sweet subtle alchemy

Title White Lace & Dragon Meat
Author: anthimaeria
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance, Humor.
Summary: Sequel to Shepherds' Pie. Bill and Fleur’s wedding is turned upside-down when Harry and Draco make their public debut as a couple.
Warning: Established relationship, Ginny in a hideous bridesmaid dress, general fluffiness.
Word Count: ~9350
Beta:: parthenia14 and crucio_4_coffee are made of awesome for the incredible work they put into this. And huge thanks also to one shiv5468 for audiencing and additional Brit-picking.
Disclaimer: All characters are the copyrighted works of J.K Rowling, except Madame Delacour who belongs to moi, at least partially. No profit was made by the writing of this story, nor was any malice intended in any way, shape or form to the author.
Notes: This is the fourth story in a continuing series called Spark, Tremble & Sigh. It is not necessary to read the other stories before reading this one, but certain details may make more sense if you do. The previous stories are: [1] When Harry Cursed Draco; [2] Dragon Adrift; and [3] Shepherds’ Pie. Two more sequels are currently in progress. If you haven't read the other stories, just know that this takes place the summer after HBP, before Harry turns 17.


The jet-black cat leapt from the bed frame onto the nearest blanketed lump, and began to knead with her claws, purring loudly. With a muffled curse, the lump suddenly shook, causing the cat to spring off with an outraged meow. After a few moments of flailing about, the bedcovers flew up to reveal a rumpled, lanky blond, wearing nothing but an expression of extreme irritation.

“Harry, that beast is at it again!” Draco complained. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

Harry laughed. Nix was good for something other than catching mice after all. “You’re the one who wanted a cat,” he reminded his fiancé, inching over to give him a morning kiss.

Draco winced and recoiled as Harry’s face brushed against him. “Ow! Watch the stubble, Potter, that burns!”

“Sorry!” Harry said. He reminded himself that he was absolutely going to say something the next time that Draco’s sharp chin left divots in his thighs. Definitely.

Draco threw himself back on the bed, sinking into the pillows with a great sigh. “It’s the big day today, isn’t it? Well, what time do we have to be at the- there?” He didn’t want another row with Harry about how to refer to the Weasley family; he rather liked calling them Weasels and didn’t want to stop any time soon.

Harry sat up and turned his head to look out the window, scanning the sky for the sun’s position. “In about two hours, more or less.”

Draco looked at Harry appraisingly, performing a quick calculation in his head. Thanks to a long night of experimenting with some complicated toys from the new sex shop in Knockturn Alley, they’d both awakened a bit later than planned. Rolling regretfully out of bed, he grabbed Harry’s arm and dragged him straight to the bathroom. There was so much ground to be covered, and not nearly enough time.

A few weeks ago, Harry had mentioned that he planned to wear his old dress robes to Bill and Fleur’s wedding. He’d grown a bit since he last wore them, but Madam Malkin had always been genius at alteration charms. Utterly shocked, Draco had soon rallied and instigated an immediate style intervention. Harry couldn’t have cared less about such matters, but in deference to his beloved, he allowed Draco to select proper robes at Twillfit & Tattings, and even to steer him to Muggle London to pick up a few things at Harvey Nichols, cheerfully protesting all the while that he didn’t need anything so extravagant.

Moreover, in an unguarded moment after Draco did something astonishing to him with his mouth, Harry had also agreed to let Draco groom him for the occasion. Now he sat as calmly as he could while Draco struggled to tame his hair with gel, hairspray, and every cowlick-calming charm he knew. After what only seemed like hours, Draco finally put down his wand, having managed to organize Harry’s wayward locks into a sort of semi-controlled nest. He bestowed a kiss on Harry’s newly smooth cheek, and spun his chair to face the mirror.

“Ladies, gentlemen and Weasels,” he intoned, “I now present the wonderful Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and my own personal choice for Shag of the Year.”

Harry managed to smile slightly, but Draco thought he looked a little anxious.

“What’s eating you, Potter?” he asked, keeping his voice casual as he fastened a fresh green carnation to Harry’s lapel.

Harry didn’t know what to say. He and Draco were about to go out in public as a couple for the very first time in front of most everyone he knew, and he wasn’t sure how they’d be received. Especially by the people he cared about most, next to Draco.

“Just want to make sure we get there on time, that’s all,” he said. “By the way, you don’t look so awful yourself.”

“That I don’t, do I?” Draco agreed, slowly turning from side to side to ensure his profile compared favourably with the frontal view. With a lazy wave of his wand, the mirror fractured into a prism allowing him to see every angle at once.

As Harry well knew, appealing to his fiancé’s vanity was a very effective distraction, especially today. Draco did look devastatingly handsome, the picture of perfection in his smart dress robes. He wore a green carnation matching Harry’s in his lapel, a finely woven shirt the colour of fresh cream, and a pale blue tie that heightened the smoky hue of his eyes. His ice-blond hair, so much easier to handle than Harry’s, was brushed to a fine sheen and fell smoothly to his shoulders.

Harry fidgeted nervously with his new tie while Draco admired himself. So far, he and Draco had only confided in a few people concerning their relationship, and that was mainly out of necessity. Last week, they’d both testified at a closed hearing of the Wizengamot about Draco’s Unbreakable Vow not to kill Dumbledore, which resulted in Draco’s being cleared of all charges, but not without both of them having to answer some embarrassing questions about the exact circumstances under which the Vow was made. Of course, Harry realized that the hearing had been confidential in name only; there was no way short of Dark Magic to prevent gossip this juicy from leaking through the ranks. He supposed the entire Weasley family knew by now, which was fine with him, really. He hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to tell Ginny in person, and could only imagine what her reaction might be. It was one thing to stand up to Voldemort, but quite another to face an angry redhead with an admittedly legitimate axe to grind.

Along with his closest friends, the Ministry, and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry decided that his family should be among the first to know of his engagement. He dutifully posted an announcement via Muggle mail to the Dursleys, to which he never received any reply. He urged Draco to tell his parents as well, but Draco demurred, explaining to Harry that this sort of news should be conveyed in person and it wouldn’t be possible for him to do this quite yet. Narcissa Malfoy was currently summering on the Continent, catching up with old friends and collecting magical antiques, while Draco’s father was still imprisoned in Azkaban.

