a prickle of that crypt-cold fairy magic on his skin, so subtle that he may not have noticed it except for his rigorous training and magical sensitivity, and he fancies that he catches a sideways, slanted glance at his scar from those impassive silvery eyes as he rises to step away. This is a monarch who holds her feelings close, Harry thinks.

An interminable feast follows, partaken of on rows and rows of long wooden trestles and benches that are whisked into place by the fairy hordes. Course after course after course appears—unidentifiable meats simmered in pungent liquids, elaborately presented roasted swans and flamingos and parrots, platter after platter of crispy insects sauteed in butter and wild garlic. Harry samples everything on offer, mindful of offering insult to his hosts but also, suddenly and surprisingly, ravenous with hunger. He's glad of the fact that fairy food is safe for wizardingkind to eat, knowing as he does from Malfoy's brisk and thorough instructions that no Muggle could partake of Sidhe food and return to their own realm; if they did, they would pine for the taste and waste away, dreaming of one more morsel of the food of the Sidhe. Harry does ensure that he sticks firmly to water, however. It was the one point on which Malfoy had been most firm—no fairy-brewed liquor can be consumed, as it has the power to beguile and imprison even the strongest wizard—yes, Potter, even you.

Harry is surprised to find himself seated next to Fíachu, while Malfoy is firmly ensconced at the top table next to the Queen. Fíachu is a genial host—warm, unaffected, full of humour and interest. He keeps up a constant stream of mildly barbed stories about the Sidhe elders at the table that has Harry snorting inelegantly into his water goblet, and his grasp of modern wizarding culture and the wider political landscape of Magical Beings around the globe is sound and progressive. Harry, almost against his will (and despite Fíachu's irritatingly attractive brown eyes and mobile, expressive face), likes him immensely.

He knows he's in trouble, however, when during one of the pudding courses Fíachu places his elbows on the table and leans in confidingly to him.

"Harry, may I speak frankly? Of friendship, and not politics?"

He must have seen the panic in Harry's face, for he laughs another of his rich, low laughs and says, "Draco did not coach you in how to speak to me of matters outside of the political, then? No matter, Harry. We speak as friends only, not as political allies."

He's so close, so sincere and open-hearted and friendly, Harry finds himself leaning into the conversation confidingly. "Happily, Sir," he replies.

Fíachu stares down at his plate, absent-mindedly running his finger through the ruins of a milk pudding.

"You may have heard, Harry, that I have long harboured an affection for your Draco? No, no, don't worry,"—he places a reassuring hand on Harry's arm—"matters of the heart are not secret or shameful among the Sidhe. We are glad to offer up our hearts for all to understand. We believe that love should not remain silent."

He falls quiet, then, though stirs himself at a movement from Harry.

"There was a time, years ago, when we were both young men who knew little of the world, that I believed he returned my affections. It was not easy then, to move between Faoin Talamh and your side, but we visited each other when we could, and we corresponded regularly, and our friendship became a sustaining and deep-rooted thing. No words of love passed between us, for we were only starting out in our lives and we needed to find our paths. But I believed, always, that it was a matter of time."

Harry swallows heavily, knowing what was coming but powerless to speak up for fear of betraying Malfoy's confidence. Fíachu continues.

"As the time went past, however, I felt Draco move away from me, along a different path. I heard so much of his work, his progression through your Ministry. I heard of you, of course, and of Ron and Pansy and Greg and Ginny and all your friends. I had hoped we would meet one day. But I grew to understand that, though Draco still loved me fiercely, it was as a brother and not a man. It plagued me. The bitterness grew in my heart like a blight. We had no formal understanding, but all of Faoin Talamh could see the direction my heart took whenever he was near. I knew I had to tell him, to make my intentions clear.

"I did not receive the answer I had been hoping for. He did not pity me or try to save my feelings, and he told me with the full and generous love of a brother that though he treasured me, his heart lay elsewhere. We both cried rivers of tears that day, but when we had finished talking we knew that we had scrubbed our way clear of bitterness and that we could continue as the best of friends."

Fíachu's face is clouded with the memory of pain, his desire and hope still branded in every line of his face.

"Harry, this was three years ago. I understood then what he was telling me, but I have lived with this loss since then only to see him continue as he always has, with no sign of a marriage or a heart's love in his life. He remains closed to me, but has never opened himself to another. I know you are his true friend—tell me, do you know where his heart lies? Is he closer to attaining the one he wants, or could his feelings have changed again with time?"

And Harry has to shut his eyes then, against the flare of naked hope and want that blazes from Fíachu's face. He can't think, can't speak. He knew that Malfoy had turned down a proposal from Fíachu, but he hadn't known that Malfoy had done it for love of another. Three years ago—at least a year into this…thing (yes ok, thing seems to describe it well) that he and Harry had started. A year into their wordless understanding; a year into realising that when they were near, they only wanted each other; a year into realising that when they were apart, they were happier to wait until they were near each other again.

And yet, in all those years since, they hadn't spoken a word to cement the feelings, to build up the bricks and mortar of all their too-brief nights together, and all the times they laughed until their stomachs hurt, and all the times they contented themselves with the barest brush of their fingers as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the Ministry lift. It's incongruous, really, to be miles underground in a magical fairy realm, talking to the man who wants to marry Malfoy, for fuck's sake—that it would take this (let's face it) unlikely sequence of events for Harry to realise that he and Malfoy seem to have been properly in love with each other for quite a long time.

Harry opens his eyes, and realises with a quiet sort of horror that everything must have been playing across his face, for Fíachu is staring at him and his eyes are burning and liquid as he mouthed a shocked, soundless oh of comprehension.

"I should have known it would be you, Harry Potter," he mutters eventually. "Though you would keep him dangling on a thread for you for all these years, and never make him yours in the eyes of the world? He deserves a braver love than that, oh Saviour."

Harry splutters a bit at this, because actually it's always been Malfoy who wanted to keep things quiet between them, Malfoy who feared the bad publicity and the impact on his career advancement and the wrath of Narcissa. But Harry knows he's never pushed for more, either. He wonders, now, whether he should have taken more time to strip his feelings down and really see them—whether Malfoy would have matched him risk for risk, if he'd only taken one.

