Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: A belated Happy Birthday to Draco! This is not meant to be a birthday fic though.
A Drop of Amaretto
"On either side of the river lie long fields of barley and of rye," Draco sang softly as he paced across the strangely deserted Piazza San Marco one November afternoon. Like a child he splashed around in the temporary lake, the depth of which reached his lower legs. Every step he took shattered the reflection of the signature buildings and the pale grey sky. [1]
The acqua alta had paid a visit to the city of bridges; parts of the city were half-submerged. Streets and canals melded into a jigsaw puzzle of a mirror, faithfully recreating the city in an aqueous phantasmagoria. In the famous piazza that housed more splendour than the winter night sky, chairs and wooden walkways and stone steps remained conspicuously empty. Nevertheless, it had nothing to do with the flood; Draco cheated with a veil of magic.
Like the city of Venice, he was periodically flooded with reminiscence; unlike the tidal centre, however, he could not predict when the tide would come. At times, the memory brought a smile to his face; at other times, it depressed him.
The first time he visited this city with Harry, they encountered the wrath of the acqua alta on the very next day. In the end, they had spent the day trying not to fall into the canal as they walked on the flooded street. The scenery had changed very little since then, but Harry was not with him. Many miles away from where he was playing in water, Harry was probably labouring away in an attempt to dismantle the vibrant black market Draco helped nurture.
When Draco felt the sting of the brier in his chest, he pushed aside his musing and took out his pocket-watch. He could wallow in sentiments however he wanted to at another time; at the moment, he had work to do.
Wading through the water in a pattern resembling the path of a labyrinth, he sang a chant and injected a trail of magic to the ground. As he gradually made his way to the centre of the piazza, the web of magic stretched its threads outwards. For every step he took, he carved a shard of his memory to the weathered pavement. Every ripple on the water represented a brief moment of his life, be it bitter or sweet.
Standing still at the centre, he pulled out his wand and recited the incantation, tying loose threads into a succession of unbreakable knots. As if responding to his prayer, water rose and fell like a piece of floating silk patterned after a fractured rendition of the piazza. Once the last syllable left his mouth, the piazza returned to its calm and no less flooded self. When a wisp of wind coiled fleetingly around his fingertips, signalling success, Draco sighed in relief.
The spell was a concoction of an ancient magic combined with his embellishment, one he hoped would keep this city from sinking into oblivion or overwhelmed by a tempestuous acqua alta. For fifty years he must reinforce the spell, and he still had forty odd years before him. As the only wizard in contractual terms with the government of this country, the commission he received did not match the work he did. Nevertheless, he was more interested in something other than money.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in the air that tasted of history mingling with the present. Despite its Roman Catholic root, Draco sensed a solemn ambience radiating from this city, a slumbering magic not unlike that of Stonehenge. Like a lullaby the sound of water soothed his restlessness and calmed his wanderlust. He mused if Harry felt the same way about Venice; then again, unlike him, Harry preferred to have a place he called home.
When the clock tower struck the hour, he gathered his thoughts and locked them away. Weariness began to creep into his mind, but he still had several more places to go to before the spell could take effect. After letting out a breath, he cast aside the shroud of enchantment enveloping the piazza and beyond; he had monopolised the most beautiful drawing room in the world long enough.
I'll have an espresso when I'm finished, he decided before apparating to the next destination. Maybe I'll have some biscotti while I'm at it.
Two days later, Draco, fully refreshed after the much deserved rest, marched out of the hotel for a long walk around the city built for long walk. The shipment of wine and herbs - amongst other more dubious items - his trading company had ordered was supposed to be ready by tomorrow. In the meantime, he would relax and stretch his limbs.
He could not remember when he had developed a habit of aimlessly wandering about. What started out as a round trip on the London double-decker later escalated into unplanned trips to foreign land. His restlessness did not cease even after the war, even after he grew out of his adolescent shell. If nothing else, his hobby eventually gave birth to the seed of his company.
The day was pleasant, if slightly chilly. The heavy moisture in the air had somewhat subsided. Light and shadow gave chase in alleys and across bridges. Decay adorned buildings like badges of dignity; terra cotta bricks and roofs lent a spark of mischief to this blue rose of a city. The pavement beneath Draco's shoes was as weather-worn as a headstone after centuries of baptism in the elements. The shout of boatmen and Draco's soft humming at times punctured the tranquillity of the maze.
