Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: If there's one era of history about which I haven't a smidgen of education, it's the American Old West. This isn't meant to be a historical account, anyhow--it's a pretty freestyle, fantastical sketch of an alternate universe wherein the rugged Sheriff Potter and the high-class dandy, Draco Malfoy, clash wits. And, er... other things. (Dedicated to Dorrie6 on her birthday.)

A Town Called Whinging
by

If he drew the curtains against the dust, he'd melt in the sweltering heat--but if he let them fall open to the hot blast of wind, he'd have his little cabin whipped with sand.

No matter what one did, this was a ride through Hell. Dirty and sweaty and rotten. Draco Malfoy, tugging at his cravat and grimacing as sweat trickled down his neck, wondered what on earth had made him accept this assignment in the first place.

Ah. That's right. Father's little game. A test of strength, he called it. A chance to rise up the political ladder. A chance to follow the illustrious, noble Lucius Malfoy as the next General Manager of Riddle Railroads.

Draco's mouth twisted at the thought. He'd left his cool bungalow in England, its fresh green grasses and pale, silken sheets with a different nightly selection of pale, silken boys, for--what? This barren, desolate desert? And all because of his ambition. Pesky little thing, that.

'We're almost there, sir,' said Pettigrew, the little watery-eyed accountant who was Draco's only companion in this wilderness.

Draco slid expressionless eyes to him. 'You have, of course, set me up in a proper hotel?'

Pettigrew's nose twitched, once, like a rat's. 'Yes, sir. The Excelsior. Best in town.' He cleared his throat. 'Such as it is.'

Such as it is. Draco found a sneer twisting his mouth again. 'I've seen the reports. Such a pity that this hell-hole should occupy precious land. I'm sure the ruffians there will be easy enough to buy out...'

'Did you read my budget, sir?' Pettigrew pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose, blinking at Draco eagerly. 'If your bargaining goes well, we'll buy the whole town out for a little less than quarter of the estimated profit--'

'A quarter is too much,' Draco snapped. 'And what makes you think we'll have to buy out the whole town in order to get rid of it?'

Pettigrew blinked again. 'Sir?'

Draco smiled, suddenly languid, and stretched one long leg until its foot, encased in the very finest of gleaming brown leather, rested on the opposite seat. Right next to Pettigrew's thigh.

Pettigrew gulped.

Draco's smile widened. 'All we have to do is buy out a significant fraction of the residents, Pettigrew. Enough that the owners of businesses have little demand to survive on--little enough that they, too, will have to leave. Or face bankruptcy.'

'Taking away the demand,' breathed Pettigrew.

'Indeed. The businesses will close, the buildings will empty, and eventually the town will be quite ready to be razed to the ground.' Draco flicked at his sleeve, as if at a fly. 'As it deserves to be.'

'Yes, sir,' said Pettigrew reverently.

Corpulent fool. 'My father has entrusted me with clearing the town at minimum expense, Pettigrew. Minimum. You understand? A quarter is too much.'

'A quarter is too much. Yes, sir. Understood.'

God. Why on earth had he agreed to take his father's accountant along instead of his own? Zabini was younger, sharper, far more glib of tongue--oh, that tongue. Draco had pleasant memories of it.

He was just about to lose himself in another bout of reminiscence when the carriage jerked, twice, and the wheels sounded like they might tear right off at the force of the bump.

'What--' Draco began to ask, but just then the carriage stopped, and he could hear the clop-clopping of the horses' hooves fall silent.

There was a series of creaks as the driver got down from his seat at the front--and then the carriage door was being knocked at, politely, and a slightly rough voice said: 'Mister Malfoy? We're here, sir. Little Whinging.'

Little Whinging. Draco felt an unaccustomed and entirely unexpected surge of excitement. So he were here, then. At this place, this opportunity, no longer just a dot on the map, inconveniently in the way of Tom Riddle's cross-continental railroad. This was real. The pit of iniquity. The Hell of--

'Sir?' Pettigrew, sounding tentative as usual.

'I'm all right,' Draco snapped again. 'Let us out, driver.'

'Yessir.' The little knob turned and the door swung open--and Draco squinted, into the bright sunshine, as he smoothed his cravat and his hair, and put on his cheerful poker face.

'Ready to play cards, Pettigrew?'