Although Harry had his doubts, Draco had assured him that he had absolutely no reservations about disclosing their relationship; there was a Malfoy way of doing things, and some traditions had to be followed.

Harry rose to his feet. Draco was now conducting minute adjustments to the parting of his hair. It looked perfectly straight, as usual.

He coughed. “Ready now?”

Draco performed a final pivot before the mirror. He straightened his tie, straightened Harry’s, and kissed Harry again, this time on the lips.

“If you insist,” he sighed.

*~*

It had taken a great deal of polite wrangling and the very gentlest of negotiations, but the Weasleys and the Delacours had finally reached an understanding that Bill and Fleur would be married at The Burrow, in the Weasleys’ garden. Once this decision had been made, Molly Weasley wasted no time before throwing herself into frenzied preparation for the biggest Weasley family event since Ginny’s birth. She knew that it would be difficult to take her guests’ minds off the recent advances of He Who Must Not Be Named, but was determined that Bill’s wedding would be remembered as the bright spot in an otherwise bleak summer. With the assistance of her husband and as many of her children that she was able to persuade, Mrs Weasley thoroughly cleansed the house and garden, and made sure that the premises were rid of every last doxy and boggart. Windows were washed, carpets were shaken vigorously, and the house was charmed to reflect fresh coats of interior and exterior paint.

As the day drew nearer, she gradually began to feel as though it might be possible for her to relax and enjoy herself at the wedding. Almost everything was in its place. A space had been cleared in the back yard, with a gazebo and rows of chairs for the ceremony, and clusters of round tables for the reception.. All the ingredients needed to prepare the wedding feast had been ordered, and Mrs Weasley had convinced a reluctant Ginny to spend some quality time with her in the kitchen, magically transforming the raw mounds of foods into tempting delicacies.

Mrs Weasley didn’t think it was vulgar to display the rapidly accumulating pile of wedding gifts, as long as it was done in a discreet manner. After all, they were wrapped so nicely, and guests might like to stop in and admire them. She decided to store the gifts in the garden shed adjacent to the reception area, which had been enchanted to be much larger inside. Although it looked as humble on the outside as it always did, the interior now resembled a charming, rustic cottage, much like the one in Godric’s Hollow where Mrs Weasley had spent her childhood. She’d decorated the thatched walls with garlands of moonflowers, and stacked the gifts on a broad wooden table covered with a white tablecloth. On the whole, she was quite satisfied with the presentation.

Seraphine and Henri Delacour were scheduled to arrive the day before the wedding. Fleur had begged Mrs Weasley to help keep her mother busy before the ceremony. With Maman constantly hovering over her and offering suggestions, she feared she would never be able to finish dressing. Mrs Weasley had readily agreed. She’d grown quite fond of Fleur after witnessing her tender treatment of Bill in the wake of his werewolf attack, and was pleased to lend whatever gracious assistance she could to her future daughter-in-law.

But Mrs Weasley’s task was not as easy as it had seemed. She wasn’t prepared for the frowning, overly made-up woman who loudly voiced her opinion, not ten minutes after she arrived at the Burrow, that Mrs Weasley’s idea of a proper wedding set-up was certainly not hers. Fleur’s mother certainly did not share her elder daughter’s more reserved temperament, and only somewhat resembled her, if one added about seven stone to Fleur’s slim frame and stuffed this bulk into garishly coloured couture robes. As she toured the Weasleys’ home with her hosts, she continued to offer equal doses of criticism and unsolicited advice, Arthur politely suppressing his coughs from the reeking clouds of perfume left in her wake.

Mme Delacour didn’t think much of the elaborately decorated wedding cake; the overly heavy, typically English confection was nothing like the delicate croquembouche she would have served. She made sure to point out that the wedding gifts should be neatly displayed inside the house, not shoved in the garden shed like dirty farm equipment. The tablecloths for the reception weren’t the right colour. The floral arrangements were clumsy and the flowers themselves didn’t have much of a scent. And it was absolutely incroyable that the Weasleys weren’t bringing out their finest crystal for the reception, to which Mrs Weasley replied that she was certainly free to conjure her own if she liked.

Mrs Weasley valiantly attempted to ignore these not-so-subtle digs. To keep the peace, she found herself nodding a lot instead of replying whenever Mme Delacour said anything particularly dreadful. There wasn’t much point in getting into a bickering contest over trifles. After all, the Delacours lived in France, and she wasn’t likely to see much of them in the future. The wedding was going to be a special day for her family, and she didn’t want any tension between herself and Fleur’s mother getting in the way of Bill and Fleur’s enjoyment.

Thankfully, Mr Delacour turned out to be much easier to deal with than his wife. He was a quiet, agreeable man, who seemed to endure his wife’s frequent nagging and interruptions rather stoically. More than once, Mrs Weasley wondered what his secret was, but she was far too polite to ever bring up the subject.

*~*

With minutes to spare before the appointed time, Draco and Harry linked arms and Apparated to the Burrow. Harry carefully clutched their wedding gift to his chest, making sure it survived their dizzying journey in one piece. Thanks to a tip from Professor Sprout, he had purchased an enchanted orchid plant that would bloom or wilt depending on the state of the relationship of the couple to be married. The flowers were bright purple with creamy yellow hearts, and looked as crisp and fresh now as they did on the day the plant was purchased. Harry thought the gift perfectly expressed his high hopes and good feelings toward the couple, and hoped Bill and Fleur would think so too.

The pair emerged right outside the gate in front of the Weasleys’ house, where Mrs Weasley and Mme Delacour were receiving guests. After warmly embracing Harry, Mrs Weasley awkwardly shook hands with Draco. There was no love lost between her and the Malfoy family, but she felt it was important to at least try to treat Draco fairly, especially because he was now Harry’s special someone.

She admired Harry’s orchid in its beribboned pot, and assured him that it was lovely. However, Mme Delacour was unable to stop herself from putting in her two francs.

