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hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-17 09:39 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-17 09:39 am
Entry tags:
Trade – Chapter IX (1 of 2)
Three months. 183 pages. Twenty-odd menswear collections. Nine chapters. Many wobblers (both theirs and mine). Three betas, and one trip to the GP later...
TRADE
Previous sections here
Chapter IX
Where Julian had disappeared to in a matter of seconds, Draco didn't know. Obviously being a spy came with all sorts of abilities and tricks that Draco wasn't privy too, and, not for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, Draco was acutely aware that life was pissing on his head quite spectacularly.
He was not amused.
In fact, if Life had strolled over to where Draco currently found himself in a twisted tableau with his ex-lover, Draco would've pissed on its foot. Or kicked it in the nuts. Or shot it in the head.
He wasn't feeling terribly diplomatic at the moment.
As Draco saw it, his problems were somewhere between two-fold and infinite. His twin had done a fucking runner, again, after having admitted to offing their absentee father. Blaise was going to think he'd skived off, when really he'd been kidnapped by his solicitor. His mother was, well, she was all right, but Draco fucking well wasn't. He was face-to-face with his ex-whatever, who was the last person he wanted to see, including his dead father, and he didn't even have anything to strike That Fucking Bastard with.
He found himself looking about the surrounding area for a convenient branch or twig or anything to knock Harry about with, but sadly, there was none to be had. The effectualness of the local council was, sadly, quite up to snuff.
There was a bloke running with his dog, however, and Draco was tempted to borrow the leash and garrotte Harry with it. Instead he fixed his eyes at a point directly over Harry's right ear; if he squinted he could pretend he saw St. Paul's.
"I have nothing to say to you." Draco enunciated each word perfectly, as crisp and emotionless as if he were in conversation with the Queen and they were discussing flowers.
At least Draco endeavoured to keep his voice as emotionless as possible. The problem, however, was that Draco was anything but an emotionless person, and he could sense his blood pressure spiking as his heart beat loudly in his chest. His palms were itching, and there was a low grade buzzing occurring in his ears.
He couldn't remember the last time he was so incensed. He'd thought it was when they were all together in that dingy warehouse in Brixton, but looking back on it, he was certain he'd felt vastly calmer then.
There was no shock acting as a buffer this time –- this was purely uninhibited fury.
That Fucking Bastard -– Harry -– tilted his head to the side and gave Draco what he presumed was supposed to be an apologetic look. "I know you're angry with me," He Who Draco Wanted to Castrate with a Soup Spoon said.
"Angry?" Draco parroted in disbelief. He wasn't angry; he was fucking murderous. He could hardly even appreciate how nicely tailored Harry's –- Potter's -– Black's -– Whatever His Name's black wool coat, clearly Givenchy's winter line, was.
"I wanted to apologise for misleading you and keeping the truth from you," Potter carried on. He gestured once at Draco, but soon moved his hands back down to his sides when he realised that Draco wasn't interested in his rueful smile. "I know it was wrong of me, especially considering how much I actually do fancy you."
"Misleading?" Draco seethed. He couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around all the drivel coming out of Potter's mouth, because he couldn't even imagine that anyone would have the fucking audacity to think they could make such deception right.
He opened and closed his fists rapidly, unable to keep himself under control. Any semblance of decorum or etiquette Draco had was pushed very firmly to the wayside, and while Blaise would have walked away by now, Draco was absolutely gobsmacked by Potter's cheek. He couldn't even move.
"You thought you could just come here today and apologise for lying to me about my brother, and who you are, and how you fucking used me like a fucking rentboy; and I would what -– take you back?" Draco was so incredulously he could hardly think. "Are you fucking insane?!"
Potter shifted his weight back and forth; he was wearing those unsightly black specs again, and he pushed them higher up his nose. The wind was picking up, and Potter's unruly hair was being whipped into a mess. It was too much black –- the specs and the hair and the coat and the trousers. Once, Draco would've found it impossibly hot, but now, well. Obviously there was a section in the Spy Manual on appropriate spy-wear: black, black and more black. The covertness was so over the top that Draco was almost amused.
But 'almost' didn't count.
Potter's lips drew into a thin line under Draco's disbelieving gaze, but he said nothing, and Draco's eyes widened as he realised that forgiveness was exactly what Potter had been hoping for.