A nervous twitch behind him. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good.'

And then he was stepping out, onto the little wooden step and down onto the road, the hideous, dusty road, smiling as if he truly wanted to be here.

* * *

He'd been at the station again, listening to old Crouch mutter insanely through the prison bars, when he heard the news.

Damn, had been his clearest thought at that moment. Damn.

'You won't believe it, Sheriff,' babbled Colin Creevey, deputy and part-time photographer. He was waving a newspaper in Harry's face. 'You know Riddle? The man's done swallowed up all those towns in Texas? He's sendin' someone here. To buy us out like he's done the rest.'

It wasn't as surprising as it should have been--but it was still sooner than he'd expected. Much sooner. 'Who is it?'

'Not Lucius Malfoy this time. Riddle's sendin' Malfoy's son instead.'

'His son?'

'Reckon so. See here.' Colin flattened the newspaper on Harry's desk, on top of the prison ledgers, pointing at a little article by the bottom right hand side. He looked to be quivering with excitement--as though finally, finally, something of import was happening in Little Whinging.

Or coming to it.

RIDDLE SEEKS TO EXPAND RAILROAD INTO WHINGING

'God damn,' Harry said aloud, but refrained from repeating it when he saw Colin twitch penitently out of the corner of his eye.

Riddle the Rich. Riddle the Ruthless. Riddle the Railroad Royal. Sending another angel of death this way--apparently Malfoy junior had left England a month ago, to sail to the nearest port, from where he'd spent a week traveling by carriage. Just about getting here, then.

Interesting, wasn't it, that the papers were always late? Too damn late to be of any help. To anyone, but especially to him.

'I knew he'd be making tracks here, but not so soon...'

Colin leaned in and stared at the newspaper, as if he'd missed something. 'You did?'

'Sure.' Harry jerked open his desk's half-rotted drawer, ignoring the handcuffs there, and reached for the rolled up map. He spread it out on top of the newspaper and tapped the little ribbed line that ran down the centre. 'Riddle's been working his way due south. I thought he'd buy out a few more towns before he came to us, but maybe he thought he'd assure himself of us 'fore wasting money on the rest.'

'But he won't buy us out!' Colin, innocent as always. 'We ain't leaving this town! We built it!'

'Building it's not the same as keeping it,' Harry said quietly, and then he heard the rolling of carriage wheels on the road outside, and the neighing of horses, and felt his blood run cold.

Not the same as keeping it.

Harry nestled his gun into its holster, ran a perfunctory hand over his badge, and stood up.

Maybe there'd be a few here who'd be sold out for the money, like the other towns had been--but Harry knew his people, from Reverend Snape to Miss Granger to the Weasleys to Florian the barkeep--and he knew that they wouldn't leave this town at gunpoint, let alone for cash.

Colin was right.

He'd just have to make sure it didn't get to gunpoints, is all. Riddle wasn't known for taking no for an answer.

So Harry stepped out of the station and into the dusty street, just in time to see Draco Malfoy, representative of Riddle Railroads and son of the notorious Lucius Malfoy, arrive in a black carriage fit for a king.

* * *

Draco managed not to wince as his fine leather shoes met the rough dirt road--he knew that he had to be seen smiling, well-intentioned, here to save the townspeople from a life of drudgery.

He looked carefully at the street around him.

Several of the town's residents stared back.

He saw a scowling young boy scurry past with a paper parcel held tight to his chest. A much taller, red-headed young man tipped his hat back and looked at Draco narrowly, his hands patting down an ugly old horse. An old man was getting his beard shaved through the window of what appeared to be a barber's shop--and a surprisingly lovely, if dirty young woman was leaning out of another window, bargaining loudly with a shoe salesman outside.

Draco managed not to wince as he saw those shoes.

But finally, his eyes landed on the humble little prison--no sign on it to distinguish it for what it was, apart from a peculiar aura of watchfulness--and from the shadowed front porch he thought he saw someone watching him, someone tall and broad and hidden, who moved halfway into the sunlight as if to oblige Draco's gaze.

Draco caught his breath.

He'd heard of them, of course, the cowboys--fanciful tales his father brought home with him to England--not the cowboys who were simple herders, but the ones who fought, who were grizzled and rough and had bodies tough as leather. Whose hands knew the grip of a gun so well that they were callused to fit around a barrel--who... who...

