How the War Was Won

Draco Malfoy was twenty-six years old. He had full lips that smiled his dead mother's empty smile back at him in the mirror. He had a jawline that spoke of blood bred for beauty. He had a hideous tattoo on his left forearm. He had fine lines of silvery scar tissue criss-crossing his chest. He had manicured nails just long enough to testify to a life of leisure. He had his very own wand cane. He had an insufferable attitude. He had an Order of Merlin (First Class) on a shelf in his study. And he had one gray eye that reminded everyone who saw them of a father he hated.

But the most troublesome of his manifold possessions - he had an owl from Harry James Potter.

"Well?"

"Mister Harry Potter is sending Master Malfoy an invitation, sir." Draco had painstakingly trained his elves to speak clearly, without the squeaking and stammering his father had ingrained in them, but he could not impress proper grammar on them. Some things are beyond even a Malfoy.

"Bring it here."

The elf approached and handed it's master the vellum scroll that had arrived by owl only minutes ago at the front gate of Malfoy Manor, then disapparated back to it's post at a dismissive hand gesture from Draco.



Malfoy -

Have enough years passed?

The Three Broomsticks, eight o'clock.

- Potter

p.s. - You'll find me.


Had it been long enough? Draco rose from his desk and placed the scroll neatly into one of its many pigeonholes, feeling the subtle whir of magic as the desk added this rendezvous with Potter to his schedule.

Perhaps it had.

---

Almost ten years in the ground, Tom Riddle must have been turning in his grave still.

Draco recognized Potter the moment he stepped into the Three Broomsticks. The wretch was wearing Riddle's face.

It only made sense for Potter to wear a glamour in such a public venue, but his choice was pure cheek. Not many still living would recognize the face of a young Voldemort, though it leaped out at Draco instantly. He had only darkened his hair and allowed it to fall it it's natural soft curl - he was not as instantly recognizable as Potter was.

Draco crossed the pub floor scowling and slid in to the seat across from Potter in the corner booth.

"Distasteful of you."

"Glad you appreciated it."

"I'd rather not stare at it any longer."

Potter shrugged eloquently and opened his illusion to Draco, allowing the Malfoy to see through the glamour. He had a scar across the bridge of his nose that hadn't been there when last Draco had seen him. He must have got it in the final battle. It had healed well and served only to mimic the line where his glasses had once bridged his face. Those horrid things had been lost to time as well, and Harry's grass green eyes shone into his own, twinkling with amusement. "I always have loved to see you squirm, Draco." At Draco's lifted brow Harry smirked. "Are we still on a surname basis then?"

"I suppose not, Harry." Potter grinned at him, and the sudden flash of white teeth behind pink lips took Draco like a punch in the gut. Only years of pureblood training saved him from gasping. Harry Potter was stunning, and Draco cursed the revelation. It had been far too long since a man had smiled at him like that.

Potter quirked a brow of his own and turned to speak to the approaching barmaid who saw the face of Tom Riddle, but seemed charmed all the same. Draco was furiously scolding himself, and when she turned her attentions to him he could say only, "Make it two."

"Awlrit den," she slurred in a terrible Cockney, "Awh'll be juz a dash, gents."

Harry grinned at her and Draco spared a thought for what the expression looked like on Riddle's face. Rather awkward, surely.

"How about your glamour then?" Harry peered at Draco curiously and Draco let his magic slide aside. He could feel Potter's eyes on him. "So it's true."

The patch. "Yes," Draco spoke simply, "Dashing, isn't it?" His sarcasm could have cut cauldrons.

But Harry was dead earnest when he spoke, or Draco was a Weasley. "Quite." The barmaid returned with a tray to settle a pint of the dark stuff in front of each man, along with two empty shots and a small bottle of some honey toned liquor. "Thank you much." Harry exchanged coinage with the girl and she swayed away with a wink.

Harry poured himself a shot and filled the other at Draco's nod.

"To Albus Dumbledore?"

"To Dumbledore." Draco replied quietly, and they drank.

---

Time crawled by in idle chat. Harry had traveled for some time, a thing Draco knew from the papers, and returned to London to act in a cushy post as a Ministry historian.

Draco had stayed, a thing no paper had remarked upon, and gone about restoring his honor with charitable works.

The bottle was considerably lighter.

Draco raised his glass steadily and eyed Potter over it's rim, feeling the slow burn of the bourbon spreading deeper in his stomach. "To Theo Nott."

Harry glanced away, his eyes pained. "To Nott." They drank, and Harry whispered to the candle cast shadows, "May he have forgiven us."

---

Time lurched forward in a slew of odd fragments of memory and empty pint glasses.

"You, covered in stinksap on the Express!"

"Your bouncing ferret act!"

"The time you slopped all down your front staring at Chang's tits."

"Oh I was not!"

"Like hell."

A moment of silence and then, "To Cho."

"Cho."

---

Time stood still around a near empty bottle and a growing sense of unease. Draco was drunk, thinking hard through all of Harry's easy smiles and past the way his neck looked beneath the collar of his shirt. He was having a fine night out, with Harry Potter. Of all people.

Shifts of melancholy, long stretches of silence punctuated with toasts to fallen comrades and friends, a long moment where Draco had feared he would weep when Harry toasted Narcissa, and another when Harry had first laughed and Draco had realized with a start that the sound had him half-hard in his trousers.

He was beginning to think that Harry Potter was flirting with him. And it was a nice thought indeed.

One toast remained, and it was Draco's to give.

Five minutes left until the bar closed, and they were Draco's to spend.

Among other things, Draco Malfoy had what his mother called moxie.

He lifted his glass, and Harry echoed his movement silently, as if he sensed Draco would say something profound.

"To the scar."

Draco tipped back his glass and darted forward to plant his lips against the object of his toast with the taste of bourbon still hot on his tongue. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain he registered Harry's glass dropped to the tabletop with a clink and a slosh and dismissed it as irrelevant.

Harry wasn't moving and Harry's skin was hot against his lips, and Draco opened his mouth slowly to trace the old scar with the tip of his silver tongue. He heard Harry gasp, felt the warmth of the sound against his neck, and he heard the barmaid approaching. Draco pulled away swiftly, settling himself back across from Harry as the wench turned to their corner.

"Shootain' dahwn fah da nigh' bahys."

Draco held Harry's green gaze with his one silver eye and settled there tab without ever breaking the stare. Harry's mouth was slightly open, and he was flushed. It could have been the drink, true, but Harry was breathing thickly, and Draco read his intent like a book.

---

Outside the pub in the cold mist Harry pressed Draco against the rough stone walls with his body, hands on either side of Draco's shoulders, his face inches away from Draco's own. "You mean that, Malfoy?"

"Mean what?" Harry's lips looked swollen already and Draco knew the slightest press forward would seal their bodies together, telling Potter plainly what what Draco wanted in the clean language of erection-to-thigh.

Harry lifted his chin then pressed those soft lips to Draco's forehead, where he traced a lightning bolt on the pale skin with a pink tongue.

"Oh," Draco gasped softly, "That." Harry pulled back and met his eyes. "Yes."

---

The kiss, when it came, was exquisite.