Potter's overconfidence was so blinding that Draco could hardly see straight, and his visage grew fuzzy as Draco turned his head away, again, and looked past him. There was a woman with shining straight brown hair and dimples walking down from the top of the hill. She wore a lovely blue fitted coat that Pansy had in green -- Marc Jacobs if Draco wasn't mistaken.
The woman glanced at them briefly, but carried on talking into her mobile and smiling. Her expression seemed forced, but she was very attractive; Julian certainly would have thought so.
Potter had started talking again, but Draco couldn't listen to his sort of insipid nonsense any longer; it was going to give him a stroke. "My phone, if you please," he said, interrupting abruptly by holding his hand out.
Potter seemed rather astonished at Draco cutting him off, and he blinked once before reaching inside his coat and handing over the slim silver mobile. Draco took the phone from Potter's hand by the antennae as though it were contaminated, and he peered at the LCD screen in displeasure.
There was only a half a bar left on the battery, and there were thirty-six messages in his voice box. All in the last two days.
Draco would've wagered that the majority were from Julian and Blaise, but he wouldn't be able to listen to them now. The phone was tainted by Potter.
Draco did nothing to stop his upper lip from curling in disgust as he pocketed the phone in his jeans. "I suspect that you're waiting for me to tell you that I'll be ringing all my clients and informing them that MI-5 has all their details, and it would be prudent for them to change their numbers. Except that that's not going to happen, because even your lot have been known to use our services."
Potter's face tightened into a look Draco would have presumed was irritation, but as he didn't know the first thing about this person, he couldn't have said with anything approaching certainty. "Draco, I didn’t do anything to your mobile. You left it at my flat, and I just wanted to give it back."
It was good to sneer at Potter. In fact, it felt absolutely brilliant. "As though I would believe a word that came out of your deceitful mouth," Draco said coolly. "Kindly don't insult my intelligence any more than you already have."
"I am not insulting your intelligence," Potter retorted, colour flushing his face. "I'm trying to explain myself, but you don't seem inclined to listen."
"I wonder why I wouldn't want to listen to a bleeding thing that comes out of your lying trap," Draco spat. His vision was blurring at the edges, although he really had been attempting to keep himself under control. It wasn't just for appearance's sake, but also for Julian, who had made a deal with this duplicitous fucker; and for Blaise, who would be fucking livid if Draco were arrested for GBH.
"I never lied about the important things," Potter retorted sharply. His face was hard and mean now, and he reminded Draco of those football hooligans that were forever messing up perfectly good matches for everyone else.
When Potter stepped closer, Draco stepped back. He didn't want any further association with this person. The fact that he'd agreed to it without actually knowing about it only went to show how completely out of his head he was and how much damage this bastard had already done. If he had to be analysed, Julian was going to pay the bill.
"You wouldn't know the truth if it ran you down on Baker Street!" The vitriol spewed forth of its own accord as Draco finally loosed the betrayal he felt. "You told me you were an accountant!"
Potter it seemed, however, was just as livid as Draco. "It's a fucking job, Draco! It's just a fucking job -– we're not all fortunate enough to get ₤800 million in inheritances! I have to make a living just like everyone else, but it's what I do; it's not who I am!"
Draco rolled his eyes so hard that for a moment his head hurt. "You can't possibly be thick enough to believe the drivel you preach, Harry Potter Black. Or whatever your name is. Kindly do not address me as though we were actually acquainted."
Potter seemed almost incandescent with rage, which perversely served to bring down Draco's blood pressure a notch or two. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged. "Of course you know me! I'm that bloke who supports Arsenal and knows how you take your tea. I know that you have to sleep on your stomach and can't carry a tune to save your life. I've seen you hacked off and petulant and happy and every fucking thing in between. I know that you scream like a girl when you get a rim job. I'm the one to knows you need to get out and be young and not just the bloke that runs some fucking brothel."
"I do not run a brothel," Draco hissed, ignoring the pins that shot through his forearms when he balled his hands into fists. "I run a fucking business, but I don't suppose an arse bandit for the Queen would understand that."
"Don't kid yourself!" Potter spat back. "You're nothing but a glorified pimp."
Potter's head snapped to the side when Draco punched him, and it felt –- it should have felt better than it did.
But it wasn't bad either.
Draco suspected he would've enjoyed it more if the force of the blow hadn't ricocheted all the way down to his elbow.
What was even more interesting about punching Potter in the first place was that for the first time since Draco had met him, Potter actually fought back, and all the breath was crushed out of Draco's lungs when Potter tackled him to the ground.