He decides to be brave now, finally, in this most unsuitable place and with this most unsuitable man. He looks at Fíachu, really looks, and he begins to tell him everything. He tells Fíachu about the way they were together in school, the way things changed after school, the way Malfoy had begun to feel like an inevitability, a necessity. He tells Fíachu a little about his parents, Sirius, the Dursleys, the Weasleys—just to explain how Harry has had a difficult road to learning about the right way to love. That love came to him late, that he still has to work to understand it. And then he says to Fíachu what he has never said, or even allowed himself think, before.

"I love him. I didn't understand that I was doing it wrong, but I do love him. And if he told you that he loves someone, then I think that it might be me he meant. Which means he loves me back. And if he does, then I'll do things right. If he'll have me."

It's faltering and messy and embarrassing, but Fíachu's face softens the tiniest bit and he nods. They look down at their own hands, careful of the fragile silence. The rest of the dinner seems to last much too long.

By the time the festivities have come to an end, and the exhausted delegates have been shown to their rooms, Harry is vibrating with tension. He hasn't had a chance to speak to Malfoy properly, though he did manage to see where Malfoy is being put up; Harry's room is further along the corridor, past a decorative alcove carved into the wall of the passage and filled with a floral arrangement that on closer inspection appears to be constructed of delicate wire and more of that gossamer silk. Nothing is what it seems, here.

Harry is bone-weary, his head throbbing with a pressure headache, but as he looks at his opulent bed—a carved rock plinth, piled high with a down-stuffed mattress and layer upon layer of the same glossy, feather-light fabric—he knows that he won't be able to sleep.

The door to his room swings soundless behind him as he leaves. He's almost used to the muted glow of the fairy orbs now, and his feet are sure and steady as he picks his way down the corridor towards Malfoy's room. Before he can reach it, the door opens and Malfoy himself steps out. He's holding an empty water jug, and in his pale cotton pyjamas he looks incongruous and completely human and so very enticing against the uneven walls of the corridor. He's tired, though—Harry can read it in the tightness of his eyes and the faint purpling of shadow underneath. His heart suddenly, inconveniently, clenches with tenderness.

Malfoy's face brightens when he sees Harry, and he gestures with his jug. "Just filling this up! I have such a headache. I always forget how draining Faoin Talamh is for our magic."

He trails off, and Harry knows it's because of what he can see written in Harry's face. Harry knows he should be approaching this with caution—after all, he's had a few hours to get used to his realisation—but Malfoy is totally unaware of any shift in their relationship.

But Harry can't seem to stop himself—he's maddened with the breadth and heat of these feelings, absolute frantic with the need to let them show. Something about being below ground, maybe, but he's itching with a restless fervour, practically feral with it.

He's in front of Malfoy now, chest-to-chest in the gloaming, and he places his hands flat and forceful against Malfoy's front so that he can feel the jump of Malfoy's stomach muscles, the skitter of a shiver that passes through him when Harry firmly but, oh! so gently pushes him back against the wall.

Harry lowers his head ever so slightly, so that his words are captured by Malfoy's parted lips.

"You," he says. "You…you…you…" again and again, and with every iteration he kisses Malfoy's mouth, nothing more than a mothwing brush of lips in the half-dark, but it's almost too much for him, and he dips his head further so his face is pressed into the soapy-clean sweetness of Malfoy's throat.

Malfoy's hand, the one not still clutching the jug bewilderedly, comes up to move slow and soothing along the spar of Harry's spine. And then Harry presses his face a little tighter into the elegant tendon of Malfoy's throat, and he allows himself to taste—just the tip of his tongue following the desperate, sudden arch of Malfoy's neck. Malfoy swallows, and the sound is loud and shockingly erotic in the dead silence of the underground corridor. They pause, both holding themselves in check for a breathless moment, and then Malfoy is making an impatient flicker of wandless magic at the jug to send it spinning sideways onto the floor, and Harry is growling—actually growling—as he takes a fistful of Malfoy's nightshirt and pulls at it until the buttons pop and spill over his knuckles and, just like that, he's got an expanse of Malfoy's skin bared to his hands and mouth.

Harry's aware that he's already shaking with desire, cock hard and insistent against the press and roll of Malfoy's hips. Malfoy is whispering, desperate and incoherent—Potter, no, we agreed…yes…we can't…there, yes…you—though he's already sliding his hands up Harry's flanks with ferocious intent, and walking them both backwards towards who knows where.

They end up in the alcove, of course, the wire and silk crushed heedlessly beneath the shift and scrabble of their feet. Once they're pressed close enough that they can share each other's shudders, they grow less frantic. Harry can't stop kissing Malfoy, though. He tugs Malfoy's lower lip into his mouth, soothes it with a lap of the tongue, and chases it back until their mouths meet again in a groan that's more gasp than sound. Over and over he kisses Malfoy, until Malfoy's mouth is kiss-swollen and languid and curved into his most secret and sated smile.

It seems impossible, as Harry stands with one hand buried in Malfoy's hair and the other down his pyjama trousers, that they had agreed to stay away from each other for this trip. It seems laughable, as Malfoy slides to his knees and mouths at the wet spot on Harry's trousers, that they could maintain any professional distance from each other. It seems inevitable, as Harry kisses the taste of himself out of Malfoy's mouth, that they would end up skin to skin, taking each other apart, and gently putting each other back together.

Underfoot, the ruin of the silk flowers shifts in a light breeze, but they're both too preoccupied to wonder how the wind could get in while they're forty fathoms underground.

The next few days are a whirl of activity for Harry, while Malfoy spends hours every day at the conference table, discussing the rights of Magical Beings and working to come up with terms of accord that the Sidhe deem acceptable.

Harry, meanwhile, is enjoying the pleasures of the fairy court. It's quite unlike anything he's ever known before, and he feels a bit like that too-small eleven-year-old standing in front of a wall of shifting bricks as the alley to another world opened up in front of him. He's not sure if it was his upbringing, or his temperament, but he still gets a thrill at the magic of magic. He gets to ride the Francapall, the Sidhe steed, and is taken on a hunt by the wild fairy riders he saw on the first day. They spill off into one of the innumerable tunnels leading away from the court and emerge in another massive cavern, this one a forest of stalagmites and stalactites. Pools of still water gleam dully between the rock formations, their surfaces Sickle-smooth and burnished under the fairy light.

