HARRY PULLED his bangs down over his scar, intentionally trying to hide the scar from plain sight. His eyes had long since lost their emerald shine they used to glow with, and were now something closer to moss-covered pebbles hidden in a long forgotten brook. In fact, most of his features had dwindled in youth as of late. Everything from the way he held himself to the way his jaw line jutted out with the prominence only adulthood could provide in a man left no question that Harry James Potter was no longer a young lad.
But unlike many of his peers, Harry didn't have a spouse to come home to. Sure, he was one of the finest aurors in Europe, but that didn't change things for him. Granted, he had plenty of women and men trying to impress him—often on a daily basis—but it wasn't really him they were after as much as his name. Harry often grew tired of pretending he was content with the way his life was unfolding, being perpetually viewed as a celebrity in the wizarding world with a handful of friends and a legion of followers. And on nights like these, when the ear-splitting silence filling his home became too much to bear, he often took matters into his own hands.
He had heard rumors of a new strip joint opening up within the past few months: "The Wizards' Wands" his coworker had called it. There was evidently a huge commotion regarding the club, because the majority of its dancers were male. Regardless of what the tabloids might twist out of a visit, Harry was in the mood for something other than memories of near-forgotten flings and sloppy teen romances to help assuage his loneliness.
He pulled himself away from the mirror and walked toward his closet, searching for a set of slim fitting robes that would show off how well his body had filled out. Of course, the chances of finding someone of interest at this new place were remarkably low, but it never hurt anyone to look as attractive as possible. Green buttons and embroidery complimented the soothing brown of the robes Harry pulled around him. He pulled on dark, chocolate leather boots that Hermione had bought him back when she and Ron were on their honeymoon. He walked back over to the mirror to inspect his appearance. If he was someone else who was interested in guys, he'd find himself bloody attractive. But his opinion didn't matter when it came to meeting Mr. Perfect. Harry tried to fix hair, but regardless of his efforts, it continued to jut out at awkward angles as if he had just awoken. Harry huffed out a sigh as he reached for his wand. He had completely mastered wandless magic by his second year out of Hogwarts, but his wand served as a source of comfort when he had to endure traveling in public. As he pulled the door shut behind him, Harry flicked his fingers at the door, casting a set of protection charms that would keep any sane individual out.
And when one is visiting a controversial strip club for gay men, the chances of a stress-free journey are unlikely. To Harry's surprise, it just so happened to be a remarkably stress-free journey, save the stress he was causing himself by anticipating a commotion over the media's discovery of his homosexuality. He had never tried to conceal it, but he also didn't broadcast it either. But being seen outside the club would leave no doubt it anyone's mind that The Chosen One happened to prefer men. Harry rushed inside the building, trying his best to go unnoticed.
The room he found himself in was fairly stylish. Through a crowd of men and women about his age, he saw in the center of the room a massive bar, composed of four bars wrapping around shelves of alcohols from all across the world. Bar stools lined the bars on each side. On the far side of the room from Harry was a stage, clearly designed so that the maximum number of customers could get a good view of the show. The stage had a section in the center that extended forward across the floor. The man currently on the stage was younger than Harry, probably enough so to only barely be legal. Overstuffed chairs surrounded the stage, and most of them were already occupied with guests watching the young man gyrate around the stage.
Harry walked over to the bar and waited for the bar tender to approach him. When the older man's gaze caught Harry's, Harry glanced down at the bar. "Gin and tonic, please," he said only loud enough for the man to hear him over the music playing over the club's PA. Harry pulled out the bar stool he was standing closest to and sat on it. Despite Harry's previous certainty that the bar stool couldn't possibly be as uncomfortable as it looked, the bar stool was, in fact, as uncomfortable as it looked. Harry grimaced at nothing in particular as he waited for the bartender to prepare his drink. Harry had nearly convinced himself to leave because this idea was stupid, but the bartender returned just as Harry was about to stand to bolt out the door. "That'll be 5 sickles and a knut," the man shouted over the music.
Harry took a deep breath through his nose and sighed as reached into his pocket, tossed the money on the bar as he grabbed his drink, and walked away toward the stage. There were four chairs left unoccupied, only one of which that didn't have someone sitting on either side of it. Harry made his way toward that particular chair. The young man on the stage was shimmering from the thin layer of sweat covering his body. He continued to dance for a few more minutes before the music shut off and he began jogging around the stage to collect the clothes he had shed throughout his routine. The volume of the music on the PA dropped as a voice began, "I hope you enjoyed the show. Coming on stage next is the crowd favorite: Hawthorne Grey." The voice clicked off and the music crescendoed back to its previous volume.
As the bass line of the next song began thudding from the speakers, a man began making his way onto the stage. He was wearing a white, button-down shirt and a pair of skin tight leather pants that didn't leave much to the imagination. Every movement of his body was synchronized to the rhythm of the music; his body exuded so much power: the movements sudden and strong and yet so remarkably sensual. As the man rolled his torso in time to the thudding music and let the motion continue down to his pelvis, he began working his shirt off. His torso was gorgeous; it wasn't the perfectly chiseled six-pack like the young man had had. The blonde man on stage was very slim, yet it was evident that he was pure, lean muscle. As his body flowed and swayed in time to the music, Harry watched Hawthorne's muscles flex and tease over themselves. A sheen of sweat began building on the dancer's body. The man was remarkably talented, that much was for certain. Harry sipped at his drink as he watched this so-called Hawthorne continue his routine. The music grew louder, the melody of the song picking up intensity and complexity evidently cueing Hawthorne to drop down onto all fours.