Draco saw stars as his head smacked against the frozen ground; he accidentally head-butted Potter's chin, which was just a lovely coincidence. Potter was rather better at fisticuffs than Draco would've originally thought, but he did have a rather solid build and he was a fucking spy, which obviously helped.
They rolled about for several moments, taking pot shots and swinging wildly; there were feet and knees everywhere. Draco was going to have a enormous bruise on his shin from the loafers Potter wore, and he felt the bones in his jaw creak when Potter landed a rather lucky shot just below his left cheekbone -– in the exact spot where Draco had hit Julian when he first came home.
"Fuck you!" Draco put every last once of anger and hurt at being lied to into his fists. "I'm not your goddamn trade!" he shouted, swinging blindly and hearing a crunch of plastic that he could only assume was Potter's glasses.
Draco protested loudly when Potter pinned him to the ground. "Fucking spies," he spat as Potter loomed over him, his elbows and knees poking Draco in places no one ever wanted to be poked.
"Stop acting like such a fucking innocent," Potter retorted. His lip was bleeding again, and Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste as Potter's blood dripped onto his cheek. There was grass in his hair and all over his coat. It was a waste. Potter was a waste. Draco could only begin to imagine the sort of horrible grass stains on Blaise's tracksuit jacket. He was going to be furious, but at the moment, Draco couldn't bring himself to care. Blaise could scowl and glower, and Draco would let him, he just didn't want to be anywhere near Potter anymore.
Potter was too vivid a reminder of Draco's own stupidity, and his body wasn't helping matters in the slightest. He thrashed in Potter's hold until he wore himself out. Stupid bloody spy training. "If I didn't have to think about Julian, I really might have to kill you," he panted.
The self-righteous tightness in Potter's face lessened slightly. "So you really don't care at all? You can just turn your feelings on and off at will, is that it?"
Draco made a derisory noise. "Yes, well, thankfully I had a little help from you. I've never been terribly fond of policemen. Something about a man in uniform, who lies to me, just doesn't do it for me."
"You're lying." The tension in Potter's face had, curiously enough, reappeared in his voice. He sounded as though he were being strangled, which really, Draco wouldn't have minded at all.
In fact, Draco actually would have loved to watch Potter be strangled, and he refused to acknowledge the fact that his body was responding to Potter trying to lord over him. It was just his stupid hormones making things worse. "And you would know this how? I mean with all the lies you've told, surely they all sound the same at this point."
Potter seemed all dogged obduracy. "You still want me. There isn't anyone else."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. There's always been someone else. Did you really think you were it?" Draco could see the colour drain from Potter's face. He looked almost corpse-like. It was fantastic and horrifying all at the same time. Draco's hands were trying to wriggle free of Potter's hold, but his brain remembered what it was like when Potter had just been Harry, and Harry had made Draco happy.
But he wasn't Harry. He wasn't even really Potter. He wasn't even just some random bloke who'd gotten a leg over. This -- this person had actually made Draco care for him -– and that was what pained Draco more than anything else.
To say that Draco disliked being made a fool of was somewhat of an understatement. The elaborateness of Potter's duplicity did nothing but make Draco irritated and tetchy and extremely volatile, but he sat up leisurely when Potter finally relinquished his hold. "I'll be sending you the dry-cleaning bill," he said evenly, shoving Potter away as he got to his feet and brushed the leaves and grass from his clothing.
"There isn't anyone else," Potter repeated stubbornly while on his knees, but the sureness of his gaze wavered under Draco's knowing smirk.
"Never underestimate the lengths a Malfoy will go to for something he wants," Draco said coolly. "Being with you was just a ploy for something better."
Potter rocked back on his heels, and when Draco looked down at the ground he saw the broken remains of Potter's glasses; they explained the pain in his lower back.
He was curious as to whether Potter even needed them, but he felt no desire to ask; all he wanted to do was leave. Blaise's trainers were hurting his feet, and he'd hit his head on the ground extremely hard. He might've had a concussion; he would have to ring Dr Pomfrey. He couldn't go into work this way. What he needed was Blaise, and his mother, and those cucumber sandwiches that Dobson made.
"Is it this Zabini character who was all over your files?"
Draco had taken one step away, and he turned back sharply. Potter was on his feet, a look of amused interest plastered all over his features, and the exhaustion Draco felt was immediately replaced by a very cool and hard flatness.