They're hunting frogs, it turns out—the speciality for the following night's Fire Feast. Harry is quite sure that even riding a Thestral over the Thames wasn't quite as weird as crouching low over the muscular, writhing back of his steed, feeling the lash of its tail whistle through the air behind him, with one hand on the reins, attempting to lead the Francapall, and the other wielding some vicious, iridescent darts. The object of the hunt is to chase the frogs down, using the Francapall's speed and dexterity and peculiarly springy gait, and then to fling the darts in a deadly shower of gleaming light at the prey. This is easier than it seems, it turns out, because the frogs are the size of large cats, and are the bright bluish-white of lightning in the night sky. They are fast, though, and before long Harry and his steed are at the raucous, seething centre of the gang of hunters, all of them wheeling around spiny protrusions of rock, skittering off the cave walls when they round corners too tightly, and drenched head to heel in that odd body-warm water from the pools they splash through.

In the end, Harry isn't able to kill any frogs, though the Sidhe laugh at him for his tender-heartedness and jostle him gently when they pass. They have no such compunction, and each hunter bears several brace of game when they splash home tiredly to wash up for dinner.

The negotiations are just breaking for the day when the hunt trails back into the cavern. Harry is still flushed with exertion, hair tangled and dropping from its tie, wet through, tide-marked with mud, and gleaming faintly from the mineral residue on the walls of the forest cavern. When he dismounts, his legs nearly give way—it turns out that years of hobby flying aren't nearly enough preparation for the feat of spending a day keeping himself anchored to the undulating back of a horse-rat creature that refuses to wear a saddle. He has a moment of profound gratitude that there is no formal feast arranged for that night. He's ready to have a tray of something simple sent to his room so that he can eat and then sleep.

Malfoy is at the head of the delegation, as usual, and when he sees Harry he stops still and just laughs uproariously. He's beautiful like that, head thrown back in amusement, neck bared, face open and gleeful. Harry feels rather than sees the curious looks from the other delegates, though soon they're all laughing too. Malfoy's amusement is contagious, it seems. Harry feels hopelessly fond of him.

They haven't had a chance to talk properly since Harry realised how he felt. The days are long, and the nights even longer, with festivities stretching out for hours under the timeless glow of the orbs. Being in the Sidhe court is proving draining, magically speaking—the fairy wards do indeed thrive on borrowed power, and it's a constant, low-level effort for the wizards to keep their magic contained. Fairy magic is odd, and uncanny, and ancient beyond measure, but something primal in it sings to their magical cores. They must keep that pulsing, vibrant force reined in, lest it sink into the living walls of Faoin Talamh and be absorbed by the hungry earth. It's hard work, and by bedtime Harry is often drained and fighting yet another headache.

What's more, Malfoy is refusing to spend much time alone with Harry. He seems to think that it's unprofessional of them. Harry thinks of the previous evening, when Malfoy had hardly shut the bedroom door before Harry had him pinned against it, and where he kept him until Malfoy was gasping and incoherent, swearing and shivering under Harry's hands and mouth—well, he supposes Malfoy has a point about that.

So Harry is pleasantly surprised when Malfoy, still laughing, slings an arm casually around his neck and snorts, "Looks like the frogs came out on top today, Potter!" Which brings a fresh gale of laughter from the delegates, and even the Queen, playing a dice game with her courtiers nearby, seems more bemused than disapproving at the display. He rolls his eyes, pretending offence, but he leans further into Malfoy's solid, familiar warmth before they part, Malfoy's fingers a seductive whisper along Harry's collarbone as he pulls away.

They're barely even subtle about it, that evening. Malfoy walks companionably beside Harry until the rest fall away behind them. And then they're passing Malfoy's door and going on to Harry's, and Malfoy is crowding in, peeling off his work robes to reveal the pristine white shirt and charcoal trousers below. Malfoy strips Harry efficiently, with a combination of his precise wandless work and a solicitous, gentle touch of hands. When Harry is naked, shivery and restless and slick with mud, Malfoy takes him into the adjoining wet room and rolls up his own sleeves. Harry can do nothing but tremble into the touch of Malfoy's hands and the warm lick of the honest-to-Merlin waterfall that serves as a shower facility.

Malfoy washes him down, hands moving measuredly across the straining breadth of Harry's shoulders, fingers raking through the hair at his underarms and groin with shocking intimacy, thumbs circling over the sluggish muscles of his thighs. Harry is overwhelmed by the sensation, suddenly bone-weary and so pathetically grateful for the affection that he wants to cry. Malfoy is soaked by the time Harry is finally clean, shirt translucent and hair swooping in a rakish lick over one eye.

Then he's shepherding Harry to the bed and murmuring a gentle warming charm, while sending his own clothes fluttering into a neat stack, until they pile into the bed together, limbs entangled. Harry is already being dragged under into a profound sleep when Malfoy whispers, "We're so close to finishing here. Home soon, Potter," and before Harry can stop the words tumbling out, he tells Malfoy that he wants him to stay, and Malfoy is laughing, just a little bit, low and confiding, and he says that he supposes it doesn't make so much difference now they're so close to an agreement on terms. And then he says, "And anyway your bed is far more comfortable than mine," and slings an arm out to haul Harry into him.

It's only when his face is tucked snugly into the delicious space just behind Malfoy's ear that Harry feels brave enough to say what he had really meant. That he wants Malfoy to stay when they're back above-ground too; that he wants him like this, that he wants more—not all the time, not every night if Malfoy doesn't want that, but as much as they can manage. More than they've tried before. And maybe—and it's here that Harry gets flustered and a bit rambling—maybe they could, well, give what they have a name? Call it something?

"Because I've been yours for quite a long time now, I just didn't call it that. And I'd really like you to be mine, too."

Malfoy is quiet at that, and his shoulders get a bit rigid and tense, but he doesn't get up and leave, and after a beat, his hand resumes its steady stroke along Harry's ribcage.