“For ze future, you boys should know zat ze wedding gifts should always be sent ahead, never brought ze day of ze wedding,” she scolded them, shaking her finger.

Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes and held her breath. Just one more day with this impossible woman. One. More. Day.

“Seraphine, we don’t hold to any such rules in our household,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “I’m sure that Bill and Fleur will appreciate this most thoughtful present.”

She directed Harry and Draco to the garden shed, where they deposited the orchid on the table with the other gifts.

Mme Delacour offered a small, condescending smile. “Zat Draco... ‘e reminds me of my muzzer…did I ever tell you she was a veela?”

Yes, about fifteen times since yesterday, thought Mrs Weasley. Unable to stomach yet another interminable recounting of the noble Delacour ancestry, she searched her mind for an easy topic of polite conversation.

“Did you know that Harry and Draco are to be married next year?” she asked.

“Non, I did not ‘ear zis. But I certainly do not approve of such zings.” Mme Delacour replied gruffly.

“Oh, I know what you mean. They’re both so young!” Mrs Weasley sighed, relieved they could agree on something. “Much too young, really. I mean, by the time of the wedding, they’ll only be eighteen.”

“Zat is not what I meant, Mol-lee,”

Mrs Weasley gave her a hard look. “What exactly did you mean?”

“Two weezards, togezzer like zat? Eet is not right! You ‘ave known zis ‘Arry for years- was ‘e always zat way?”

“What way?”

“You know,” Mme Delacour giggled spitefully, “leemp-wristed?”

Mrs Weasley felt her ire rising, and she did nothing to stop it. “Look, Harry is who he is!” she retorted. “I don’t think there’s anything funny about it or why it should matter to you. He’s obviously in love, and I’m happy for him. If you’ve got a problem with that, kindly keep it to yourself!”

Mme Delacour looked outraged. Her mouth opened, then closed, as though she were about to say something very unladylike but changed her mind. She harrumphed something that might have been French under her voice, and marched away, thick ankles wobbling in her designer heels.

Mrs Weasley sighed. Wedding or no wedding, it was going to be a long afternoon.

*~*

As the British wizarding community was not large, Draco and Harry were familiar with most of the wedding guests. Hagrid was there, friendly as always but a bit distracted. He and Madame Maxine had their half-giant hands full trying to control Grawp, who was popping buttons off his too-small dress attire. The Ministry was well represented, with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Tonks, Rufus Scrimgeour, and numerous other co-workers of Arthur and Percy in attendance. Many of the Hogwarts professors were also present, with the notable exception of Severus Snape. Although Snape was a free man, having been cleared by the Order (to which he surrendered only after Harry and Draco agreed to not to mention his humiliating sexual romps with Voldemort), he sent his regrets due to urgent business. Whether this pretext was valid or not, Harry thought it was best that he’d stayed away; Snape’s gloomy demeanour had no place at such a happy event.

Neville Longbottom showed up with a resplendent Luna Lovegood, a few strands of dishwater blond hair visible under the brim of her enormous pink wedding cake-shaped hat. This latest millinery masterpiece boasted ropes of pearls and clusters of tiny finches perched on each tier, all twittering in merry cacophony. Long accustomed to receiving odd looks, Luna paid no attention to the frowns and hushed murmurs about the appropriateness of her attire. Neville didn’t seem particularly concerned about what his date wore; he was getting plenty of looks himself. This was the first time that nearly anyone had seen him so truly in love.

Fleur had invited her old Tri-Wizard challenger Viktor Krum, who had arrived alone and shot dark stares at Ron at every opportunity. Harry caught sight of Ginny in a ridiculously frilly bridesmaid’s dress, its hugely puffed sleeves almost giving her the appearance of having three heads. The scorching look that she gave him was nearly enough to ignite his hair from thirty paces without an Incendio, reminding him to avoid looking in her direction as much as possible for the remainder of the day.

When Harry saw Ron and Hermione exiting the garden shed, he couldn’t help giving them a quick wave in greeting. After a pause, they both waved back, but made no steps to approach him. Arthur Weasley walked over to Hermione, and she and Ron promptly turned their backs on Harry and began chatting with him. Mr Weasley gave Harry a friendly nod and gestured for him to come over, but Harry just smiled in return.

A sudden wind caught Hermione’s hat, and Ron nabbed it chivalrously before it went flying. Draco noted that Granger’s hair looked bloody marvellous, just like it had at the fourth year Yule Ball. He silently rebuked himself. If a mere Mudblood could do it, why couldn’t he have found a similar spell that would work on Harry?

Harry was quiet, but Draco could see that he was upset. He reached for Harry’s hand and squeezed it. “Maybe now you’ll find out who your real friends are,” he said.

Harry shook his head vigorously. “They are my real friends,” he insisted. “It’s just taking some time for them to get used to us being together, that’s all.”

Draco’s lips curled in a half-smile as he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. “Friends or not, looks like you’re about to have another Weasley encounter,” he said, pointedly looking over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry’s heart sank when he turned around. He quickly arranged his features in a reasonable facsimile of friendliness.

“Hullo Ginny!” he said.

Ginny didn’t respond. She just stood in front of Harry, her expression as fierce and determined as it was right before their first kiss. Then she slapped him, hard.

Harry reeled, surprised to find himself short of breath. “What’s this?” he gasped. “Planning to try out for Beater next year?”

“Harry James Potter, you’re a fucking liar! All that noble crap you gave me about how we couldn’t be together any more because it would make me a target for You-Know-Who… oh yes, the whole bloody spiel about how you had to fight this battle alone. To protect me, right? When really, all along, you were training your eyes on Malfoy’s arse. You just couldn’t wait to stick it in there, could you?”

Draco turned to Harry in faux surprise, hand over his heart. “Is this true, Harry? Why, I’m dead flattered by--ooof!”

Harry removed his elbow from Draco’s ribs. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and did his utmost to look remorseful.

“I’m really, really sorry, Ginny,” he said. “You’re a wonderful girl, the best actually. It just didn’t work out for us. It’s not your fault.”