Draco wasn't certain what floored him more -– that Potter had the audacity to mention Blaise or that he was freely admitting that Draco had a file. "He has nothing to do with this," Draco said, amazing himself with his own control.
Potter's smile was decidedly sharp. Almost lecherous. "So it is about him. Is he better than me in bed? Does he shag you harder? Suck you off whenever you want and tell you what a big cock you have? Does he bend over the kitchen counter for you, Draco? Maybe I should go back to the office and see what MI-5 has to say about him. Perhaps pay him a wee visit."
Potter was still talking, but Draco couldn't actually hear any of the words. The idea of Potter visiting Blaise, of being near him, or even contemplating threatening him made Draco murderous. Everything in Draco's mind went very still; he had only one focus.
"Are you attempting to blackmail me, Mr Potter?" Draco asked very evenly.
Potter shrugged easily. "Not at all, I'm just curious to see who the competition is, or was."
Draco took one step forward and then another. He stopped when he was eye-to-eye with Potter and looked down fractionally. A half an inch had never made such a difference to what Draco saw. He'd once thought Harry Potter was beautiful, but now all he saw was ugliness and places he could happily break and scar.
Perhaps Potter was just as ruthless as Julian had said most spies were, but he was no Malfoy. "There is no competition," Draco said quietly. "We are over. You are not going to attempt to see me again, or I assure you, your dodgy agreement with my brother will be the least of your problems."
Something almost like remorse flickered across Potter's face, and for a moment, Draco was sorry that it had come to this. And then the regret was gone. "You're the one who thought having a boyfriend in organised crime would be a laugh," Potter reminded him.
Draco could feel the trademark smirk slipping over his features effortlessly. What Severus had said was true. Being a Malfoy had nothing to do with a surname and everything to do with protecting what belonged to you. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said. "You were mine.
This time Potter blinked. "I was not a mistake," he said belligerently.
"Oh yes, you were," Draco said rather amiably under the circumstances, "but mark my words, I won't make the same mistake again. You owe your life to me, Potter, and if you think Julian is your biggest concern, I urge you to think again. If you come near my family, or anyone having to do with me again, they'll be picking bits of you out of the Thames."
Potter stiffened under Draco's resolute stare. "Are you threatening an agent of Her Majesty?"
Draco smiled toothily. "No, I'm making you a promise. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go, I have a business to run."
And with that, Draco turned around and walked away.
continued in part two
Previous sections here
Where Julian had disappeared to in a matter of seconds, Draco didn't know. Obviously being a spy came with all sorts of abilities and tricks that Draco wasn't privy too, and, not for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, Draco was acutely aware that life was pissing on his head quite spectacularly.
He was not amused.
In fact, if Life had strolled over to where Draco currently found himself in a twisted tableau with his ex-lover, Draco would've pissed on its foot. Or kicked it in the nuts. Or shot it in the head.
He wasn't feeling terribly diplomatic at the moment.
As Draco saw it, his problems were somewhere between two-fold and infinite. His twin had done a fucking runner, again, after having admitted to offing their absentee father. Blaise was going to think he'd skived off, when really he'd been kidnapped by his solicitor. His mother was, well, she was all right, but Draco fucking well wasn't. He was face-to-face with his ex-whatever, who was the last person he wanted to see, including his dead father, and he didn't even have anything to strike That Fucking Bastard with.
He found himself looking about the surrounding area for a convenient branch or twig or anything to knock Harry about with, but sadly, there was none to be had. The effectualness of the local council was, sadly, quite up to snuff.
There was a bloke running with his dog, however, and Draco was tempted to borrow the leash and garrotte Harry with it. Instead he fixed his eyes at a point directly over Harry's right ear; if he squinted he could pretend he saw St. Paul's.
"I have nothing to say to you." Draco enunciated each word perfectly, as crisp and emotionless as if he were in conversation with the Queen and they were discussing flowers.
At least Draco endeavoured to keep his voice as emotionless as possible. The problem, however, was that Draco was anything but an emotionless person, and he could sense his blood pressure spiking as his heart beat loudly in his chest. His palms were itching, and there was a low grade buzzing occurring in his ears.
He couldn't remember the last time he was so incensed. He'd thought it was when they were all together in that dingy warehouse in Brixton, but looking back on it, he was certain he'd felt vastly calmer then.
There was no shock acting as a buffer this time –- this was purely uninhibited fury.