'Pettigrew,' he mouthed quietly to his accountant, eyes still not leaving the half-shadowed man. 'Who is that?'

'That's the Sheriff, sir,' replied Pettigrew. 'Ha--'

'Harry Potter,' said Draco. 'Yes. Yes. I know.' His mind immediately began pulling out all the details he'd read about this man, from the files his secretary had handed to him back in London--but he'd never had a picture before--and as Potter stepped forward again and let the sunlight glint off his Sheriff's badge, Draco saw that the man's hand was nestled calmly at his waist, on the holster of a gun, as though it were the shoulder of a trusted friend.

'I don't think I'm being welcomed here, Pettigrew,' Draco murmured, but he felt a strange, hot spark of interest flare in him--curiosity of a kind he hadn't felt since childhood--to see what these wild men were like, these barbarians--and before he knew it he was striding forward, swift and easy and confident, ignoring Pettigrew's terrified squeak behind him.

The Sheriff walked forward too, more slowly, more cautiously--and Draco's pulse did an odd double-trip as he saw two green eyes fixed on him, eyes green as poison and glinting sharply in the sunlight, another kind of weapon unsheathed.

He held out his hand when he got close enough. Made sure he still had his smile. 'Thank you for welcoming me to your town, Sheriff. I'm--'

'I know who you are.' Calm voice, so calm, so deep. 'And I'm not welcoming you.'

--Well. If that wasn't a bucket of ice water. He'd expected hostility, of course, but he'd expected it to be more polite. Barbarians, said his father's voice in his head, and Draco managed to keep his smile. 'I suppose you do.' He saw another thin young man emerge from behind Potter, newspaper in hand--and Draco only had to catch a glimpse of it to realise what had happened.

Bloody journalists. Reporting ahead always ruined the fun of surprise. Of surprising other people, at least.

'I'd like to tell you once, Malfoy, that you aren't welcome here--we aren't going to sell our town, and we're not moving out of here.'

Blunt. To the point. Perhaps there was something admirable in these barbarians after all. But Draco didn't fail to notice that Potter's speech was different to what he'd heard from the haggling shoe salesman--this was an educated English, as though Potter had been brought up well before choosing, for some inconceivable reason, to live in a place like this.

Draco couldn't imagine what was worse--being born to the lower classes, or choosing it.

He saw he white scar above Potter's eyebrow, the rough stubble of his chin, the calluses of his fingers poised so gently on his gun. Draco felt that hot curiosity again, flushing his face far more than the weather had done, and suddenly he knew just how he'd play this game. 'I'm only here to make sure that the townspeople get a fair deal.'

* * *

It was a shock, seeing the Malfoy heir step out of that carriage. Harry didn't know what he'd been expecting--a snake in a suit, perhaps--but what he saw was a man about his age, still young, smiling as though this was a trip to the circus.

Ignorant, Harry thought viciously, feeling at the same time a sense of relief that they'd sent him a fool to deal with--but then that smiling face turned his way, and Harry saw those pale, pale eyes, and he knew that he wasn't dealing with a fool at all.

Poker face. Game face. Not transparent, but obvious enough to be meant as a signal, an illustration, to those wise enough to see it. Sharp features and fine, gilt hair--generations of stifling blue blood, most likely--and a shirt smooth as silk over skin just as smooth, just as white. A snake in a suit after all.

Harry was immediately on guard. Malfoy seemed to have noticed him, even though he was only watching from the shadows--and Harry stepped forward slowly, watching Malfoy stride forward as well, still with that wide, false smile on his face.

It wasn't difficult to be intimidating. He'd done it with the occasional ruffian who'd come to town, asking for trouble. Harry hadn't had to draw his gun every time--he'd just had to draw attention to it.

Sure enough, Malfoy's eyes flickered to it--but instead of the caution Harry was used to seeing, he saw a most peculiar spark of interest.

Perhaps the Malfoys didn't know guns that well.

But something about the way Malfoy looked at him suggested otherwise--it made Harry clam up, be careful, grind his teeth. It felt like being attacked, even though Malfoy was all silk and grace--dressed as delicately as possible for a man, so delicately, given his features, that he might almost be a woman.