“I should have known. That time you were late for Quidditch because you just had to chat with him. Late-- and you were the Captain! And then you went completely bonkers when I told you he’d gone off sick and was missing matches. We never had time to be together-- you were always busy tracking that git with your bloody Marauders’ Map. Admit it, you were fucking obsessed with him!”

“It wasn’t like that at all, Ginny! This whole, er, thing,” Harry gestured in Draco’s general direction, “happened later. A lot later.”

“Oh, please!” Draco chided. “You wanted me from day one, Potter. No question.” He smoothed a stray tendril of black hair off Harry’s still-inflamed cheek and neatly tucked it behind Harry’s ear. “And never, ever, refer to a Malfoy as a thing.”

Harry ignored him. He touched Ginny’s shoulder, lightly. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he said gently. She pushed his hand away.

“Not only did I expect more, I think I deserved more than that from you, Harry. And tell your fiancé to wipe that fucking smirk off his face!”

“Aren’t you at least going to offer us your sincere congratulations, Ginevra?” Draco enquired sweetly.

“Most certainly not!” Ginny spat. Her hand flew to her pocket, but Harry already had his wand out. His eyes met Ginny’s in silent understanding, and she glowered at him.

With a single flip of her brilliant mane, Ginny turned on her heels and stalked off, the flouncy layers of her skirt swirling around her legs. Harry watched as she made a beeline for Cormac McLaggen, who was laughing noisily at something that a bored-looking Viktor Krum was saying.

“Love your dress!” Draco called after her. He threw an arm companionably over Harry’s shoulders, his smile as wide as Harry had ever seen it.

“Had that coming for a long time, didn’t you?” he remarked.

Harry shrugged. “Let’s find a seat, shall we?” he said. “I think the ceremony’s about to start.”

*~*

Fleur Delacour struck a modest yet sophisticated pose at the altar, her future husband standing by her side. She looked sensational in her floor-length diaphanous robes, a river of fresh orange blossoms strewn through her long blonde hair. As she had once declared, she was good looking enough for both of them, which was quite a lucky thing since Bill’s face was still badly scarred.

She scanned the crowd, smiling graciously at familiar faces. A group of people she had never seen before pointed big cameras in their direction, and she blinked as the flashbulbs went off.

“The press is ‘ere!” she whispered excitedly.

“Of course they are! After all, it’s not every day that the most beautiful Beauxbatons champion of all time becomes my wife,” Bill replied under his breath, smiling.

Fleur blushed in delight. No matter what Fenrir Greyback had done to Bill’s appearance, the werewolf hadn’t made as much as a dent in the man’s natural charm.

Harry sat in the third row, resting his head comfortably against Draco’s shoulder and holding Draco’s hand as he watched the ceremony. Everything seemed to be going well; in fact, there had only been a single moment of tension so far. Before the wedding began, the officiating wizard had called for a moment of silence in memory of Dumbledore. Amid the sea of bowed heads, Harry hadn’t failed to notice more than several dirty looks aimed surreptitiously at Draco.

He scowled at the memory. What right did these people have to judge Draco? Ultimately, Draco had resisted Voldemort’s efforts to manipulate him-- who among them could say the same? Harry had glared ferociously at everyone who’d dared to look in their direction, his eyes flashing in stern warning, and the faces had swiftly turned away, suddenly abashed. Seemingly unaware of the fracas around him, Draco had remained still, his fair head inclined respectfully. In his own way, he must have loved Dumbledore as much as any of them, Harry realized.

Draco jerked his hand, trying to wrench it from Harry’s suddenly vise-like grip. “Are you trying to bloody kill me?” he hissed under his breath.

Harry released him with a quickly murmured apology and settled into his chair. It didn’t look as though many of the other guests had noticed this little drama; Fleur’s dramatic entrance had captured their attention, and Harry soon refocused. However, the idea of judgment-- for both Draco’s deeds and their relationship-- continued to rankle him even as he tried to enjoy the ceremony.

Draco shifted in his seat, interrupting Harry before he could interrupt himself with more tortured thoughts. He leaned toward him, speaking softly into his ear. “Next year...”

“Next year,” Harry echoed, his heart swelling with love and longing. What would it be like when he and Draco finally stood before their families and friends, nervous and radiant, ready to be bound? He turned his head to meet Draco for a kiss, closing his eyes in anticipation.

As Bill spoke his vows, Fleur watched the flashbulbs go off again, this time with dismay. The people with the big cameras weren’t pointing them at her and her about-to-be-husband any more, but into the crowd.

She craned her neck as discreetly as she could to see what had distracted them. Euh, it was only Harry Potter with his new boyfriend, the one with the French name. And they were just kissing, like any couple. Sometimes, it seemed like every day was Harry Potter Day in the papers. Wouldn’t they want to write about someone else for a change? Someone who was actually getting married today, perhaps?

Harry froze, startled by the lights and loud noises. Of course the press was at the wedding; they’d been dogging him for years. But with everything on his mind at the moment, their presence was the last thing he’d been concerned about. He slunk into his seat and tried to look inconspicuous.

Draco had no such qualms. He seized Harry’s right hand and held it high in the air to display their new matching silver rings. As the cameras clicked and whirred obligingly, he threw his arms around his cringing fiancé and gave him a showstopping kiss, passionate and lingering.

“Now who would have thought that a Weasel wedding could be so much fun!” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. Harry buried his face in his hands.

*~*

As she and Bill walked through the processional on their way to the reception line, Fleur’s annoyance increased, although she kept a big frozen grin on her face as though she was having the time of her life.

“Zey are supposed to take peektures of us, not zem! Do somezing!” she implored Bill, without moving her lips.

“Love, isn’t the important thing that we got married today, not who photographs us?”

“Beel, you do not understand! ‘Arry and zat Draco are ruining everyzing!”

“Just relax, sweetheart. Forget about them. This is our wedding, and we should enjoy it.”

“Non! How can I enjoy myself when zey insult me like zis? Zey are making a spectacle of zemselves, and zat’s why ze press isn’t paying attention to us!” Fleur sniped.

Bill lost his patience. “Why do you care so much about being in the paper? I thought you were here because you wanted to be my wife, not because you wanted to see yourself on every cover at the news agent!”