At length, he burst out of the labyrinth and found himself before the white Santa Maria della Salute. The giant beehive crouched beside the entrance of the Grand Canal, and for centuries it watched gondolas and boats passing by. If a building can speak, the Salute probably had more tales to tell than a hundred-year-old lore master. One of the stories the Salute could tell might even be Draco's, even if there was nothing special about his story.
Tourists loitered around the Baroque church and took photographs with their handheld gadgets. Heaving a sigh, Draco turned around and walked to the nearby traghetto pier, hoping to catch the gondola ferry across the canal.
The traghetto was making the return trip; several locals and a visitor were standing near the pier. As Draco passed a fleeting glance at his fellow travellers, a splash of black caught his eyes. When he looked more closely at the visitor, his stomach quivered as if he had ingested a bottle of vinegar.
The man wore a dark blazer over a pale blue shirt and a black tie, attire hardly befitting that of a casual tourist. Tilting his head upwards, the man was staring at the leaden sky. The distant expression on his face made it impossible to tell what was captured in those dark pupils: untouchable clouds in reality or a little blue bird from the imaginary.
As if sensing Draco's gaze, the other man turned to look at him; not a hint of surprise flashed across the man's face. Hiding behind a pair of frameless glasses Draco had once persuaded the other man to wear, those forest green eyes were tinted with a dash of lapis lazuli, the same hue as the Grand Canal.
The acqua alta had brought Harry to him.
Too many strands of emotions washed over Draco for him to categorise them all. Donning his cloak of composure, he took several steps forward, checked himself, and halted before the overpowering current could carry him away. "I didn't expect to see you here again," he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. "Are you on vacation?"
Harry did not smile, and Draco did not blame him. Many seasons ago, he had severed his tie with Harry in the worst possible way. "I'm here on business," the dark-haired man replied with rivalling calm. "And you?"
An invisible thorn pricked Draco's chest, but it had little to do with the possibility that Harry might be investigating him. "It's a secret." He paused. "You were lucky you weren't caught in the acqua alta."
Those transparent green eyes of Harry's, the likes of which not even the famous Murano glass beads could compare, studied Draco for several heartbeats. Was he reminded of the days when they used to travel together? "I arrived on the day the high tide came. Maybe I should consider myself lucky."
"Rotten luck, you mean?" Draco countered with practised ease, invoking the familiar rhythm of their infamous banter. His opponent, however, did not indulge him.
The traghetto had arrived. As other passengers climbed down the wooden steps and into the boat, Draco wondered if Harry would chase after him should he make a run for it. Nevertheless, such foolish, incriminating idea would be better left unexplored.
Walking ahead, Draco hopped onto the traghetto. He was about to offer his hand to Harry when he realised what he was doing. Cursing his reflex, he lowered his arm as discreetly as he could manage. Even though they had gone on separate ways, it did not change the fact that Harry was the only person who could elicit a protective streak in him.
Oblivious to Draco's plight, Harry boarded the boat without any trouble. Once all the passengers were onboard, the oarsman near the bows of the boat nodded to the oarsman at the back. After shouting a signal to warn oncoming traffic, the two boatmen turned the traghetto around and pushed it outwards into the canal. The unadorned gondola gently sliced through the reflection across the water mirror.
In accord to local custom, Draco and Harry stood with their fellow riders. Half-heartedly Draco listened to the Venetian dialect circling the boat; his eyes, however, were observing the Auror. The unique palette of this city painted an illusion of strangeness across the profile he had memorised by heart. It was like watching the other man in the midst of a deja vu, familiar yet distant, memory overlapping with reality.
Harry raised his head to meet his gaze. Uncertainty glittered in his vivid green eyes; hesitation danced across his parted lips. With a start, Draco realised Harry might not be as collected as his appearance suggested.
After chewing on his lower lip for several heartbeats, Harry relaxed his tense shoulders and said, "Midas Quint has been arrested." He named one of the underground merchants. "It's only a matter of time before the Ministry targets you."
Draco did not immediately speak; instead, he took his time to study Harry. The news of Quint's arrest had reached him some time ago, but it meant as little to him as a drop of water in an already overflowed glass. Of all the names Quint might give to the authority, Draco doubted his name would appear on the list.
