Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: A very simple vignette.

Hide and Seek

Is this some kind of a joke? Harry thought to himself for the hundredth time as he stepped into the wooden cottage with some trepidation. Neither had he been here before, nor had he even known of its existence out in the deep woods until he received a map and a key. At a glance, the house appeared to be deserted, as it probably should be, since the owner of the house was supposed to be enjoying his breakfast at his new home in France right now.

The interior was surprisingly spacious and sparse; a smoky scent of tobacco lingered about, refusing to fade. Funny, Harry had no idea he smoked. On one side of the sitting room lay a sofa and a coffee table; on the other side stood a glass-top table with two matching chairs; and beyond was what appeared to be a kitchen. A small bookshelf was nailed to the wall, its content an eclectic collection of books. The decor was tasteful in a simple, understated kind of way -- which was another surprise, since he never struck Harry as a minimalist.

Out of curiosity, Harry browsed through the book titles: an Ellery Queen was sandwiched between a stargazing guide and a book on stained glass; Samuel Beckett was thrown beside The Little Prince, who made an acquaintance with Egyptian history and British law. And surprisingly enough, there was even a cookbook, which looked so new Harry suspected it had barely been flipped open, let alone read.

In short, to put it nicely, he had a wide range of interest; to put it bluntly, his interest was all over the place.

There was very little in way of decoration aside from the black picture frames hung on the wall. Behind the protective glass were black-and-white still photographs of city life. A grumpy-looking shopkeeper was standing before his bakery in one photo. Another one featured a young couple kissing goodbye on the front step of a house. A third picture had two old men playing chess in the park; black was clearly winning. The photos appeared to be a collection; Harry wondered fleetingly if they were taken by him.

Whichever the case maybe, none of it gave him the slightest clue as to why Draco Malfoy sent him a map and a key to his cabin, while the man himself had already settled into his new post in France.

Life in the ivory tower named Hogwarts had ended a long time ago. Neither Harry nor Draco had any particular reason to remain in contact; after all, they had been arch-enemies ever since they first set foot at Hogwarts. Even their quasi-reconciliation was not enough to bind them together in some semblance of semi-friendly relation. At most, Draco would nod at him when they passed each other by on the corridors of the Ministry building, and Harry would do the same without a thought; Harry could not even recall the last time he actually talked to Draco face to face. Had Ginny -- rumoured to be more than mere acquaintance with Draco, though Harry never confirmed it -- not told him that Draco was assigned to France as a liaison between the two wizarding institutions, he never would have found out on his own.

And yet, for whatever twisted reason that evaded Harry's understanding, Draco had owled him a key to his cottage, without so much as an explanation. Well, excuse me for being unable to read minds from across the English Channel, Harry thought sarcastically, before heaving a frustrated sigh. He was bewildered, not to mention slightly annoyed, by Draco's antics, and he did not like it at all. What could Draco possibly be trying to achieve by sending Harry to his empty cottage? A treasure hunt for enchanted gold?

Finding nothing further of particular interest in the living room, Harry poked around in the kitchen instead, which looked so pristine that it most likely had been used for nothing beyond making coffee and toast. Moving along, he took a peek at the bathroom; it was a compact but fully-functional facility, nothing remarkable about it.

It occurred to Harry that the house was conspicuously devoid of dust and cobwebs; it was as though the house had been cleaned beforehand in anticipation of a guest. With a wince, Harry thought of his own flat; his place was truly a bachelor's flat in comparison to this meticulously tidy cottage.

Harry made his way up the staircase, hoping he might find something upstairs; the wooden steps whined loudly beneath his feet. When he reached the landing, he saw an equally sparse bedroom staring back at him. A bed pushed up against the wall with an accompanying nightstand, a closet which turned out to be bare save for several coat-hangers, and a wicker chair by the window -- the bedroom was even more bare than the living room downstairs. The smell of cigarette was particularly prominent up here, though Harry did not see an ashtray anywhere; Draco must have taken it with him.

While the interior looked comfortable enough, there was something forlorn about a bedroom that was no longer lived in. Facing the window which overlooked the woods, the lonely wicker chair looked like a child crouching before the window, waiting anxiously for the return of his parents.

Harry looked around the room, even going so far as to look under the bed, but he found nothing, not even a speck of dust -- and here he thought he might find some incriminating evidence in the form of letters written in secret code or -- Harry smiled wryly -- dirty magazines. His last hope was the closed door to his left. If he could not find anything in the next room, he would head back and forget about the whole thing as if it was a weird dream in the vein of a vanishing Cheshire Cat with a broad, teeth-baring grin.

Twisting the doorknob open, Harry entered the room without a second thought. Immediately he was greeted by a slightly bitter smell in the air, faintly reminiscent of paints used in artwork. The room was completely empty, save for an easel standing in the middle of the room like a fashion model posing for some glossy magazine. A white cloth was thrown over the easel, covering up what appeared to be a fairly large painting. Driven purely by instinct, Harry pulled away the cloth and found himself beholding a breathtaking oil painting.

In the background was the vast azure sky above and a sea of forest green below; and in the foreground was a boy riding on a broomstick with reckless abandonment -- it was Harry himself as he had been during his youth. Even though Harry's feet remained firmly on the ground, Harry could easily recall the pleasant sensation of wind whipping past his figure as he took flight without a care, the warmth of the sunlight shining down on him, and the refreshing scent of the flourishing woods below.

The painting was done in painstaking details, from the ebony strands to the twigs of the broomstick, from the leaved woods to the birds flying in the background. Within the depths of those bright eyes of the boy's were captured the green of the trees and the blue of the sky. Even though it was a static painting, the artist had breathed life onto the canvas through every delicate, loving brush stroke; Harry could sense fond affection exuding from the vividly depicted piece. At the bottom right corner of the canvas was the painter's signature written in white, the slant script unexpectedly pretty: Yours always, D.M.

Staring at the lively face of his inanimate counterpart in awe, Harry was so thoroughly dumbstruck he forgot to breathe.

Is this really me? When did he paint this? Harry mused in confusion as a blush flew onto his cheeks. It felt surreal to be staring at his own face that was neither a reflection on the mirror nor a transient moment captured by a camera. The smile gracing upon the boy's face was so carefree it made Harry wondered if he had ever smiled so freely. Even so, Harry could detect a hint of a shadow across the boy's brow, a perpetual wrinkle suggestive of the baggage he could not leave behind. Was this what he looked like in Draco's eyes?

Hesitantly, as though afraid he would unwittingly disturb his younger self, Harry ran his fingers over the canvas, feeling each adoring brush stroke beneath his fingertips. Not once had Draco said anything to him, not even the smallest gesture that would indicate his feelings for Harry was anything beyond detestation and contempt. A sliver of remorse gnawed at Harry as he recalled their many hostile exchanges in time past; those angry words Harry had spat out at the heat of the moment must have been like a thorny whip to Draco.

Why hadn't Draco said anything before? Was he being considerate to Harry, or was he trying to protect his pride and his heart beneath the facade of arrogance? And yet, in the end, Draco had given Harry a map and a key to all the things he could not -- would not -- speak aloud, to a painting worth much, much more than a thousand words.

And somehow, as a faint, rueful smile involuntarily crept its way onto his lips, as gratitude and regret and dozen different emotions clouded his crystalline green eyes, Harry knew: Draco will never return to this house again.

Finis.

A/N: This piece might seem almost minimalistic in comparison to my other fics as was intended. I wanted to see how far I can achieve with only one character in the story, while the presence of another can only be felt indirectly; and that was how this fic came into being. Thanks for reading. Comments will be more than welcome.