The newest Weasley couple continued to argue under their breath until they got to the receiving line, then did their best to warmly accept the well wishes of their friends and family while avoiding looking at each other. Once the last hand had been shaken and the last cheek kissed, Fleur turned to Bill, hands on her hips. “Eef you zink I will soon forget about zis, you are wrong,” she seethed.

Bill threw up his hands, and turned his back.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Fleur scurried to his side, and pasted her smile back on. As anyone could see, they made the very picture of the perfect newlyweds.

*~*

The tables were scattered over the lawn, not far from the reception area. Draco and Harry looked around and soon found the table that had been reserved for them, their names marked by a floating banner over the table settings. They had been placed with Neville, Luna, Tonks, and Lupin, and Harry felt grateful that Mrs Weasley had taken the trouble to avoid social conflicts when choosing their seating. She had also taken care to please her guests with a truly excellent buffet. The banquet table was loaded with a splendid array of grub, including avocado-prawn salad with lemon dressing, organic beef braised in red wine, carved roast turkey, cold poached salmon, several kinds of pasta, a selection of French cheeses contributed by the Delacours, ripe summer fruit, and a few exotic-looking dishes that Harry couldn’t identify.

As they hadn’t had time for breakfast that morning, Harry and Draco tucked in to the tasty meal with more relish than usual. On his third trip to the buffet table, Harry ran into Fred and George, who both smiled at him in a friendly way.

Fred beckoned to him. Leaning close, he cupped Harry’s ear conspiratorially.

“If I were you, mate,” he advised in a loud stage whisper, “I’d stay away from the dragon meat.”

Harry was momentarily speechless. He’d never heard Draco referred to in such terms, but it was all too clear what Fred meant. Dragon meat, indeed!

“As a matter of fact--” he began indignantly. George hastily cut him off, gesturing at a nearly untouched platter of thick, purplish-grey steaks.

“He means this, Harry,” he explained, “Mum made the mistake of letting little Ronnie-kins cook ‘em!” He and Fred both laughed quickly.

Harry reddened. “I knew what you meant,” he said, lying through his teeth. “I, uh, just wanted to say that dragons are… magnificent creatures, and, er, people shouldn’t eat them,” he added.

Before he could say any more, a long, thin hand landed on his shoulder, and Harry turned even redder at the familiar pressure.

“Why, I disagree. People absolutely should eat dragons!” Draco drawled. “Harry does, every chance he gets. Don’t you, dearest?”

He nuzzled Harry’s head, making sure to cast a coy look at the twins, who now looked even more embarrassed than Harry.

“Excuse us,” said Harry firmly, and took Draco’s arm with his free hand, guiding him back to their table. “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

Draco sniggered. “Clearly not.” He pulled Harry’s chair out for him in a courtly manner, and Harry sat down.

Without asking, Draco speared a thick slice of turkey for himself from Harry’s plate. “Pretty good haul, but wouldn’t you rather have a nice slab of -- dragon?” He lowered his eyes demurely.

Harry tried not to smile, but ended up giving in to the impulse. “Absolutely.”

*~*

Over at the Weasley table, Bill tore into his specially undercooked steak, for the moment forgetting his troubles with Fleur. His bride was still sulking, her plate untouched.

‘Come on love, have a bite!” he urged, but Fleur just simmered in silence, responding only when others spoke to her. Eventually, Bill simply put his fork down and excused himself without preamble.

Suddenly, Fleur felt absolutely famished. She had been too nervous to eat a thing since last night, other than a few bites of croissant this morning. Everyone around her was talking and eating, and she began shovelling food into her pretty mouth, diet be damned. So this was what marriage was like. She could see herself ending up just like Maman, fat and ignored-- but always right.

Someone was tapping at her shoulder. What could it possibly be now? She’d had it with Ginny’s ungrateful whinging about her dress. Fleur whipped around, ready to smile through her exasperation.

“Congratulations, my dear!” gushed Rita Skeeter. “Could you possibly spare a few secs for a quick tête a tête with the Prophet?”

Standing behind Rita, Bill winked and pointed to the photographer he’d brought with them.

Fleur beamed, and for the first time that day, her smile was genuine. As Rita’s magic quill whipped back and forth, Fleur excitedly recounted all the romantic details of her dress, their courtship, and Bill’s proposal. She smiled happily at her new husband.

“I love you!” she mouthed.

*~*

When Neville returned from the buffet table bearing yet another helping of smoked calamari, the party was in full force. Even Draco was chuckling over Tonks’ ribald tales of the latest office scandals at the Ministry, which she punctuated by changing her appearance to impersonate the guilty parties.

Neville looked at Harry, and shyly cleared his throat. “I almost forgot to tell you,” he said. “Ron and Hermione told me they’d like to have a word with you, if you have a minute.”

“What’s stopping them from coming by--?” Harry cut himself short. He realized that he knew to the answer to that one the minute the question was out of his mouth. “Oh, never mind.”

He turned to Draco. “I’ll just be a second, alright?”

Draco didn’t raise an eyebrow. “Send them my love,” he said dryly.

*~*

The Weasley table was by far the largest on the lawn. Bill and Fleur presided over their court in tall, velvet-upholstered chairs, while a circle of redheaded Weasleys and blond Delacours fanned out on either side of them.

Now that her son was safely wed, Mrs Weasley was beginning to enjoy herself. Mme Delacour was much easier to deal with when there were other people around to keep her entertained. She was gratified to see that Seraphine was finally having a good time. When she’d last glanced across the table, Mme Delacour had been tittering politely, her refined mirth barely concealed behind an ample hand. Apparently she was under the impression that George and Fred were shamelessly flirting with her, though Mrs Weasley knew better.

She had also figured out how Mr Delacour was able to endure his spouse without being driven barmy. He’d drained his champagne glass multiple times, and Mrs Weasley noticed that he augmented his liquid consumption with numerous discreet nips from a small flask hidden in his robes. She was rather amazed to see him offer the flask to Arthur, and even more amazed when Arthur accepted it with apparent gusto, as he usually stuck to nothing stronger than lager.