"Potter," he begins hesitantly, "you should know that there isn't anyone else, for me—that is, I'm not…romantically…I have no other…commitments. I know we've never formally declared ourselves, but…I am very, well, happy—with you."

Harry is watching him through half an eye, most of his face still buried in the safety of Malfoy's neck, and he can see that Malfoy looks mildly taken aback at that statement, as though it's a surprise to him that he might get to feel content.

"But Potter, what we have together is working so well. We put a label on this, and start flaunting it around Diagon—well, people will stop taking us seriously. They'll make a fuss about our working relationship and find some way to undercut our professionalism and they'll skew things beyond recognition. It doesn't seem…prudent to invite that sort of intrusion."

And Harry sees it, of course—they're the same arguments he's made to himself a hundred times before, but he thinks this time that he'll start trying to work on convincing Malfoy to think around the obstacles and start looking at the finish line. But he's yawning, a cracking great gape of the mouth that he can't control, and his eyes are heavy and he's so, so warm. So he contents himself, just for now, to press a sleepy kiss to the creamy flesh over Malfoy's breastbone, and he mutters, "Mine," once more before sleep snatches him away.

Morning breaks above-ground, Harry presumes, but in Faoin Talamh the only sign of a new day is the increase in noise and bustle in the corridor outside his room. Harry stretches and blinks and yearns for the kiss of dawn light. Malfoy is still there, and still asleep, and Harry takes all the time he can to just look at him, serene and softened by sleep. He watches Malfoy until he feels himself slipping back under the mantle of sleep too, and wakes who knows how much later to Malfoy's thumb at his nipple and Malfoy's delicious weight straddling his thighs. Which is how they end up being very late for breakfast, and Malfoy has to slip in beside the other delegates with a flustered pink flush high on his cheeks, and one recalcitrant tuft of hair at the back of his head sticking out disobediently, despite the application of many of Malfoy's increasingly panicky grooming charms.

The day passes easily—Harry is feeling languid and relaxed, and the court stages a tournament and insists he take part. It's a diverting game, involving whacking a ball with beautifully shaped ash sticks, hotly disputing every move made by the opposite team, and implementing a diverse range of cheating mechanisms. It's fun, and Harry is pleasantly puffed out and warm by the time they break for lunch. Not long after, the delegates all arrive, looking giddy and self-satisfied. The negotiations are over, just like Malfoy had hoped—both parties have come to an agreement on the terms of a political alliance. They've worked out arrangements for cultural exchanges, some preliminary trade deals, and the entry of the Sidhe into the Magical Beings Alliance that was formed in the aftermath of the last war. It's a coup for Malfoy, getting such a magically powerful group to join the alliance. Harry is desperately proud.

The atmosphere at the Fire Feast that evening is upbeat. The Sidhe are glorious, painted face and body with iridescent mineral powders that make them glimmer like fallen stars. They've insisted on having their visitors dress in traditional Sidhe costumes, and Harry has to suppress a distinctly unprofessional whimper when he sees Malfoy, lean arms and bare shoulders luscious and creamy against the misty grey gossamer silk. Harry has been put in purple, that blackish plum of the inside of a mouth after too much red wine, and his eyes are a blazing, grassy green above the unfamiliar tone. With his hair unbound and full beard, he barely recognises himself in the looking glass—his smile is wild, his scar livid, the lean muscles of his arms a stark contrast to the filmy flow of the fairy robes.

Course after course is served, toast after toast is made. All the visitors stick to drinking only water, of course, but etiquette demands that the toasts have to be made with alcohol. The goblets, brimful of potent uisce beatha, are raised again and again, the wizarding folk discreetly pretending to sip and the Sidhe just as discreetly pretending not to notice.

All the visitors are seated at the top table, tonight. Malfoy is next to Fíachu, and the two have managed to rekindle their strong friendship, judging by the amount of laughing and intent talking they're doing. Harry's glad for them—he is.

When the last of the food has been enjoyed, and the wild leap of the fiddle and the ululating call of the tin whistle signal the start of the dancing, Harry is both surprised and nervous to find the space at his shoulder filled by the Queen herself. She's sweetly solicitous, enquiring about the hospitality he has received, and wondering whether he enjoyed his time in Faoin Talamh. She is impeccably polite and a gifted conversationalist, drawing Harry into long discussions about the traditions of the Sidhe and how their culture and pastimes differ from those of the wizarding world. Harry has an enjoyable ten minutes of telling her about Quidditch, though he suspects from her gentle queries that she knows far more about the game than she's letting on. She laughingly leads him in another toast, this time to "our sticks and the sport we derive from them," which Harry is pretty sure is her mildly taking the piss but which he gamely responds to anyway, raising the goblet in front of his lips to hide his smirk.

When they're on their feet, she murmurs, "Walk with me," and despite the musical cadence of her voice, it's clearly a command rather than a request.

They stroll around the edge of the dancefloor, and she speaks sombrely of Harry's role in the war, and his career since then. Her questions are probing without being intrusive, her opinions on the rise of Voldemort and the subsequent political shake-up are incisive and challenging. She's fascinating.

Harry's leaning in to hear her better over the frenetic music by the time they reach a small ante-room, and she asks him to keep her company while she rests a while. Draco passes by, a whirl of clasped hands and stamping feet as he throws himself into an eight-person set dance. He spares the time to raise a sardonic eyebrow at Harry and his companion, but is gone again at the next call of the melodeon.

"And dear Mr Potter, while I have you to myself, may I ask you to bestow a small favour upon this humble monarch?" She's smiling so sweetly, and he drops into a bow as he tells her he'll be happy to assist her in any way she deems fit.

"It is a small matter for a wizard of such skill and renown as your good self, of course—but I have heard tales even this far below the ground of the beauty and majesty of the stag you can conjure. Your spirit creature, is it? The essence of your soul's delight? Such a spell would delight the eyes of even such a woman as myself, who has lived far longer than you could imagine, and seen wonders far beyond the stretch of your world. Would you call him forth for me, here?"

