Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 4: Golden Snitches

June 2001 — London, England

Harry shifts nervously from foot to foot, worrying at the emerald cufflinks at his wrists. They arrived just yesterday, with no note to accompany them, but he knows who sent them.

Malfoy. Will he be here? No, he shakes his head. He won't come to mine, just as I didn't go to his. Of course, I was in Peru at the time... he smiles, remembering.

He'd been following a lead to an absolutely exquisite cursed gold medallion. Incan, as far as they could guess. Malfoy was ecstatic when Harry dropped it on his desk, flashing that intoxicating smile of his, the one he never let Harry see while they were in school. Harry wonders if things might have been different if he had.

Anyway. Malfoy is... Well, he's not sure exactly where Malfoy is — he's pretty sure that much knowledge of Malfoy's itinerary would be creepy, even for him — but he's undoubtedly busy unloading the haul from Harry's last trip and sniffing out a new lead or ten. Malfoy thrives on having a finger in every pot, and his slightly seedy international antiquities business provides plenty of interesting challenges. Some are even entirely legal.

Harry's only been home to English soil for a few weeks, but already he's itching to be off again. He lives for adventure, for the adrenaline rush that comes from chasing Malfoy's baubles. As much as he hated the git in school, he's come to appreciate the feral beauty that is Malfoy stalking his prey — whether men who whisper rumors of treasure to find, or men who pay handsomely for treasures once found.

Harry stalks the treasure itself.

Malfoy joins him sometimes. He says he can't trust Harry to grease the right people and to not get into trouble with Dark magic he can't handle. Harry suspects that, secretly, he sometimes tags along just for the thrill of it.

He tries not to think about it, or about how he likes it when Malfoy joins him on his hunts. It's just something he doesn't care to contemplate; it feels safer not to.

—

April 2000 — Somewhere in the Jungle, Peru

Fucking Zabini!

Harry swerves abruptly to the left, as the cold steel blade kisses his right cheek, cleaving the air where he was standing just a second ago. He swears, letting out a muttered string of mixed muggle and magical expletives that draws an amused snort from his assailant. There's just one now — Bulstrode. Goyle just doesn't have the stamina for pursuit on foot, especially when tramping through the jungle while shaking off a Jelly-legs jinx, but that doesn't mean Harry can discount him. He'll be back, and twice as deadly for being annoyed.

He hears the telltale whistle of the blade and ducks, rolling blindly to the side and down a short slope, hoping he's not about to send himself plummeting over the edge of the ravine.

He rolls to a stop, cautiously opens his eyes, and freezes.

The angry hiss of the deadly viper before him echoes around him; he's landed in a nest of them.

Slowly, he grins.

"Greetingssss," he whispers, the sibilant sounds of parseltongue rolling smoothly off his tongue.

—

May 2000 — London, England

Harry strides into Malfoy's office, bruised, bloody, and whistling cheerfully. It'd taken three days for Bill to drag him back to civilization, several more to let the wounds heal enough for travel, and another dozen to arrange and complete the journey since they'd been forced to travel as muggles. Now he's almost feeling himself again, and the heavy weight of gold in his pocket goes a long way to restoring his good humor.