Harry sighed deeply, drawing a rattling breath as far as he could into his lungs, and then doubled over in a fit of coughing. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing a drop of blood across his cheek, and grimaced. He increased his pace, speeding through London's back alley catacombs to a dingy looking pub set at the very bottom of a dead end street. As he opened the door, a bell jangled somewhere in its murky interior. Harry's eyes took a second to adjust to the gloom, and he blinked slowly, unused to the lightness on the bridge of his nose where his glasses should have rested. The pub was crowded – around every table was a gaggle of witches and wizards, and the smoke that drifted from their lit pipes collected in a thick fog about their heads, making Harry's chest spasm in protest. A barely perceptible lull in conversation followed his entrance, as every pair of eyes in the room traced his progress to the door on the opposite side of the bar. However, their eyes quickly drifted as they realised he wasn't anyone interesting, and Harry was relieved he didn't look like himself. Tom, the barman, spared him no more than a compulsory glance and a muttered "Afternoon," as he polished a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. Harry was shocked – before the war, Tom wouldn't have allowed anything that dirty past the front door of the Leaky Cauldron. He quickly averted his eyes. It seemed that the changes worked in Voldemort's brief span of power were still hitting hard. It was so soon after the war that the Ministry, currently in a state of disarray, hadn't quite had the chance to pull itself together and begin to rebuild wizarding Britain.
As Harry exited the pub he breathed a sigh of relief and tucked his robes closer around him to keep out the sudden chill. It was unlikely, but he could have been recognised – he was too weak to do more than conceal his trademark scar and change his hair and eye colour, but it seemed to have done enough. Of course, recently, it wasn't as though everyone was on the lookout for Harry Potter. Now that he was no longer necessary, all those who'd said they cared had turned tail and vanished into a Voldemort-free future, leaving Harry alone with his battle scars. Ron and Hermione had stayed of course, loyal as always, but they had just gotten married and Harry had assured them he was fine on his own for a few months while they took a long honeymoon. They had only left three days ago and Harry already wanted them back, but they were going to be gone for nearly six months. But even Ron and Hermione didn't know everything - he concealed his coughing, the splatters of blood, and the rotting, gargling noise his chest sometimes made when he breathed. They didn't need that to worry about as well, not when they worried about Harry too much to begin with. Harry allowed himself a bitter smile at the thought that they were probably the only ones that worried about him at all anymore. He removed his wand from the pocket of the jeans he wore under his black wizarding robes and he used it to tap the combination on the brick wall that allowed him access to Diagon Alley. Sighing, Harry thought that, though he hadn't exactly enjoyed their adoration before - frequently it had made him agitated and uncomfortable – he was missing it now. But really, was it too much to ask for some acknowledgement for the things he had done? After all, it hadn't been without sacrifice. As the brick wall peeled away in front of him, revealing the busy hubbub of Diagon Alley, Harry grimaced at a stabbing pain through his chest and reflexively clenched a fist over his heart. He had, in fact, sacrificed everything.
***
Harry wandered from shop to shop, browsing racks of ready made robes, shelves of books and jars of potions ingredients. He had to admit to himself that coming to Diagon Alley hadn't been quite the distraction he was hoping for. It was just giving him more time to brood on the wizarding world's indifference as it built itself a new future with the threat of Voldemort securely behind it. Harry was now nothing more than a reminder of the past that they would like to forget. Fury bubbled up inside him, and he kicked a stone as he passed it, unthinkingly turning down a side alley as he fumed. He walked quickly, so fast that he didn't notice the sprawled figure to the left of the narrow passageway, and tripped over an outstretched leg. The fall jolted his chest and he lay, winded, doing his best not to cough as he took in shallow gasping breaths. "Watch where you're going!" a voice drawled, "I was sleeping, which isn't actually very easy to do on this fucking uncomfortable floor, and then some great twat kicks me awake as he passes. Just piss off!" Harry froze. He knew that voice. He turned and came face to face with none other than Draco Malfoy. A Draco Malfoy with dirt on his face and torn robes, true, but he still had the same haughty glare and icy silver eyes as always. Right now, they were narrowed as they glared at Harry's face. "What are you looking at?" he sneered, and Harry jumped back, realising he'd been staring. He stood up, still looking at Malfoy, and the blonde haired boy on the floor averted his eyes and turned his back. "Just go, would you?"
"Malfoy?" Harry whispered in disbelief, still not believing what he saw. Malfoy's shoulders stiffened. "How do you know me?" he hissed, wrenching his head around and staring straight into Harry's eyes. Harry didn't know what came over him but he found himself drawing his wand from inside his robes, and casting the quick counter charm to undo the changes he'd worked on his appearance, ignoring the twinge in his chest. He took his glasses from a pocket and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. Malfoy's eyes widened a fraction as Harry bent down and offered him a hand. "Come on," he said gently, his now emerald green eyes staring into Malfoy's silvery ones, "you're coming home with me."
"What the HELL, Potter!" spat Malfoy, scrambling back, "Why the hell would I come home with you?" His eyes were wide and shocked. Harry didn't move. Somewhere in the back of his mind a nagging voice asked him what he was doing, and Harry now looked at Malfoy's dirty face and paused to think. Harry and Malfoy had hated each other since they were 11 because Malfoy had been a stuck up, arrogant git who worshipped Voldemort, but Harry had learned that Malfoy had never been evil after watching him turn his back on his family to help the Order of the Phoenix at the end of the war. He had risked his life to bring back invaluable information on the Dark Lord's plans again and again. Of course, this hadn't meant that Harry's dislike for the boy had lessened at all, but it struck a chord within him to see the once proud and regal Malfoy heir reduced to a beggar. After the war, Malfoy hadn't come back to finish his final year at Hogwarts, and now was the first time Harry had ever thought to wonder why. So for all these reasons and because of something Harry couldn't quite explain, he now extended friendship to his sworn enemy. His mind returned to the present, where he found Malfoy still staring at him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Harry noticed he was shivering slightly from the cold. "Because," he said calmly, "you're cold. And it's going to snow." Both men looked up at the white sky. "Go screw yourself, Potter," Malfoy whispered, but it lacked conviction. Harry stood and walked away, unsurprised to hear the gentle footsteps padding behind him as Malfoy followed.
***
Okay. Well, this is my first HarryDraco fanfic! I love this couple; I just think they're made for each other. I think (hopefully) that this story is going to be pretty long, so I'll do my best to update as often as I can. It's after the war, but as you can see the ending was slightly different – Malfoy turned good! (Yaaay!). Also, I ignored that whole HarryGinny bit at the end of book seven. No offense to anyone who liked it, but it irritated me. So yeah! Hope you guys enjoy – please R&R, it really makes my day x