That Fucking Bastard -– Harry -– tilted his head to the side and gave Draco what he presumed was supposed to be an apologetic look. "I know you're angry with me," He Who Draco Wanted to Castrate with a Soup Spoon said.
"Angry?" Draco parroted in disbelief. He wasn't angry; he was fucking murderous. He could hardly even appreciate how nicely tailored Harry's –- Potter's -– Black's -– Whatever His Name's black wool coat, clearly Givenchy's winter line, was.
"I wanted to apologise for misleading you and keeping the truth from you," Potter carried on. He gestured once at Draco, but soon moved his hands back down to his sides when he realised that Draco wasn't interested in his rueful smile. "I know it was wrong of me, especially considering how much I actually do fancy you."
"Misleading?" Draco seethed. He couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around all the drivel coming out of Potter's mouth, because he couldn't even imagine that anyone would have the fucking audacity to think they could make such deception right.
He opened and closed his fists rapidly, unable to keep himself under control. Any semblance of decorum or etiquette Draco had was pushed very firmly to the wayside, and while Blaise would have walked away by now, Draco was absolutely gobsmacked by Potter's cheek. He couldn't even move.
"You thought you could just come here today and apologise for lying to me about my brother, and who you are, and how you fucking used me like a fucking rentboy; and I would what -– take you back?" Draco was so incredulously he could hardly think. "Are you fucking insane?!"
Potter shifted his weight back and forth; he was wearing those unsightly black specs again, and he pushed them higher up his nose. The wind was picking up, and Potter's unruly hair was being whipped into a mess. It was too much black –- the specs and the hair and the coat and the trousers. Once, Draco would've found it impossibly hot, but now, well. Obviously there was a section in the Spy Manual on appropriate spy-wear: black, black and more black. The covertness was so over the top that Draco was almost amused.
But 'almost' didn't count.
Potter's lips drew into a thin line under Draco's disbelieving gaze, but he said nothing, and Draco's eyes widened as he realised that forgiveness was exactly what Potter had been hoping for.
Potter's overconfidence was so blinding that Draco could hardly see straight, and his visage grew fuzzy as Draco turned his head away, again, and looked past him. There was a woman with shining straight brown hair and dimples walking down from the top of the hill. She wore a lovely blue fitted coat that Pansy had in green -- Marc Jacobs if Draco wasn't mistaken.
The woman glanced at them briefly, but carried on talking into her mobile and smiling. Her expression seemed forced, but she was very attractive; Julian certainly would have thought so.
Potter had started talking again, but Draco couldn't listen to his sort of insipid nonsense any longer; it was going to give him a stroke. "My phone, if you please," he said, interrupting abruptly by holding his hand out.
Potter seemed rather astonished at Draco cutting him off, and he blinked once before reaching inside his coat and handing over the slim silver mobile. Draco took the phone from Potter's hand by the antennae as though it were contaminated, and he peered at the LCD screen in displeasure.
There was only a half a bar left on the battery, and there were thirty-six messages in his voice box. All in the last two days.
Draco would've wagered that the majority were from Julian and Blaise, but he wouldn't be able to listen to them now. The phone was tainted by Potter.
Draco did nothing to stop his upper lip from curling in disgust as he pocketed the phone in his jeans. "I suspect that you're waiting for me to tell you that I'll be ringing all my clients and informing them that MI-5 has all their details, and it would be prudent for them to change their numbers. Except that that's not going to happen, because even your lot have been known to use our services."
Potter's face tightened into a look Draco would have presumed was irritation, but as he didn't know the first thing about this person, he couldn't have said with anything approaching certainty. "Draco, I didn’t do anything to your mobile. You left it at my flat, and I just wanted to give it back."
It was good to sneer at Potter. In fact, it felt absolutely brilliant. "As though I would believe a word that came out of your deceitful mouth," Draco said coolly. "Kindly don't insult my intelligence any more than you already have."
"I am not insulting your intelligence," Potter retorted, colour flushing his face. "I'm trying to explain myself, but you don't seem inclined to listen."
"I wonder why I wouldn't want to listen to a bleeding thing that comes out of your lying trap," Draco spat. His vision was blurring at the edges, although he really had been attempting to keep himself under control. It wasn't just for appearance's sake, but also for Julian, who had made a deal with this duplicitous fucker; and for Blaise, who would be fucking livid if Draco were arrested for GBH.
"I never lied about the important things," Potter retorted sharply. His face was hard and mean now, and he reminded Draco of those football hooligans that were forever messing up perfectly good matches for everyone else.