And Harry can't see the harm, though he reins his magic in to keep his Patronus close and manageable when he casts. At his words, Prongs springs forth from the tip of his wand, and stands shimmering in front of the Queen. His noble head is held aloft, his body strong and forceful as he begins to trot around the small chamber. The walls around him reflect the glow of him back at them, and he looks more magical than Harry has ever seen him.

The Queen is laughing outright now, clapping her hands in delight. With the gleeful light in her eyes, and her laugh pealing around the room, she seems childlike and so soft. Harry can't help but laugh in return.

"Oh, Mr Potter, this is truly breath-taking. What a wonderful sight. I can only imagine the skill and fortitude of the wizard who can create such glory out of a wand. Thank you for allowing me to witness it, Mr Potter—and, if I may?" As she speaks, she's moving, circling around Prongs who has stilled and has his head raised, as if scenting the air.

Then she puts a hand out, palm up and fingers splayed, unthreatening, and she touches Harry's Patronus.

He gasps—he can't help it—because he can feel her touch. It's gentle, and feels benign, but there's something there—Harry can feel it where he's never felt anything before. It's a tickle down the back of his neck, a light nudge at the very core of him. And the whole time, her hand is moving steadily, stroking up and down, up and down along the stag's neck. Harry can't stop watching.

"It's no wonder our Ambassador is so taken with you, Mr Potter. Such a wonderful man, and so dedicated to his work. It is good to see him finding happiness with one as proficient as yourself. I had hoped, at one point, that he had formed an attachment to my son…oh, don't look so concerned, Mr Potter! That's all water under the bridge now, and judging by his displays of affection towards you in every alcove and bedchamber of my palace, he doesn't seem to be pining for Fíachu." Her laugh is a tinkle of bells, light and brittle. Harry feels a distant sort of mortification, but he's still revelling in the foreign and oddly soothing sensation of the Queen's touch rippling through from his Patronus, and he only has half a mind on their conversation.

She continues talking and stroking, talking and stroking. Prongs is quiet now, head bowed beneath her ministrations, eyes closed contentedly.

"But forgive me—there hasn't been any formal declaration between…? No, of course not—and I'm sure that you have very good reasons for keeping things private between you two. It wouldn't do for the dashing young Ambassador to seem tied into a casual relationship of course! And I'm sure he is very fond of you deep down. And please don't trouble yourself about all the time he's been spending with my son these last few days. I have no doubt that their intentions are honorable, and of course they have years of a deep and abiding friendship to maintain."

She sighs. The sound is almost sad, and Harry wonders when the room got so quiet. He can still hear the music, and see the wash and wane of the dancers, but it seems distant and remote. Outside, Malfoy and Fíachu pass by on the dancefloor. The dance has slowed now, and they're chest-to-chest and hand-in-hand, faces so close that they can't possibly be noticing anything but the other.

Harry gets a stab of jealousy so sharp that it feels almost physical. He keeps watching, eyes narrowed, and all the time he wonders if perhaps there's another reason Malfoy hasn't made their relationship official. Perhaps Malfoy has changed his mind about Fíachu. Perhaps being here in the court has reminded him of how tender and loving and open his dark-eyed fairy boy is. Perhaps Malfoy has had enough of work-obsessed, argumentative, emotionally-stunted reluctant celebrities.

The anger follows, a cold tide of rage quaking through him. Because he wants Malfoy, for fuck's sake—it's all he's ever wanted, really, since he started allowing himself to want things. And it's not as if he's asked for much, is it? Just, not to die (and see how that worked out, never mind that it didn't really stick). And a family that loves him—and well, he has the Weasleys of course, and they love him in their distracted, chaotic way, but it's not like they don't have enough wayward boys already. So why should this be snatched away from him too?

The Queen's voice is a grounding hum, bringing him back to himself. "Of course, for a wizard such as yourself, it would be but the smallest effort to draw him back to you, if that was what you wanted. Yes, I see him gazing at my son out there,"—Harry grits his teeth—"but his head can be turned back. It's not even a spell, as such, more of a suggestion. A light bond to tether yourselves to each other anew. Nothing that can change your feelings or warp the mind, but just a little enforced nearness—just to remind him of your common interests, get you spending some time together. Nothing permanent of course, oh no no. Yes, I know you're probably not familiar with it, but it's an easy little frippery, I can teach you in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Yes? Yes! A toast then!"

She raises her glass to him, smiling encouragingly. Her other hand is buried in the stag's coat. Harry feels sluggish and tired, so tired—tired of losing things, tired of wondering what to do, tired of not taking what he wants. His own goblet dangles forgotten from his fingers, and he hefts it aloft. It's heavy.

Her smile is blazing now, and the stag is kneeling at her feet. "To your heart's desire, Harry Potter. To the taking, and the keeping!"

Harry nods, tilts the glass, and shuts his eyes. Why not, he thinks. Why not? He raises his goblet, the rim sharp and icy at his lower lip. He prepares to drink.

It's the disturbance in the atmosphere that he notices first, the way the upward movement of Malfoy's arm displaces the air before the force of the slap of his hand knocks the goblet away from Harry's mouth. It spins away, strikes the Queen hard in the chest, and ricochets onto the floor. The glass shatters on the ground, light winking from the thousand tiny crystal shards. The uisce beatha, mercifully undrunk, spreads across the floor like mercury.

Harry looks up. The Queen is still standing, and he can't imagine how he ever thought her smile could be sweet. It's razor-sharp, blistering, triumphant. He turns his eyes to Malfoy, Fíachu beside him. Malfoy is trembling, face bled clean of all colour, eyes burning. His hand is still raised, the tremors of the force behind his strike still reverberating through it.

When he speaks, he sounds exactly like the Malfoy of sixth year, the chilling tone of his voice echoing back at Harry from a bathroom floor and a train compartment and a vanishing cabinet.

"Well, Potter. Now you've gone and fucking done it."

Harry and Malfoy aren't exactly stuck in a fairy jail, but they're in the closest thing to a fairy jail that the Sidhe can justify without causing a diplomatic incident.