"Is it all right for you to tell me this?" Draco raised a sardonic eyebrow. "After all, you are an Auror, whereas I am a somewhat suspicious businessman."
Melancholy flitted across Harry's sun-kissed visage like a ripple. As though wanting to avoid Draco's gaze, he looked up at the cloudy November sky. "I'm saying this as an old friend."
Guilt stung Draco with more force than he had imagined. His motive for saying those words was hardly innocent: he wanted to know what he was to Harry. Enemies, companions, friends, lovers, and then enemies once more - he and Harry had gone around in a circle and returned to the starting point.
Hiding behind a mask of nonchalance, Draco said, "Then I'll say this. Don't push too hard. When cornered, even a mouse would fight back with everything it possesses. Sometimes, all it takes is a bite to become infected."
His verdant eyes downcast, Harry unconsciously crooked his head to one side. A light breeze fluttered by, tousling his dark locks and painting small ripples across the aquamarine canal. In the air was where Harry ought to belong, and yet, he opted to fold his wings together and remain on the ground.
The traghetto had docked, and Harry's lean body faltered for a tantalising beat. A trickle of emotion seeped into his low voice, a timbre so soft it could have been mistaken for the wind. "Thanks for the advice."
"You might want to consider that a warning instead." After giving the boatman a fare for two, Draco got off the traghetto, waved farewell to Harry, and departed into one of many side alleys in this maze of a city. Not once did he turn around to see if Harry was following him; he was not as foolish as Orpheus.
Despite Harry's warning, he had no intention of pulling out from the black market business. On the contrary, if Harry was indeed after him, he would savour the thrill of the chase as much as he could. After all, he was a man who had always enjoyed the excitement of breaking a rule or two.
Chuckling to himself, Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets and hummed the tune he and Harry had once danced to on a starless night in the Queen's Pier, which had become no more than a sepia photograph of a bygone era kept in a rusty locket. [2]
A new day brought along bright sunshine and an infinite stretch of cerulean across the sky. However perfect the weather was for another adventure, Draco had other things to worry about. Inside a warehouse located near the bustling Rialto Market, he was in the middle of a business deal with a man named Lawrence Lestrade. The irony of negotiating a deal of the shady variety on a beautiful sunny day was not lost on him.
Poorly lit and half-filled with wooden crates, the warehouse looked like its neighbours at a glance. Nevertheless, the interior smelled not so much of mustiness and rotting vegetable, but faintly of fresh grapes. The owner of the warehouse was also a study of curiosity. Tall and scruffy looking, Lestrade originally hailed from England, but he had since relocated to Tuscany. When he was not hunting for rare - and at times illegal - potions ingredients, he made wine and his wife grew herbs in their villa.
Standing beside Lestrade, Draco took on his businessman persona and sampled a glass of burgundy liquid. The rusty, smoky taste of dragon's blood trickled down his throat like a lick of fire. He knew from experience that the blood was of fine quality; personally, he was more interested in a drink of the alcoholic kind.
After rinsing out the taste with a glass of water already prepared for him on the makeshift table, Draco turned to the other man and said, "Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me, Mr Lestrade."
Lestrade grinned at him, his deep blue eyes narrowed into a pair of waning crescents. "Flattering me won't get you anywhere. I'm not going to lower the price."
"Certainly not," Draco said suavely while flicking a finger at the glass. The crystalline chime resonated for several seconds before evaporating into the air. "An exemplary product deserves a suitable price to complement its status."
"Then I'm sure we shall get along just fine." Lestrade held out his large hand, and Draco, putting on his business smile, shook hands with him. "It is always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Malfoy."
"Likewise, Mr Lestrade." Now that the deal was settled, Draco turned to his subordinate, a young man by the name of Graham Pritchard. "How is it?"
"Everything is in order, Mr Malfoy," Pritchard replied eagerly, a stance vaguely reminiscent of the young Hermione Granger. A competent assistant though he may be, his temperament wearied Draco at times. "We shall start transporting the goods at nightfall."
"Good. I shall leave it to you." Once Draco gave his approval, Pritchard hastened away to make preparation. Of all his old schoolmates, Pritchard acted the least like a Slytherin, which was one of the reasons Draco hired him.