Mrs Weasley did the only thing she could in this situation. She passed her wand over her own glass, and watched it fill once again with bubbly liquid.

*~*

The Weasley table was scarcely five metres away from where Harry had been sitting, but every step he slogged through seemed to take minutes. He knew how Hermione and Ron felt about Malfoy, but another, more disturbing thought continued to nag at him. Were they disgusted by the fact that he was shagging another bloke? He didn’t think that would bother Hermione, but he wasn’t so sure about Ron.

Harry didn’t think of Ron as a bigot, but he had to admit that his friend wasn’t exactly tolerant of gay wizards. Back at school, Ron had frequently joked about their old professor Gilderoy Lockhart’s likely sexual orientation, finding the notion that a man might enjoy taking it up the arse to be particularly hilarious. Harry recalled ruefully how hard he’d laughed at Ron’s insinuations, never dreaming that he himself might actually be one of those men. But now he was, and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

Hermione and Ron were standing next to their crowded table, waiting for him. Harry wondered how to begin. After weeks of thinking about this moment, he still wasn’t sure what to say. “Hey,” he said, resting his hand against Ron’s empty chair to steady himself.

Ron looked at him, an unusual seriousness in his round blue eyes. “Harry. I just want to let you know that Hermione and I have talked a lot about this, and we’ve decided-- you’ll always be our best mate, no matter what.”

“You don’t have to hide from us, really,” Hermione put in. “It was so weird not talking to you, only hearing what was going on second-hand.”

Exhaling with relief, Harry straightened up. “You’re still my best mates as well, you know that,” he said honestly. “Both of you.”

“But if you had to fall in love,” Ron asked, “why did it have to be with Malfoy?”

Harry laughed. “Believe me, I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times!”

There were hugs all around, and Harry felt the stiff unpleasantness between him and his two oldest friends dissolve in their embraces. How could he ever have thought their friendship would end? They had so much to talk about.

“Did you know we got a cat?” he asked.

*~*

Draco made only the most perfunctory efforts to involve himself in the animated debate that his tablemates were having about the relative merits of the Winbourne Wasps versus Puddlemere United. He was absorbed in watching Harry, who was now laughing and talking with his old friends as if their friendship had never been interrupted.

Just look at him, all cosy again with the Mudblood bint and the redheaded pureblood traitor, he thought sourly. There was no place for a Slytherin in the inseparable Gryffindor trio. But then it occurred to him: wasn’t he himself just as much of a pureblood traitor as Ron for falling in love with Harry Potter? It was no secret that after Draco refused to kill Dumbledore, the Dark Lord and the Death Eater elite had about as little regard for him as they did for The Boy Who Lived.

Draco was nothing if not logical, and he couldn’t allow himself to persist in believing in something that made so little sense. He excused himself and got up from the table.

Harry looked stunned to see him approaching. Draco smiled pleasantly.

“Harry,” he greeted him. “And Weasley. And Granger.”

“Draco,” Harry said tightly, “what are you doing?”

“Coming over to say hello.” He slipped his hand into Harry’s and interlaced his fingers.

Ron gave him a shifty look, and Hermione looked oddly flustered. Perhaps a different tactic was needed.

“Say, Granger-- I, er, like your hair,” Draco said. “It looks-- rather nice, actually.”

He’d never heard Granger really laugh before. Unlike her normal speaking voice, the sound didn’t annoy him. Much. “You really think so?”

To his utter surprise, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Draco gave a startled, wide-eyed what-the-fuck look over her shoulder. Ron caught his eye and began to laugh, then Harry laughed, then Draco finally laughed as well.

“What’s so funny?” Hermione demanded.

“Oh, if you could have seen the look on Malfoy’s face when you kissed him!” Ron sputtered.

Hermione shrugged. “Well, he is going to be Harry’s husband, so I’d better get used it, right?” She raised her glass. “I believe congratulations are in order. To Harry and Draco!” The table behind them raised their glasses in support. “Harry and Draco!” they chorused.

“Cake’s about to come out. Come and join us!” said Ron, gesturing at the table. “We can pull up a few chairs, there’s plenty of room.”

“Thanks, but Luna was just about to tell us about the mating rituals of the Triple-Horned Blistergatch, and who would want to miss that?” Harry said, taking Draco’s hand. So far, things were going far better than he ever expected, but there was no reason to press his luck.

*~*

The cake was enormous, its perfect round base the diameter of a carriage wheel. Guests looked up in awe as each frosted white layer in succeeding size floated out the kitchen door and assembled itself on the largest of the banquet tables. On the topmost layer, two tiny models of Bill and Fleur in their wedding finery smiled and waved.

“You know,” Harry said, spooning sticky toffee pudding on to his plate, “American Muggles have a custom where the groom feeds cake to the bride with his hands.”

Draco looked unimpressed. “Oh, the amazing things one learns in Muggle Studies! Very useful, that.” He held out his plate for Harry to serve him a slice of cake.

Harry gestured for Draco to serve himself. “You could feed me,” he suggested.

“Like this?” Draco tore off a hunk of cake and raised it to Harry’s lips.

Harry opened his mouth and took the bite from Draco. He felt a subtle tremor in Draco’s hand as it brushed against the soft edges of his mouth.

“Let’s sit down,” he said. Thankfully, their table was empty; Tonks and the others were clustered near the stage, waiting for the band to begin.

“More cake?” Draco asked. He continued to feed Harry, delighting in the warm moistness of Harry’s lips clinging to his fingers. When the slice was gone, Harry took Draco’s hand and slowly licked off every last bit of icing. Then he took each of his fingers into his mouth one by one and sucked them, giving each as much loving attention that he normally gave to another part of Draco’s body, his tongue not neglecting the tender webs in between.

Draco moaned under his breath, just a little, right before Harry had started on his left index finger.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, maintaining an innocent tone. “Did you want dessert too?”

Draco was rarely one to back down from a challenge. Gazing into Harry’s eyes, he reached out and took Harry’s hand, dipping Harry’s fingers into the warm toffee sauce on his plate. He began to mimic what Harry was doing to him, savouring the taste and feel of Harry’s fingers.