Immediately following the moment where Malfoy had knocked the goblet away before Harry could drink, the Queen had called out for her court and accused Malfoy of committing lèse-majesté (which, as Malfoy had hissed viciously out of the corner of his mouth to a dumbstruck Harry, had been considered a crime in Sidhe society since before their laws had even been written down). Never mind the fact that everyone knew the wizards weren't really drinking the toasts, it was apparently a grievous insult and a diplomatic incident to explicitly reference the fact that Sidhe whiskey was as poison to the visitors. And Malfoy, in his "act of violence against the person or integrity of the monarch" was subject to the laws and justice of the Sidhe.

This, of course, has sparked outrage amongst the wizarding delegation, while the Sidhe grew restless and resentful, and several armoured guards appear as if from nowhere to flank the Queen. The atmosphere is hostile.

The Ard Brithem has been summoned, and while the arguments wage between fairy and wizardkind, the Queen has moved everyone except Malfoy and Harry out from the little anteroom, and placed shimmering wards across the entrance, "for the sake of the Ambassador's continued safety and well-being."

Malfoy is still in a snit, stalking around the chamber and occasionally whirling around to point accusingly at Harry, before growling with incoherent rage and resuming his pacing.

Eventually he seems to come to a resolution, and even as he mutters, "Well, this isn't going to get us out of here," he drags Harry over to the chairs and pushes him to sitting.

"Right. First off. Have you absolutely lost your tiny fucking mind, you unmitigated twat?"

Harry can't help it, and he knows he's only making things worse, but he has to laugh a bit. In terms of being endearing, Malfoy swearing and angry is second only to Malfoy swearing and turned on.

Malfoy is pinching the bridge of his nose, and taking deep breaths. When he looks up again, he's calmer, and his eyes are imploring.

"Potter, this is bad. This is really bad. I need you with me on this. You really were about to drink that, weren't you? Despite everything I told you! And that really was your Patronus that she had her grubby paws all over? What were you thinking?"

Harry isn't sure how he can begin to tell Malfoy that he hadn't been thinking of anything at all except his own maddening jealousy. The whole incident seems fuzzy, but when he thinks of it he remembers Malfoy's face upturned to Fíachu's as they danced too close, and the quivering blade of his own envy.

There's nothing for it, though. Things are looking dicey, and he knows that Malfoy needs to know everything. He cringes a bit, internally, then takes a breath and says, "She offered to teach me a little spell, something small, just temporary—nothing that would have changed our feelings for each other, but just something to build on what we already have together and maybe get us to take things more…seriously?" He trails off, growing increasingly embarrassed as Malfoy looks more and more incredulous.

"Potter. Are you telling me that you and the Queen were planning to cast a…a love spell? On me? Oh, a bonding spell, well that's so much fucking better! You are a selfish prick, do you know that?"

And Malfoy has always known how to push Harry's buttons, and all of a sudden Harry is spitting with rage and on his feet. Because Harry wasn't the one insisting that he was happy one minute, and then saying he wanted to keep their relationship a secret the next. And Harry wasn't the one prancing around the dancefloor in another man's arms, was he?

"It wasn't going to change anything!" He's shouting now and is only dimly aware that it's not the most efficient use of their time. "It would have just meant us keeping close together, for a little while. Spend some quality time together, maybe have you stay the night for once instead of fucking off after we shag?"

Malfoy sneers. "And what did you think would happen, Potter? Force us together, cast a spell that probably causes pain, or damage to our magic, if we move too far away from each other? Maybe ensure that we have to share the same bed, shower together? And what—we'd realise we were madly in love and it would all end happily ever after? You utter cock! That sort of spell is bad news, Potter. Enforced proximity? You of all people should know that the most important part of a relationship is the fact that you have agency, that you decide to be together. That you choose each other, free and clear.

“How can you even call it a relationship, if it's forced upon you in any way? That's not love, that's a prison."

He says it quietly, like he's thought about this before, and all of a sudden, Harry feels ashamed. And Malfoy's right, of course—Harry misses Malfoy when he's not around, and he wishes he saw more of him (though that's as much his own fault as Malfoy's), but he's never doubted that Malfoy wants to be with him, before. He loves that they have a give and take, that they allow each other to develop and grow, even if that means they have to spend more time at work than with each other. The whole thing suddenly seems horrifyingly stupid.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and he means it. "I don't know what came over me—I was watching you dancing with Fíachu and being a total prat and just feeling a bit jealous and…"

Malfoy's head snaps up. "Dancing with Fíachu? Potter, I wasn't dancing with Fíachu, or anyone, since I saw her bring you in here. The whole time you were talking, I was lurking outside the door, pretending to chat to the Irish minister but actually trying to see what she was doing with you. She had some sort of privacy charm up though, I couldn't hear a thing. When she touched your Patronus I nearly barged in there, but there were wards in place. I had to go and find Fíachu and give him some sort of guff about wanting a proper chat somewhere quiet to even get near the place—the wards are all keyed to him of course. And I was only just in time, Potter—if you had drunk that toast…"

He trails off with a shudder. Harry can't help but mirror it—he can't imagine what he was thinking, and the more he tries to figure it out, the more confused he feels.

"Hang on a minute, Malfoy. If you weren't dancing with Fíachu, then what the fuck was that? I saw you, you were dancing right in front of the doorway."

"I assure you that I wasn't, Potter. I was, in fact, plastered to the wall outside trying to see and hear everything without appearing like I was trying to see and hear everything. I could see the whole dancefloor. If I had done a merry gavotte past myself, I think I would have noticed."

Then he's whitening up again, and his mouth gets tighter.

"That crafty, conniving… Potter, this important—what were you doing when you saw me?"

Harry tries to think back, through the jumble of feelings to the actual events.

"I was sitting, chatting. She was talking about us—she knew about us, did you know that? And I was feeling tired, but she was soothing, the way she was stroking the stag. It was lovely, actually, so relaxing—I've never been able to feel anyone touching my Patronus before."

Malfoy swears, creatively and at length.

"I knew she was up to something. So she got you to cast—not a little piddly spell, but something big. Something that would take a whole blast of power. Oh, I'm sure you're going to tell me you pulled your spell, but even undercasting, you're going to generate more power than most of us at full strength. And then she waltzed right up there and started just siphoning your power right under your nose? How could it not have occurred to you that being able to feel her through your spell meant  that something must have been off about the whole thing?! You're supposed to be the best in the business when it comes to curses but you didn't even notice when she just stuck her hands right into your magic?