"Now that everything is settled, why not open a bottle of wine?" Lestrade's rough voice rang out in the warehouse, striking squarely at Draco's heart. "I have a fine bottle of Chianti I want you to try." And Draco could find no reason to refuse.
By the time he left the warehouse and fell into the embrace of the Venetian sunlight, the day was nearing the brink of the golden hour. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Draco looked up at the sky. Devoid of a single fluff of white cloud, the azure sky seemed as unreal and remote as a mirage across the sea on a hot summer day.
A short walk took him to a small church and the attached square. A handful of people were loitering about or strolling by; a young lad was feeding a group of grey pigeons. The sound of human chatter, flapping wings and pigeon cooing filled the square like the backdrop of an oil painting.
He was pondering about possible complications that might arise in an upcoming negotiation with an Asian supplier when he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure flitting into an arched passageway. Squinting at the silhouette, he realised the brooding man was Theodore Nott, his old classmate and Midas Quint's business partner. It dawned on him that Nott might be the reason Harry was here; Draco could not deny that he was disappointed.
Pursing his lips, Draco trailed after Nott to a street lined with shops, just in time to see his former classmate vanish around the corner. Instead of giving chase, however, he stopped at a shop specialised in Venetian glass and admired the display window. Amidst rows of colourful glassware, the black-and-white silhouette of a barista passed into the picture frame and then departed just as quickly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched the barista disappear around the same corner Nott went into. Several beats later, he followed the barista into a series of interlocking streets, alleys, small squares, and bridges. Weather-beaten buildings with peeled paint and chipped bricks and missing roof tiles observed his pursuit in silent amusement. High above, white clouds and sunset gold seeped into the sky like watercolour on a canvas.
At length, he found himself on a crooked street that led out to a side canal and a stone bridge. On one side, a woman in a dirty apron put out the Closed sign on the door of the pastry shop; on the other side, a whiff of roasted coffee beans crept out from a charming little cafe. As Draco passed by the front of the cafe, he thought he saw his younger self enjoying a cup of coffee with a younger Harry.
Shaking the image out of his head, Draco crossed the bridge and found a young man carrying a backpack walk into an alley. If he remembered correctly, the path led to nowhere but a messy network of alleys and dead end. Without the guidance of bread crumbs or a red thread or a map, one could become easily lost inside.
Draco looked casually around him to make sure no one was watching. And then, he went into the alley, pulled out his wand, and muttered an incantation. A black cat sprang out from the shadow and blinked its hazel eyes at him. Crouching down, Draco rubbed the cat's chin. The cat, knowing its master's wish, yawned once before sprinting down the alley in search of a certain someone lost in the web.
Once his familiar was out of sight, Draco followed along the canal and discovered a gelateria by the waterway. On a whim, he went into the gelateria and bought two cones of gelato. When he came out with his reward, he was just in time to see a man in casual jumper and jeans walking towards his direction. Other than the glasses and a mop of black hair, this man and Harry had nothing in common. Nevertheless, Draco strolled towards the stranger and offered a gelato cone to him.
The man contemplated him for several heartbeats before accepting the icy treat. Those inky dark eyes wavered when they beheld the two scoops of gelati: chocolate red pepper and hazelnut. These two flavours were Harry's favourites. Without a word, Draco led the way to a nearby bridge. A beat later, the stranger followed him.
Overlooking the tranquil water and the reflection of the dusky sky, Harry, in the guise of the stranger, stole a glance at Draco and asked, "How do you know it's me?"
"Intuition." Draco put his elbows on the stone rail of the bridge and surveyed the canal. Rotting wooden palinas and small boats lined up along both sides of the canal like a disorganised parade. "You lost him."
Looking from the gelato to Draco, Harry opened his mouth as though wanting to speak. In the end, however, he let out a sigh, leant against the rail, and brought the gelato to his mouth. To witness a stranger's body in possession of Harry's demeanour was disconcerting, Draco thought as he ate in silence. The combined flavour of amaretto and rum at the tip of his tongue tasted more bitter than sweet.
"I heard you sing," Harry remarked after several minutes of silence, giving Draco a start. "Not many people would turn The Lady of Shalott into a song. Not many people would make up his own tune as he goes along, at any rate."
Stifling his surprise for the moment, Draco waved his cone and jested, "Perhaps I should try doing that with Portrait of a Lady someday. Wouldn't that be a challenge?"