Harry and Draco slid their fingers in and out of each other’s mouths, a delicious tension building between them, unaware of anything but the taste of skin and the hot, wet softness of each other’s tongues and lips. Draco pulled away, standing up. Although his robes concealed it, Harry knew by his half-closed eyelids and the careful way he moved that he had a fairly substantial bulge in his trousers. As did he himself.

“Come on,” Draco said. He held his hand out, and Harry willingly grasped his sticky palm in his own. Draco twirled Harry around until he was fast in his arms and leaned backwards, letting Harry dip him.

Harry pulled Draco back up. “We can always dance later,” he said. They walked toward the back of the yard, where Harry leaned against the broad trunk of the Weasleys’ ancient oak tree, holding Draco against him, one leg wrapped around his hips, kissing and pawing him until they were both practically delirious.

Draco fumbled with the folds of Harry’s robes, gathering as much fabric as he could, his hands eager to steal underneath and undo Harry’s trousers.

“Not here,” Harry breathed, his protest somewhat undermined by his hips as they swung forward, pushing his crotch into the irresistible heat of Draco’s palm.

Draco paused, his cheeks burnished from Harry’s fast-growing stubble. “What about-- there?”

Harry followed his gaze. He nodded, and they moved swiftly toward the garden shed.

*~*

Mme Delacour was decidedly bored. As usual, Henri was too intoxicated to dance. About an hour ago, he’d shoved his chair next to Arthur Weasley’s, and the two were now loudly sharing drinking songs in their respective languages. Young Fred and George had at least been attentive conversationalists. They were rather cheeky, but that was to be expected; few boys could resist the charms of a veela’s daughter. But the twins had long moved on to the dance floor, and she noted the inappropriately clingy attire of their partners with dismay.

She was still smarting from that awful Molly’s disrespectful remarks earlier. The woman was not worth une seconde of her time. Obviously, it was no use attempting to have an intelligent conversation with someone who had absolutely no idea how to plan a wedding. What kind of hostess would shove all the gifts in a shed, for example? Surely not a proper one. And the careless way that Molly had stacked them looked very shoddy indeed.

Mme Delacour got up abruptly. There was no point in talking to Molly about this; action was needed, and as a person of taste, she had her work cut out for her.

*~*

After Draco freed Harry’s straining cock from his underwear using only his lips, he opened his mouth wider, sucking Harry in as he pressed his own erection to Harry’s face below him. Harry congratulated himself for thinking to remove his glasses first, as they were now in imminent danger of being battered by Draco’s groin.

Without ever saying as much, he and Draco had become locked in a dead-serious competition underneath the gift table to see who could be first to bring the other off. What had begun as a simple exchange of giving and receiving had transformed into a complex rhythm that alternated between breathing, sucking, licking, and groaning with pleasure.

Draco performed his famous combination of mouth and hand, alternating long luxurious sucks with stroking Harry’s length, saving a few licks and kisses for the tender inverted V just in back of the head. More than once, he took Harry’s bollocks into his mouth, rolling them as he applied a gentle, teasing pressure with his tongue.

Harry retaliated in full, his hand wrapped around the base of Draco’s cock, as much of it in his mouth as he could handle. With his other hand, he reached between Draco’s buttocks and explored inside of him with a spit-moistened finger. The further he pressed, the deeper Draco thrust into his mouth, until Harry almost couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began, their rising and falling bodies riding the same endless wave of sensation.

When Draco began actively fucking his mouth, Harry knew that victory was just a few strokes away. He sucked harder, his lips pursed tightly around the shaft, his mouth aching to be flooded with bittersweet juice even as he struggled to breathe. But oh, what on earth was Draco doing with his tongue?

“MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmf!” Harry shouted, taking care not to bite down as he spurted his load down Draco’s throat. Draco made a strangled noise and jerked his hips, beginning to spasm in Harry’s mouth.

At that moment, Mme Delacour opened the door of the garden shed. The shrill, piercing scream that issued from her painted lips shattered champagne glasses on at least a dozen tables, not to mention the cover of the band’s snare drum.

Harry’s mouth went slack in surprise, and Draco’s cock slipped from his lips mid-orgasm, spewing a thin line of fluid right into Harry’s left eye.

“Owwwwww!” Harry screamed. He screwed up his eyes and clapped his hand to his stricken face. Reaching out in a blind panic, he clutched at the tablecloth, which had the unfortunate result of causing all the gifts stacked on the table to crash to the floor.

Those who ran over to assist the hysterical Frenchwoman were treated to the sight of Draco and Harry, their bodies still entangled, trousers pulled down past their knees. Draco had never Disapparated lying down before, nor with his trousers down, but there was no time to think twice.

As Harry sobbed in pain, Draco stuffed his lover’s glasses into his robe pocket and gripped his wand, squinting as the inevitable flashbulbs exploded. He snaked his arm under Harry’s leg to ensure a firm hold, and immediately Disapparated them both back to 12 Grimmauld Place.

*~*

The next morning was Sunday. Sunlight poured into the room, waking Harry, who was a light sleeper at best. Draco remained dead to the world, his black silk sleeping mask pulled over his eyes. Nix was also asleep, curled up in a soft circle at the foot of the bed.

Harry crawled out of bed and went downstairs. He felt a little hung-over, but it was nothing that a good potion couldn’t cure. His eye was doing much better, as Draco had hustled him under the bathroom tap the minute they got home and turned it on full power to flush his eye until he signalled his desperate need to come up for air.

Using the Ientaculum spell that Tonks had recently taught him, Harry made tea and toast. As he was pouring the tea, an owl came through the open window with the Daily Prophet. He put the paper on a tray along with a crisp stack of toast, a jar of marmalade, and two mugs of tea, and carried it all upstairs.

Not wanting to wake Draco, Harry set the tray down softly on the bedside table. But Draco stirred, his nostrils flaring as the fragrant aroma reached him.

“Harry?” he asked, in a fuzzy, half-asleep voice.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, bending down to give him a cuddle. Draco really did look impossibly sweet before he had a proper chance to put his evil on.