“And then as she was drawing all that lovely juice out, just enough to weaken you up a bit, get you fuzzy, she hit you with some kind of fairy guile. A suggestibility spell or something, probably as mild as could be or you would have noticed. And then planted some idea about Fíachu and me in your head, while your defences were down, and lo and behold we just happen to waltz past the door. She's the Queen of the Sidhe, Potter. She could probably conjure up a perfect facsimile of Shacklebolt in fairy wings and a tutu, without even blinking. Well that's just bloody brilliant. Lovely of you to just give her access to all your weird little insecurities. And then she tried to get you to drink, knowing that it would have meant you staying in Faoin Talamh forever, or dying back aboveground."

He's shaking his head, that delicate furrow between his brows deepening further.

"The question is, why? What would she want with you, Potter?"

The trial, such as it is, is swift and brutal. The Ard Brithem seems sympathetic, but the facts cannot be refuted. Malfoy did wage an insult against the Queen; he did break a toast; he did in fact cause a missile to strike the Queen—she has the bruise to show for it. No matter that the rest of the delegates call for moderation, shout that Malfoy should retain diplomatic immunity—the Sidhe are inexorable and entirely rigid. Malfoy is guilty—the Queen herself can speak the sentence.

Harry is cold with shock, desperately wondering what to do next. He didn't think things could get worse, until he hears the Queen's pronouncement.

"Draco Malfoy, in light of the long friendship we share, and the alliance between our peoples, we are inclined toward leniency. We value the friendship of the wizarding community highly, and we believe that justice should foster wisdom, not punish ignorance. To further our common goals of friendship and unity, we decree that you should enter into a bonded union with a member of our community, to ensure fealty to our kingdom and demonstrate your willingness to improve relations between wizarding and Sidhe societies. This union shall be dissolved at the close of a five year term, if both parties so desire. However, we should advise that the breaking of the bond oath while it is in place  is punishable by death under Sidhe law.

“As a sign of our deep esteem for your position in the wizarding Ministry, and your staunch friendship, we offer one of our finest and most noble young courtiers as your bonded partner. We trust that you will not find him unpleasing."

A mere flicker of her eyes sideways and the crowd shifts to allow someone through. Then Fíachu is standing beside his mother. He looks pale and faded and utterly miserable. As Harry and Malfoy stare at him, aghast, he raises his chin and sets his mouth and nods at his mother, and stays silent.

Harry can only be thankful that he's still behind the wards with Malfoy, because it means at least that he can grab Malfoy when Malfoy blanches and sways as if he's going to fall. The rest of the delegates are frantic by now, shouting and pulling wands, and the Queen rolls her eyes in a gesture that's suddenly and shockingly human, and claps her hands for silence.

"I grow weary of this chatter. You—wizards! Go back to your leaders and tell them that we of the line of the Tuatha Dé Danann will hold our word and keep to the agreed accords. We have passed a lawful sentence upon this man. Justice shall be served, and he will not be met with unkindness here. Now, farewell."

She flicks her fingers at them in a desultory gesture of dismissal, and they grow indistinct before dissolving and disappearing. Harry presumes they've been returned aboveground, and has a moment of fervent hatred for the Queen for making them all walk for hours through the hill to get here, when apparently she could have just snapped her fingers and summoned them all here as easy as winking. Every second of this mission has been an exercise in her particular brand of manipulation, he's realising now.

Now it's just them left, Harry and Malfoy and the Queen and Fíachu, and a handful of Sidhe milling about. Malfoy is quieter than Harry has ever seen him, sitting with his bare arms clasped around himself. The Queen walks across the room, to the place where her wards ripple and shimmer, and stands in front of them.

"I'll be sending you back now, too, Mr Potter. But before you leave, I just wanted to thank you for your assistance. You were invaluable in my quest to ensure that the Ambassador's visit to us was extended somewhat." She smiles that smile again, the vicious one that reminds Harry just how far underground they are.

"You don't have children, do you, Mr Potter? I have seven sons—all men of beauty, courage, and talent. Only one of them has ever yearned for a life beyond our bounds, has ever looked above to find his happiness. My third boy. Of all of them, he is the one with the softest and most staunch heart. He has never loved easily, but he loves your fierce little dragon. I pleaded with him to turn his eyes and heart back to us, but he has been lost these long years past. And I cannot bear to let him go—he would wither and fade up there with your kind. I needed to find a way to keep him here, and bring his joy to him.

“I had hoped—so much!—that being back here with Fíachu would remind the Ambassador of the long love he bore my son. Alas, when you arrived I saw this could not be. For he was clearly bound up in you, and to my surprise, you in him also. But my son was adamant that you had not reached an understanding, that the Ambassador was still free to love another.

"We have questing spells that can determine these things for us. Imagine my relief when I determined that it was indeed true, you two had never made a claim upon each other."

Harry remembers that creeping prickle of magic, almost imperceptible, when he had his first audience with the Queen. He scowls at her. She continues with her story blithely, as though discussing the weather.

"This was fortunate for my plans, as if the Ambassador had already entered a formal union—been wedded, or been claimed as a life partner—then under Sidhe law he could not enter another union. However, I could see that there would be no easy way to convince him to bond with my son, yet without him, my son would pine and yearn forever. As a mother, this was an intolerable prospect.

"I had to think of something, and you made it so easy for me, you two besotted boys. Everything written all over your faces for everyone to see! I just knew that he would do anything for you. It was so easy to get him to put himself in the way of my wrath for you. He didn't even think about it for a second—when he saw you about to drink from that goblet, his heart compelled him to defy me. He committed a grievous crime against a foreign monarch without even blinking. It was beautiful."

Harry's eyes are prickling, either in rage or sadness, and he scrubs at them impatiently. "He knew you were up to something dodgy. So you would have the son you proclaim to love so much shackled to a man that you've had to force into a sham marriage? I wouldn't exactly call that a happily ever after, would you?"

She blinks at him, like this isn't something she's even considered.