Dark eyes sent him a withering glare. "Why not use a nursery rhyme instead?" There was a pause. "I can sense it. You've been casting spells all over Venice." Harry tilted his head to face Draco, the colour of his pupils fading into the profound shade of green Draco adored. "What are you trying to do?"
A gondola carrying several tourists glided by beneath the bridge; the gondolier whistled E Lucevan le Stelle to the gentle lapping of water and the rhythm of the rowing gondola. The scenery would have been a perfect backdrop for the climax of a love story, but Draco was hardly Casanova. "It's a secret," he said. [3]
A flash of indignation appeared across Harry's borrowed visage before an expression Draco had never seen before took over. It was neither bitterness nor understanding, not entirely of anger yet not of sadness either. Looking ahead at a distant point beyond the curve of the waterway, Harry uttered softly, "I see."
The wind, carrying with it the late autumnal air of Venezia, slapped against Draco's cheeks. Beside him, Harry took a deep breath, his expression softened by gentle twilight. For an Auror who was in the company of a possible suspect, Harry was unguarded to the point of criminally so.
After casting a sidelong glance at the other man, Draco said, "You should be more wary of me. You of all people should know what I am like and how terrible I can be. For all you know, I might be trying to obtain information from you."
"Perhaps you are. Still, I'm not as trusting as some people might think." Harry brushed away the waffle crumbs on his palms. "After all, it is part of my job to see through lies. It's just that-" He stopped. As was his habit whenever he felt conflicted over something, he chewed on his bottom lip for several beats. The remark that left his mouth next was clearly not what he had intended to say. "You need more than a gelato cone to loosen my mouth."
Unable to resist, Draco smirked at the other man. "Yes, it is unfortunate. Alcohol would not do either, since you fall straight asleep when you are drunk."
Vexed, Harry glared at him while crossing his arms over his chest, yet he seemed more at ease than he had been before. "On the other hand, you are like a bottomless wine barrel. I've never seen you drunk - or acting drunk."
"That's not true," Draco countered while the memory of a certain night on the Spanish Steps fluttered across his mind like a nostalgic aroma from his boyhood. "You just didn't realise it." Nevertheless, Harry looked sceptical.
The sky had darkened into a hazy shade of forget-me-not blue; clouds had thickened to signal the approach of rain. When Draco finished his cone, he knew he had run out of excuses to stay. It had been a wonder to be able to stand beside Harry and eat gelato together once more; he would not ask for more from him.
"Just so you know, that man is not above utilising violence as a means," Draco said, his tone quiet and sober. With some effort, he pushed himself away from the balustrade and turned to leave. "Until next time."
"Are you happy, Draco?" Harry's voice chased after his back.
Halted on his track, Draco closed his eyes for a heartbeat, trying in vain to suppress the pang in his chest. "I'm not unhappy," he heard himself say, his voice scattered by a gust of wind that tasted strangely of salt. "I've finally found something I want to do." Even though it costs me you, he added. "Are you disappointed?"
"No, that's fine." He could almost imagine Harry shaking his head in that boyish way of his. "I won't stop you anymore, but Harry Potter the Auror will."
Ever so slowly, Draco turned around to regard Harry, who had cast aside his camouflage. Age and experience might have left their mark on his boyish face, yet those eyes that were at once transparent and observant had not changed from the moment Draco first beheld them at Madam Malkin's many summers ago.
"As long as I'm not caught doing something illegal, there will be no problem."
For some time, those glowing eyes of Harry's studied him as if trying to fathom out truth from lie. In the end, Harry let out a breath and smiled the faintest of smiles. "Thanks for the treat. It was delicious." He waved farewell like an old friend and crossed over to the other side of the canal.
When Harry disappeared beyond his reach, Draco took the opposite direction and strolled past two boys not unlike the younger rendition of himself and Harry. He did not regret letting him go, egocentric that he was. Nevertheless, neither did he regret meeting Harry Potter - or loving him.
The pitter-patter of rain accompanied Draco in the wee hour of morning as he packed his bag. After zipping his waterproof and weight-eliminating travel bag shut, he surveyed the modestly furnished hotel room one last time to make sure he had left nothing behind. Once satisfied, he put on the black overcoat, grabbed his bag, and left.