Pansy, Harry's mind supplied, nancy. Schoolyard names. Names that were as far away as possible from everything Harry was. It only put him more on edge, this odd, disconnected thought--that had no relevance at all, but it made Harry's pulse beat faster anyhow.

Malfoy came up to him and held out one white, soft hand--but Harry wouldn't have touched it with a ten-foot pole.

'Thank you for welcoming me to your town, Sheriff. I'm--'

'I know who you are.' He managed to keep his voice calm, as calm as possible, despite the anger was heating up his blood. What right did Riddle have to send this... thing... here to take over his town? Their town. To cave it under a railroad line like so many others, so that there was nothing left of their beloved buildings, old and weathered and strong, but a handful of ash and dust. 'And I'm not welcoming you.'

For a moment Harry saw those grey eyes widen--the closest this snake ever got to a flinch, he'd bet--but Malfoy recovered quickly, back to game face again. 'I suppose you do.' Malfoy glanced past Harry to Colin for an instant, those sharp eyes taking note of the newspaper--but he managed to make his glance look friendly, and his harmless smile didn't falter at all.

Best get this over with. Harry was in no mood for games. Malfoy was studying him with oddly glittering, proprietary eyes now. It made something in Harry's chest jostle, awaken, and he didn't like it one bit. 'I'd like to tell you once, Malfoy, that you aren't welcome here--we aren't going to sell our town, and we're not moving out of here.'

'I'm only here to make sure that the townspeople get a fair deal.' How solemn that thin face looked suddenly. How sincere.

'And I'm only here to make sure they don't start shooting before the deal-making's over.'

Those pale eyes narrowed. 'Are you threatening me, Sheriff?'

Harry set his shoulders back, nice and easy, and relaxed his mouth. 'Just giving you fair warning, is all.'

'Fair warning.' Malfoy's voice was quiet, very quiet, and his gaze was very sharp. 'I'm sure you like doing things the fair way, don't you, Sheriff?'

There was a silence in which they stared at each other. Harry felt a strange tension, like the heavy, crackling air before a storm, settle between them. 'I'm a man of the law, Malfoy. I like keeping things fair.'

'Of course you do.' Malfoy was solemn, for one moment more--and then his lips suddenly curved, and his eyes lightened, and between one moment and the next he was laughing.

The tension between them split and shattered--and Harry gaped, or tried not to, while Draco Malfoy laughed and laughed and laughed.

'I like this man,' gasped Malfoy to the fat little assistant--servant?--who stood a little behind him. 'I really do.'

Harry took an involuntary step backwards.

Malfoy's eyes swung to him again, so quickly that it felt like being pinned--and while Malfoy's face was still amused, Harry knew that Malfoy had just managed to threaten him--much more cleanly, obliquely and elegantly than Harry himself had done.

He forced himself to stand still as Malfoy stepped forward--but Malfoy didn't extend his hand to be shook. Malfoy only stepped closer, and closer, until Harry could smell his delicate, sweat-heavy perfume, and Malfoy's mouth was a hot whisper against his ear.

'You love your little town, don't you, sir knight? Sir Sheriff. But it isn't your town anymore. It's mine. My father's. Riddle's.'

That mouth moved from his ear to his jaw like a breath of silk, so soft, so fine, and Harry stood still and felt his eyes widen, knowing that to the others it would only look as though Malfoy was having a close word. Very close. Oh, God--

'You see, I like playing games too, Potter. But I'm no great believer in being fair.'

This last was breathed, in a hot shiver of exhalation, dangerously close to Harry's mouth.

--And then Malfoy stood back, still smiling, his face as warmly affectionate as though he'd greeted a brother. Or a friend. Or a-- 

'Good day, Sheriff.' This delivered loudly, jovially--and then Malfoy had turned, in a swirl of silken shirt and coat, gesturing imperiously to the driver to start unloading his boxes.

'What did he say?' Colin, stepping close now that the cat was away. 'Did he say 'bout Riddle? 'bout how much Riddle was willing to pay?'

'No,' said Harry, 'no.'

He went back into his station, mind strangely blank and stomach roiling--and as he listened to Colin chatter excitedly, he sat at his desk and stared at the prison ledgers and tried, desperately, to ignore the fact that he was hard.

* TBC *