Draco pushed his mask up with a sleepy, dismissive hand. He struggled mightily to open his eyes, only half succeeding.

“Ah, tea…,” he murmured dreamily. “Harry?” he said again, more insistently. He opened his mouth expectantly.

“All right, you lazy arse,” Harry chuckled, carefully holding the mug to Draco’s lips as he tilted it ever so slightly.

Draco blew on the hot liquid and took a few tentative slurps. He then inhaled dramatically, opening his eyes fully. Sitting up in bed, he took the mug from Harry, firmly grasping the handle.

“Oh, brilliant, lovely,” he said, and decided to try out the new word that Harry had encouraged him to use occasionally. “Thanks.”

“I got the paper, too,” said Harry, hanging his robe on the bedpost and crawling back into bed with Draco. He shooed Nix, who had made it her life’s work to jump on everything they attempted to read. Harry settled down with his favourite sections, Wizarding News and Sports, and handed the Magical Technology and Entertainment sections to Draco.

Draco whooped with delight, reminding Harry of the time back in sixth year when he almost caught him in the Room of Requirement. “Look, we made the front page!” he exclaimed, holding out the Entertainment section.

“Well, that’s just grand, isn’t it?” Harry snorted, helping himself to a slice of toast. It was so typical of the Prophet to rush to publish the latest gossip for the Sunday edition.

The page was splashed with moving colour photographs: Harry leaning against Draco, watching the ceremony; Draco holding Harry’s wrist in the air to show off their rings, kissing him; both of them standing in the reception line, congratulating the newlyweds. Unfortunately, the paper had also included a shot that partially depicted their shenanigans under the gift table. Most of Harry and Draco had been decorously blacked out, but just enough was left in for the curious reader to figure out what was going on.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Pity, they took out all the best parts!” he said gleefully. He was indeed on his way to becoming notorious, and the thought definitely pleased him.

Harry sighed. He disliked the fact that their private moment was now laid bare for public titillation, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Let’s at least find out what they had to say about us,” Draco said. “Here, I’ll tell you.”

He picked up the section and began to read aloud in a rather fey, melodramatic voice that Harry had never heard him use before.

POTFOY IN WEASLEY WEDDING SCANDAL!!!
Exclusive to the Daily Prophet by Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter

“Potfoy?” he interjected. “Not sure if I like that!”

Harry laughed. “That’s certainly not the worst thing we’ve been called!” he said wryly.

Draco cocked a blond eyebrow at him and began reading the body of the story.

Hear that loud splintering noise?

“No, can’t say as I do,” Harry replied, poker-faced. Draco ignored him and went on:

It’s the sound of a thousand female hearts breaking as The Boy Who Lived reveals his true sexual proclivities. That’s right: it can now be told that Harry Potter’s romantic tastes run to the very male kind!

Draco dropped his jaw in feigned amazement. “Oh Rita, you don’t say!” he exclaimed. Harry gestured at him to continue reading.

We were honoured to be present at the wedding of William “Bill” Weasley, son of the Ministry of Magic’s Arnold Weasley and a rising star at Gringotts in his own right, to his lovely co-worker, Miss Fleur Delacour.

Harry frowned. “Arnold Weasley? Can't that stupid rag ever get his name right?”

Love sometimes did curious things, and right now, it was stopping Draco from making his usual cracks about what a loser Ron’s father was, though he longed to do so. He looked at Harry. “Shall I go on?”

“Please do.”

Of course, we certainly expected that hunky Harry would never miss his friends’ special day, and there he was indeed, looking as fanciable as we’ve ever seen him, all tarted up in designer dress robes and sporting that gorgeous smile of his that makes yours truly’s heart beat a mile a minute.

“Yecch, Rita Skeeter perving on me!” said Harry, utterly disgusted.

Draco stifled a giggle. “Ah, who can blame her, you ’gorgeous fanciable hunk?” he teased, reaching under Harry to pinch his bum. He coughed for effect and kept reading:

To the surprise of all, the luscious Mr P arrived on the arm of former most-wanted criminal suspect Draco Malfoy, himself the son of imprisoned convict Lucius Malfoy. Only recently was Malfoy junior cleared by the Ministry of Magic for the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, the late Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witches and Wizards. The blond stunner--

“Well! Least they got that right!” Draco gloated, interrupting himself. He cackled, and Harry swatted him. He socked Harry right back and went on:

The blond stunner and his Chosen One were all hands (and mouths!) during the ceremony, as you can see from these revealing photographs of the loved-up pair. Whether you call them Potfoy or Drarry, make no mistake, this new couple is sizzling hot!

Draco fanned his face rapidly with his hands to illustrate this point, then picked up the paper again.

And big plans are in store for this oh-so-delectable duo. We’ve heard that the two will be making honest men of each other in the not-too remote future, according to a good pal of the pair who blabbed a few deets. Honeymoon plans are rumoured to include an excursion to Romania’s treacherous Mountains of Mortolov, as well as a trek through the wilds of Southwest Borneo to uncover the as-yet undiscovered nesting place of the elusive Giggling Fompatchers.

Draco threw down the paper. “Thought we decided on Tahiti!” he said, casting a petulant look at Harry.

Harry groaned. “We did. That last bit has Luna Lovegood written all over it.”

A sudden noise at the window caused Draco and Harry to turn their heads. Flying in through the open window came an eagle owl, bearing a red envelope in its talons. It headed straight for Draco, whose smug expression had rapidly changed to alarm.

“Draco,” asked Harry, “by any chance, does your mother read the Daily Prophet?”

“I – er, you can’t get it outside of England, I don’t think,” said Draco faintly.

As the envelope exploded before their eyes and the shrieking began, Harry raised and lowered both eyebrows in a flawless imitation of his husband-to-be.

“Think again,” he said.

-The End-

To be continued in Last Summer In Surrey....
________________________________________________________________________________________________
ENDNOTES: In Oscar Wilde's day, he and the fashionable young men of his circle wore a green carnation to signal their homosexuality. Harry and Draco wear it here for the same reason. This symbol also turns up in the film Velvet Goldmine as an emerald brooch, passed to lovers through generations.