When Potter stepped closer, Draco stepped back. He didn't want any further association with this person. The fact that he'd agreed to it without actually knowing about it only went to show how completely out of his head he was and how much damage this bastard had already done. If he had to be analysed, Julian was going to pay the bill.
"You wouldn't know the truth if it ran you down on Baker Street!" The vitriol spewed forth of its own accord as Draco finally loosed the betrayal he felt. "You told me you were an accountant!"
Potter it seemed, however, was just as livid as Draco. "It's a fucking job, Draco! It's just a fucking job -– we're not all fortunate enough to get ₤800 million in inheritances! I have to make a living just like everyone else, but it's what I do; it's not who I am!"
Draco rolled his eyes so hard that for a moment his head hurt. "You can't possibly be thick enough to believe the drivel you preach, Harry Potter Black. Or whatever your name is. Kindly do not address me as though we were actually acquainted."
Potter seemed almost incandescent with rage, which perversely served to bring down Draco's blood pressure a notch or two. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged. "Of course you know me! I'm that bloke who supports Arsenal and knows how you take your tea. I know that you have to sleep on your stomach and can't carry a tune to save your life. I've seen you hacked off and petulant and happy and every fucking thing in between. I know that you scream like a girl when you get a rim job. I'm the one to knows you need to get out and be young and not just the bloke that runs some fucking brothel."
"I do not run a brothel," Draco hissed, ignoring the pins that shot through his forearms when he balled his hands into fists. "I run a fucking business, but I don't suppose an arse bandit for the Queen would understand that."
"Don't kid yourself!" Potter spat back. "You're nothing but a glorified pimp."
Potter's head snapped to the side when Draco punched him, and it felt –- it should have felt better than it did.
But it wasn't bad either.
Draco suspected he would've enjoyed it more if the force of the blow hadn't ricocheted all the way down to his elbow.
What was even more interesting about punching Potter in the first place was that for the first time since Draco had met him, Potter actually fought back, and all the breath was crushed out of Draco's lungs when Potter tackled him to the ground.
Draco saw stars as his head smacked against the frozen ground; he accidentally head-butted Potter's chin, which was just a lovely coincidence. Potter was rather better at fisticuffs than Draco would've originally thought, but he did have a rather solid build and he was a fucking spy, which obviously helped.
They rolled about for several moments, taking pot shots and swinging wildly; there were feet and knees everywhere. Draco was going to have a enormous bruise on his shin from the loafers Potter wore, and he felt the bones in his jaw creak when Potter landed a rather lucky shot just below his left cheekbone -– in the exact spot where Draco had hit Julian when he first came home.
"Fuck you!" Draco put every last once of anger and hurt at being lied to into his fists. "I'm not your goddamn trade!" he shouted, swinging blindly and hearing a crunch of plastic that he could only assume was Potter's glasses.
Draco protested loudly when Potter pinned him to the ground. "Fucking spies," he spat as Potter loomed over him, his elbows and knees poking Draco in places no one ever wanted to be poked.
"Stop acting like such a fucking innocent," Potter retorted. His lip was bleeding again, and Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste as Potter's blood dripped onto his cheek. There was grass in his hair and all over his coat. It was a waste. Potter was a waste. Draco could only begin to imagine the sort of horrible grass stains on Blaise's tracksuit jacket. He was going to be furious, but at the moment, Draco couldn't bring himself to care. Blaise could scowl and glower, and Draco would let him, he just didn't want to be anywhere near Potter anymore.
Potter was too vivid a reminder of Draco's own stupidity, and his body wasn't helping matters in the slightest. He thrashed in Potter's hold until he wore himself out. Stupid bloody spy training. "If I didn't have to think about Julian, I really might have to kill you," he panted.
The self-righteous tightness in Potter's face lessened slightly. "So you really don't care at all? You can just turn your feelings on and off at will, is that it?"
Draco made a derisory noise. "Yes, well, thankfully I had a little help from you. I've never been terribly fond of policemen. Something about a man in uniform, who lies to me, just doesn't do it for me."
"You're lying." The tension in Potter's face had, curiously enough, reappeared in his voice. He sounded as though he were being strangled, which really, Draco wouldn't have minded at all.
In fact, Draco actually would have loved to watch Potter be strangled, and he refused to acknowledge the fact that his body was responding to Potter trying to lord over him. It was just his stupid hormones making things worse. "And you would know this how? I mean with all the lies you've told, surely they all sound the same at this point."