The shipment had arrived safely in England, which meant his work in Venice was complete for the time being. The wanderlust that had been temporarily sated began to occupy his thought. He planned to travel to Asia - which was as much for business as for personal reason - after settling several business matters in England. Before saying farewell to Venice, however, he wanted to walk once more upon the cobblestone streets of this city.
Ashen sky hung low over the city and sprinkled rain on the sleek pavement. The colour of every structure in the city faded to a palette of sombre monochrome. Unmindful of the rain, Draco slung the bag over his shoulder and let raindrops fall upon him like ashes.
Along the way, he encountered only a handful of people, for dawn had barely arrived. At length, his legs led him to Santa Maria dei Miracoli, a jewellery box of a church in the style of early Renaissance. Being neither religious nor artistically inclined, he had never been inside the church before. Out of a sudden flight of fancy, he wanted to see what the interior of the marble church looked like.
The church had yet to open to the public, but it posed little problem for a wizard armed with a wand. Stealthy as a thief he looked around him before casting a veil over the church to ensure peace and secrecy. When the charm was in place, he unlocked the door and slipped inside.
Grey light crept into the church through windows set high above the ground. Square marbles adorned the walls like panes of glass; shadows lurked in the barrel vault that was decorated with painted coffers; the bronze altar atop a flight of stairs at the far end of the church looked like charcoal in the gloom of the rainy morning. The interior of the Miracoli before hours gave the impression of a stage abandoned at the end of a show.
Draco set his bag on the wooden pew and walked down the aisle. The sound of his footstep resonated beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling; the sound of rain striking against the windows provided the accompaniment. The air in the Miracoli, like other churches in the city, was timeless; past, present and future did not exist in here.
After climbing the marble steps, Draco crooked his head at the altar of a deity he did not believe in. The atmosphere was sombre and underwhelming for a church said to be a popular wedding venue, but he could envision the splendour when the lighting was more ideal.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang as a reminder that the city was about to wake up from its slumber. It was time for this trespasser to take his leave. As Draco went down the steps, he beheld the organ on the balcony, the statue, and something white and furry at the end of the aisle. When he reached the other end of the church, he found a chubby white cat sitting on his bag. Raising an eyebrow, he crouched in front of the cat, who stared at him with its large blue eyes.
"There's nothing to eat in there." Draco pointed out, and the cat continued to smile that perpetual smile some cats possessed from birth.
Letting out a sigh, he rubbed the cat's head; the cat yielded to his cool hand without resistance. The dirty white fur, which would have felt soft and fluffy when dry, was slightly damp; the cat probably came in here to get away from the rain. Those round blue eyes that had captured his reflection in their depth could rival the most vivid of lapis lazuli. There was something vaguely familiar about the cat, though Draco did not know why.
The creak of the double doors intruded his thought. Snapping his head upwards, Draco found Harry standing by the door, looking as surprised as he was. Dampness from the rain had taken control of Harry's typically unruly hair; the hue of his overcoat darkened into a deeper shade of grey. Of all the people who could have broken through the charm he had cast, it had to be Harry.
Straightening up, Draco absently brushed away the invisible dust on his coat. "Are you still tailing Nott? He's not here."
Harry took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his coat, granting Draco a fleeting view of his naked green eyes. "No, I'm not looking for him." Donning his glasses once more, the Auror nodded at the cat that was sitting on Draco's bag like a feline rendition of a Buddha statue. "He kept scratching at my leg and urged me to follow him. Is he one of yours?"
"No, he's not mine. I don't know where he came from." As soon as those words left Draco's mouth, a half-formed notion rose to the surface of his mind. With piercing eyes, he squinted at the cat, and the cat returned the gaze with the same curious smile on its furry face.
The confrontation lasted for several seconds before Draco finally gave in. He grabbed the cat by the nape, put it down on the pew despite the vocal protest, and retrieved his bag. "Well then, I'll leave you to it."
"Actually, I want to talk to you." Harry took several steps forward until he was within arm's length to Draco. A drop of water dripped down from a loose black strand; a fresh red scratch marked his cheek.
Draco felt a sting on his own cheek as if he was staring into a mirror. When he looked down, he saw white bandages peeking out from beneath Harry's sleeve. Something akin to anger bubbled to the surface of Draco's consciousness, yet his voice retained its usual nonchalance. "You are hurt." He did not ask how Harry got hurt; he already knew.
