Title: A Second Chance

Summary: Harry and Draco run into each other twelve years after the war.

Word Count: 1,401

Disclaimer: I own not Harry Potter.

A/N: Enjoy!

Harry was really happy. Sure, he had to leave his friends and surrogate family behind, but it wasn't like they couldn't Floo or visit when they had the time. Mostly he was happy that he didn't have to live in the limelight anymore; it was a perk of living at a magical home, yet in a Muggle city. He really did try, though, at least at first. He spent four years after the war trying to be a Hogwarts professor, but the Prophet still somehow managed to make him feel it was his responsibility to make sure the Wizarding world was protected. So, instead, he moved to New York, went to college, got a degree in journalism, and was now working for what Harry called a 'hobby' magazine.

His latest assignment, which he'd just received this morning, was to go to a gallery opening tomorrow night and write up an article, critiquing the artists' work, with a spotlight on their background. Well, he didn't know anything about art, so that was a hindrance, but it sounded like fun and the article wasn't even due for two weeks, unlike most of his assignments. I guess I get to actually enjoy myself this time. The rest of the day was spent in the office, finalizing edits to his previous articles and making sure the rest of his team was caught up.

The morning of the opening, Harry was excused from work and decided to take his tea to the balcony, reading the Muggle newspaper. He skimmed an article about the event he was attending tonight, but there were no pictures of the artist anywhere, just a name: Drevon Malcolm…must be French or something. The rest of the day he spent exercising and then playing his Wii, which he was rather fond of; especially this game called Just Dance.

At a quarter to six, Harry took a shower and dressed in black slacks paired with a grey button-down shirt and a sport coat he'd bought from a store called Barneys. He ran some gel through his wild ebony locks, brushed his teeth, made sure he had all his pens and notepads in his messenger bag, and was out the door by 6.30. Harry walked the four blocks it took to the venue, and waited in line to enter. Gosh, this guy must be really good.

In the gallery, the first thing that caught Harry's eye was a large painting, selling for 700 dollars, of two hills with a dark lake in between, and a sun setting on the horizon. Wait a tick, that looks really familiar. No sooner than he stopped, he was jostled further into the warehouse by a large group of people waiting to get in.

Harry spent the next half-hour browsing through the gallery; he couldn't help feeling like every painting he perused was familiar somehow, he just couldn't figure out why. He accepted champagne from a nearby waiter and sat down on a plush ottoman; I'm supposed to enjoy this, he kept reminding himself. Harry opened his messenger, pulled out one of his notepads, uncapped his pen, and set to work trying his hand at critiquing what he'd seen so far. The colors are pretty. Harry snorted and quickly crossed that out; ok try to think…artsy. The color palettes are interesting and blend well together. That sounds better at least, he thought to himself

He was just about to comment on how the colors in one piece really stood out while still looking almost the same when he heard a gasp behind him and several camera shutters going off. M-Malfoy? The hell? His hair looks darker and his eyes bluer, but it's definitely him. Harry turned back to his notepad and half-consumed glass of champagne, patiently waiting until the throng of admirers (at this he smirked to himself; oh, the irony) dispersed. He still needed to interview 'Drevon' and look at three more paintings.

When 'Drevon' (he couldn't help himself from sniggering every time he even thought the name) was finally alone, Harry downed his glass and marked off an area for his impromptu interview. Merlin, he looks good in those Dickies…."Excuse me, Drevon, may I get a few words from you? I'm writing this article…."

"Potter?" Malfoy hissed. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a journalist, and if you had let me finish, I'm writing an article for New York, and I've been assigned to critique your gallery and get background information on you. Can I ask you some questions?" asked Harry while giving Draco a pointed look.

"Look, Harry, I'm a bit worn from these people. Can we go somewhere else for this? There's a restaurant not far from here in which I have a private dining room to myself…"

"Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, that would kind of be perfect, but-. Won't people kind of…miss you?" inquired The-Boy-Who-Lived.

"I don't really care."

Twenty minutes later, Harry and Draco were sitting at a table in a secluded, small room tucked at the back of the restaurant. They were both sipping on their wine when, right in front of Harry's eyes, Draco's hair lightened and his eyes turned to the same grey-silver they had been back at Hogwarts. Harry placed his glass down, and started to clear his throat; at Draco's blank expression, he sighed heavily. "Care to explain?"

"Well, I guess I'll begin from a few years after the war. I received quite a bit of grief, as you know, and I couldn't handle it. I decided to move to Pittsburg about ten years ago, where I met my friend JoAnne; she's the woman who took me to my first art museum. I picked up a brush, started to paint, and fell in love with it; so I moved here to hopefully one day sell my work to buyers all over America. As for my disguise, I go by a different name and appearance when I attend work functions, but I'm…me…whenever I'm out and about. I really like it here in New York; it's got that fast paced lifestyle I crave, and I'm not judged for what I've done in the past here. So, what about you?"

"Basically the same as you. I moved here to get out of the spotlight, went to college, got a job, but I always use my real name," Harry quipped, smiling into his glass.

Draco looked at Harry, the ghost of a smile on his own lips. He'd filled out quite a bit since school; gone was the scrawny, gangly boy of twelve years ago. Now he had nice muscle tone, a filled-out face, either Lasik or contacts, and nice broad shoulders. Harry looked like he could throw Draco right over this table and….I'd rather not finish that line of thought. "So, what else have you been up to since you moved here? Girlfriend? Oh, how are you coping without magic? I must say, for me it was rather difficult at first."

"Not much. A few boyfriends. Quite well thanks. Now can we please get to the interview?"

Draco almost spit up his wine. "You-….When….But….What?"

"Yes, I came out last year; enough about me," snapped Harry, just as their food was brought to the table. "What do you consider your inspiration for your artwork?"

"You know bloody well what, Potter," gritted out Draco, looking to make sure they were again alone in the room. "But of course you can't use that; we're both supposed to be Muggles, for Merlin's sake. Plus, if you did, your boss would think you'd gone mad; he'd probably fire you over it."

"First of all, yes I do know which is why I wanted to talk to you face-to-face, so we could get your story straight. Second, I didn't know you cared so much; really, I'm flattered. Shall we go with a generic answer, like nature or a significant other?"

Draco mumbled something and took a bite of his pasta. "I'll just put nature, then," said Harry, smirking."What got you interested in art; you're friend…ahhh, here's one: what message are you trying to convey to your audience with your artwork?"

"If you don't mind, I'm trying to enjoy my meal. Actually, I'm rather bored with these questions; so unless you're going to make things interesting, shut up…" Harry gulped and after hesitating a second, nodded. "Check please," Draco called out, with an evil glint in his eye.

Ok, so what do you think? Do you want another chapter of smutty goodness or do you just want to leave it up to your own imaginations? ;)

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