Potter seemed all dogged obduracy. "You still want me. There isn't anyone else."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. There's always been someone else. Did you really think you were it?" Draco could see the colour drain from Potter's face. He looked almost corpse-like. It was fantastic and horrifying all at the same time. Draco's hands were trying to wriggle free of Potter's hold, but his brain remembered what it was like when Potter had just been Harry, and Harry had made Draco happy.
But he wasn't Harry. He wasn't even really Potter. He wasn't even just some random bloke who'd gotten a leg over. This -- this person had actually made Draco care for him -– and that was what pained Draco more than anything else.
To say that Draco disliked being made a fool of was somewhat of an understatement. The elaborateness of Potter's duplicity did nothing but make Draco irritated and tetchy and extremely volatile, but he sat up leisurely when Potter finally relinquished his hold. "I'll be sending you the dry-cleaning bill," he said evenly, shoving Potter away as he got to his feet and brushed the leaves and grass from his clothing.
"There isn't anyone else," Potter repeated stubbornly while on his knees, but the sureness of his gaze wavered under Draco's knowing smirk.
"Never underestimate the lengths a Malfoy will go to for something he wants," Draco said coolly. "Being with you was just a ploy for something better."
Potter rocked back on his heels, and when Draco looked down at the ground he saw the broken remains of Potter's glasses; they explained the pain in his lower back.
He was curious as to whether Potter even needed them, but he felt no desire to ask; all he wanted to do was leave. Blaise's trainers were hurting his feet, and he'd hit his head on the ground extremely hard. He might've had a concussion; he would have to ring Dr Pomfrey. He couldn't go into work this way. What he needed was Blaise, and his mother, and those cucumber sandwiches that Dobson made.
"Is it this Zabini character who was all over your files?"
Draco had taken one step away, and he turned back sharply. Potter was on his feet, a look of amused interest plastered all over his features, and the exhaustion Draco felt was immediately replaced by a very cool and hard flatness.
Draco wasn't certain what floored him more -– that Potter had the audacity to mention Blaise or that he was freely admitting that Draco had a file. "He has nothing to do with this," Draco said, amazing himself with his own control.
Potter's smile was decidedly sharp. Almost lecherous. "So it is about him. Is he better than me in bed? Does he shag you harder? Suck you off whenever you want and tell you what a big cock you have? Does he bend over the kitchen counter for you, Draco? Maybe I should go back to the office and see what MI-5 has to say about him. Perhaps pay him a wee visit."
Potter was still talking, but Draco couldn't actually hear any of the words. The idea of Potter visiting Blaise, of being near him, or even contemplating threatening him made Draco murderous. Everything in Draco's mind went very still; he had only one focus.
"Are you attempting to blackmail me, Mr Potter?" Draco asked very evenly.
Potter shrugged easily. "Not at all, I'm just curious to see who the competition is, or was."
Draco took one step forward and then another. He stopped when he was eye-to-eye with Potter and looked down fractionally. A half an inch had never made such a difference to what Draco saw. He'd once thought Harry Potter was beautiful, but now all he saw was ugliness and places he could happily break and scar.
Perhaps Potter was just as ruthless as Julian had said most spies were, but he was no Malfoy. "There is no competition," Draco said quietly. "We are over. You are not going to attempt to see me again, or I assure you, your dodgy agreement with my brother will be the least of your problems."
Something almost like remorse flickered across Potter's face, and for a moment, Draco was sorry that it had come to this. And then the regret was gone. "You're the one who thought having a boyfriend in organised crime would be a laugh," Potter reminded him.
Draco could feel the trademark smirk slipping over his features effortlessly. What Severus had said was true. Being a Malfoy had nothing to do with a surname and everything to do with protecting what belonged to you. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said. "You were mine.
This time Potter blinked. "I was not a mistake," he said belligerently.
"Oh yes, you were," Draco said rather amiably under the circumstances, "but mark my words, I won't make the same mistake again. You owe your life to me, Potter, and if you think Julian is your biggest concern, I urge you to think again. If you come near my family, or anyone having to do with me again, they'll be picking bits of you out of the Thames."
Potter stiffened under Draco's resolute stare. "Are you threatening an agent of Her Majesty?"
Draco smiled toothily. "No, I'm making you a promise. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go, I have a business to run."
And with that, Draco turned around and walked away.
continued in part two