The reminder prompted Harry to rub his cheek with the back of his hand, a gesture not unlike that of a boy. "It's not serious. Don't worry about it." The dismissive tone did little to dissipate Draco's dark mood.
Thrusting aside the urge to hunt down Theodore Nott for the time being, Draco unclenched his fist, put down his bag, and leant against the wooden back of the pew. "I'll exercise my right to remain silent if you want to talk about my business."
"I won't do that, not unless there is proof of wrongdoing." The Auror brushed past him. The lingering scent of soap teased Draco's senses; the silver name tag dangling from Harry's neck glinted like a coin in the wishing well. Once he sat down on the bench, he folded his hands together and said, "Do you remember that time when I nearly ran off on my own to fight Voldemort?"
Draco closed his eyes and clutched the wooden board. The memory of those chaotic days sprang out like a crimson lotus in a monochrome world. "Yes, I remember. I yelled at you until my throat hurt."
"I was happy when you yelled at me." The unexpected remark compelled Draco to look over his shoulder at the other man. From his angle, he could not see Harry's face clearly, yet he could tell those deep green eyes were staring at a distant point that transcended time and space. "You weren't always so candid. That's why I was happy."
The cat strutted into view and rubbed its face against Harry's trousers. Bending down, Harry ran his bandaged hand over the fur, bone china white on milky white. "When you broke up with me, I couldn't say what I wanted to say. It was then that I realised I care more about my pride than I do you." His voice lowered to a bare whisper. "It was unforgivable. I'm sorry."
When Harry tilted his head upward to meet his gaze, Draco thought he was about to cry. In the end, however, a rueful smile flirted about Harry's lips like a drop of amaro. "I want to be with you."
The confession that arrived several years late stole Draco's breath away. Had Harry said those words to him back then, would he have changed his mind? He did not know the answer.
The same indescribable expression he had beheld on the bridge passed across Harry's visage; too many different shades of emotions had fused together that only the colour black remained. Taking Draco's silence as the reply, Harry gently nudged the cat away and got up.
"See you." Harry gave him a quick, distracted smile and turned to leave, the unperturbed demeanour he had adopted slipping ever so slightly.
If Draco was a considerate man, he would have let this flightless bird go; nevertheless, kindness was an attribute he did not possess. Before the Auror could reach the door, Draco took a step forward and grabbed the other man's wrist. Startled, Harry wheeled around to look at him, his verdant eyes widened and his lips parted in surprise. The silver name tag bounced against Harry's chest for a heartbeat.
Without a word, Draco took another step forward, reached behind the stunned man, unclasped his necklace, and coiled the silver chain around his own neck. Throughout it all, his eyes were fixated upon the man he had offered a blue rose to in half-jest once upon a summer afternoon. Framed by the stormy grey light coming from the open double doors, Harry looked as unreal as the wind drawing ripples across the aquamarine glass that was the Grand Canal.
When the silver name tag gleamed faintly before his chest, Draco said in the same tone he had used to declare he would not be caught, "I'll bring back the egg custard tarts you like when I return from Hong Kong. After that, I'll tell you what I've been doing in Venice."
Unnoticed by either man, the chubby white cat, smiling that curious smile as always, slipped out the door and leapt into the embrace of the November rain.
Finis.
[1] From Alfred Tennyson's poem, The Lady of Shalott.
[2] Queen's Pier was a pier in Hong Kong, and it was demolished several years ago. Draco is probably humming Fly Me to the Moon.
[3] E Lucevan le Stelle is an aria for tenor from the Italian opera Tosca, written by Giacomo Puccini.
A/N: The story is vaguely inspired by the Japanese manga/anime series Aria; the white cat is a nod to President Aria in the series. If the setting for this story is not Venice, the end result would be very different from what you have just read here.
Amaretto is a simple story that doesn't revolve around death or the war. This is a story about what would happen if Draco and Harry run into each other after they broke up. In this story, Draco is a bit more childlike and carefree than how I usually depict his adult self. Harry, on the other hand, more or less stays the same. Other than that, it's always fun to mention food, even though I couldn't throw tiramisu into the story.
As I've mentioned before, this is a story about a stray cat and a flightless bird. The stray cat in question is Draco, while the flightless bird is Harry. In the last scene, Draco puts on Harry's name tag; I'll leave the interpretation to you.