"You speak of happily ever after, Harry Potter, but you don't know how to handle your heart. The Ambassador does not need to love, to form the bond. He will be loved enough for both of them. Five years is a long time, Mr Potter. My son is generous in every way—I would be surprised if his Draco did not learn to appreciate that over time.

"And you, Mr Potter—you would do well to learn from our ways. You think you close your heart off from the world. Yet I have seen you and the Ambassador, in the corridors of my own kingdom, pouring your whole heart into a look, a kiss. And yet you never thought to claim him as your own! Faugh, your foolish pride has undone you."

She's glowing with triumph, and she turns her back and walks over to Fíachu, who still looks shamefaced and shaken. With a careful tenderness, she sits with him and cups his chin in her hand. He smiles at her, slow and sad and hopeful.

Harry is dazed, vibrating with rage and bitterness. He looks at Malfoy, pale and insubstantial as he stares unseeing at the ground. It's not fair, Harry wants to howl. I want to keep him, he's mine. Mine, mine, mine!

Suddenly, with a surge of adrenaline so strong it nearly floors him, Harry remembers something.

"Ard Brithem!" he shouts, "I demand an audience with the Ard Brithem!"

The Queen looks up sharply, comes to her feet, but he can see that the Ard Brithem is already moving towards him. She has an enquiring tilt to her head, and she wears an odd expression. Is that…sympathy? Harry wonders.

"Ard Brithem, I need your advice on a legal matter please. For the Ambassador to enter a soul bond, he would need to be unclaimed by any other? But what if I have already made a claim for him?"

The Ard Brithem nods. "It is as you say, Mr Potter. Though it is not as simple as merely saying some words. The claim depends upon your intent—the feelings behind the claim have to have weight. Are you saying, Mr Potter, that you have in fact claimed the Ambassador for your own?"

Harry remembers the previous night with a hard swallow. His chest feels tight when he thinks of Malfoy with his hair dampened into burnished gold by water, the strong muscles of his forearms flexing as he washed Harry clean of mud. He remembers smoky eyes crinkling in amusement from across the pillow. He remembers pressing a kiss into Malfoy's skin as Malfoy's heart leapt under his lips. He remembers what he said to Malfoy before sleep pulled them under. He remembers.

"I called him mine."

The Queen is furious, and the court is in uproar, and Harry can hardly bear to see the fragile flare of hope in Malfoy's eyes. But the Ard Brithem seems to approve, for she drops the barest shadow of a wink to Harry as she asks him to clarify his claim.

He's embarrassed, still, fumbling his way through his feelings in front of half of the Sidhe court, but even if it's not quite life or death, it feels a bit like it.

He tells them everything, in case any of it is important. About the years of friendship and support and spurring each other on and driving each other crazy. About how even when he wanted more, Malfoy has always been enough for him.

He tells them about the talk with Fíachu, and about asking Malfoy if they could put a name on their relationship. He tells them about falling asleep with the taste of Malfoy's skin on his mouth, and the word mine reverberating around the room they shared.

The Ard Brithem raises her hand to Malfoy and speaks a few words, the sounds unrecognisable to Harry. Her spell works, though—a faint glow pulses from him, radiating out from his heart centre. She nods decisively, almost to herself, and addresses Malfoy.

"He speaks the truth—there is evidence of a new soul bond here. Though it is tentative, not yet fully formed. Ambassador?"

Malfoy sighs, rolls his eyes (such a relief, Harry thinks, to see him gathering his disdain to himself like a shield). "Not fully formed," he confirms, "though not through lack of…affection between us." He slides Harry a glance, half-appalled and half-shy. "Potter and I don't need to make any claims upon each other. We don't need rings, or bonds, or even a label, to make what we have so important, and so fulfilling. No forced bond or false alliance can ever change that."

He smiles straight at Harry then, that whole-hearted flash of delight that changes his face, that smile that so few people get to see. "It's a bad time to tell you that I love you for the first time, Potter. But there we have it."

The Ard Brithem is very clear. Harry definitely has a claim to Malfoy, and he should be allowed the chance to win his love back. The Queen is quietly furious, and quibbles about the unformed nature of Harry and Malfoy's bond, but the Ard Brithem stands firm. The Queen also tries to argue that Malfoy's punishment for his offence of lèse-majesté should supersede Harry's claim on him, but the Ard Brithem merely cocks an eyebrow in bemusement and the Queen falls silent. She knows that the Sidhe will never accept the severing of a love bond, even for their Queen's sake.

The Ard Brithem suggests that an alternative punishment shall be meted out to the Ambassador—in the interest of the Queen's express desire to maintain cordial relations with wizarding kind, and her promise of leniency, a fine of fifty thousand Galleons would be an appropriate sentence. The Queen looks calculating, but money is one thing that Malfoy has plenty of, and Harry has never been so grateful for the steadfast impartiality of the justice system. The Queen fumes, silently, but cannot overturn the judicial ruling. Harry has a chance.

The Queen is sneering openly when she makes her pronouncement.

"I see, Mr Potter, that you have a deep and abiding love for the ambassador, and that he returns your esteem. In light of this extraordinary development, we recognise that we cannot perform a bonded union between the crown prince and the ambassador.

“My son will step aside. Ambassador Malfoy is yours to keep, Mr Potter."

Harry tries to smile at Malfoy, but everything is blurry and indistinct. He blinks, shakes his head, trying to clear the fuzz. The Queen is still in sharp relief, however—and isn't that strange? She has the light of triumph in her eyes as she begins to speak again.

"As I say, Mr Potter—he's yours. You're welcome to him…if you can find him. You have one day and one night to prove your worth, oh Boy Who Lived. If you haven't found your way back to get him by then, we seal the way forever. Catch him if you can!"

She snaps her fingers, in that insolent gesture of dismissal, and before Harry can make a sound, he's standing on the grass of Ronayne's Court in the cool grey dawn of a new morning. His bare feet are slick with dew, and he skids into a turn to look at the unblemished stretch of hill in front of him. The road to Faoin Talamh is gone, the ground as blank and featureless as if there had never really been anything there in the first place.

Harry has been sent back aboveground.