The energy of the song continued to build, the music getting louder and Hawthorne's movements becoming more exaggerated. Harry crossed his leg over his lap in an attempt to keep the effects of Hawthorne's gyrations from being evident. Suddenly, with a loud crack, it seemed as though the PA had messed up. The music stopped playing and the only noise came from the buzz of the crowd. Hawthorne froze in his position, his body leaning back at an odd angle causing Harry's eyes to travel down the lines and angles of his body, past his nipples and belly button, down the faint v-cut, straight to the bulge that seemed to be pointed right at Harry. Just as suddenly as the music stopped, it started back up again with just as much ferocity. Hawthorne practically slid out of his pants in a way that seemed to defy all physical possibilities, kicking his pants off the stage in Harry's direction, and continued his routine.
Harry definitely approved of Hawthorne's choice to wear a grey jockstrap. Hawthorne continued his routine, spreading his knees apart, his torso and hips sliding closer to the stage as the muscles in his legs bulged in a manner that Harry could only describe as gracefully humping the stage. But Harry swore on Merlin's name that he had never seen a man move in such enticing ways. The routine only lasted for a couple of minutes, but Harry felt like it lasted for hours. Every movement Hawthorne made was so complex, his entire body rolling in a manner that made Harry's mind fuzzy in ways that nearly felt magical.
When the routine ended, Hawthorne ran around trying to collect his clothes. His eyebrows furrowed together as he looked around the stage. Harry, assuming Grey was looking for his pants, pointed in front of him where the leather pants had fallen. Hawthorne nodded and Harry could have sworn he saw something in those grey eyes that looked painfully familiar, something that reminded him of a boy with grey eyes he cared about back in his days at Hogwarts. And if he remembered correctly, that very boy with grey eyes happened to have a wand made from hawthorn wood. Harry couldn't help but gasp when the pieces completely fell into place.
The announcer introduced another dancer to the stage, but Harry couldn't force himself to pay attention. He was still caught up in trying to decide if he was drawing too many conclusions—too desperate for something more that he couldn't see past his fantasies into reality—or if he was right. Harry noticed one of the velvet curtains flanking the stage rippling. As he glanced up, he saw Hawthorne walking toward him. Those grey eyes; the blonde hair; that bloody smirk. There's no way he's working at a place like this, but…it has to be him. As Hawthorne approached, Harry's heart began to beat faster and it felt as if the collar of his robes were growing smaller.
"Hey," Hawthorne shouted over the pounding music, "Thanks for letting me know where these were instead of stealing them like most of the creeps around here would!"
Harry tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Uh, thanks. I mean—no. Uh, you're welcome?" Harry shook his head and chuffed quietly. When he looked back up, Hawthorne was staring at him like he was an idiot. Or perhaps a madman. "Sorry, I was wondering if maybe…Is your name Draco?"
Hawthorne's eyelids drew apart and his eyebrows drew closer together. He began to back away and quickly shouted, "N-no. I don't see what it matters what my name is."
Harry quickly threw his hand out, wrapping his fingers around Hawthorne's wrist. "Please, I think you might be someone that I used to be…acquainted with."
Hawthorne shook his head as a look of concern crept over his face. "Look, I don't know who you are but I think you should leave." He tried to tug his arm away from Harry's grab, and Harry loosened his fingers, allowing the force to successfully recreate space between the two. Hawthorne began to back up, refusing to look away from Harry as if he was some predator.
"Wait, just…If you're who I think you are, I'd love to talk somewhere else." Harry felt like his ribs were collapsing into his chest, suffocating him with each additional breath. The music was still blaring across the PA system, but Harry no longer took notice.
Hawthorne shook his head again. "If I don't know your name, why should you have the right to mine?"
Harry's hands were shaking, but he quickly brought his hand up to his bangs and pulled them aside. As he revealed his scar, he saw something flash through Hawthorne's eyes, some emotion that he couldn't quite read.
"Potter, I'm sure you'd love to gloat about my demise to some low-class stripper, but I haven't the time for that." Harry knew almost certainly at that point that he was indeed talking to Draco Malfoy. The very way that Hawthorne turned so gracefully to walk off was practically a trademark of Draco's.
"Wait!" Harry shouted as he pushed himself out of the chair. Draco continued to walk toward the curtain and only stopped when Harry grabbed his wrist again.
"What? What could you possibly want, Potter?" Draco's face was flushed, his hands balled into fists. He pulled his arm away from Harry and crossed them over his chest. His chin jutted out defiantly, as if Harry had done something to piss him off. On second thought, grabbing his arms so many times was probably one of my worse ideas.
"I, uh—" Harry ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, not quite able to force himself to look Draco in the eyes.
"Want to brag about defeating the Dark Lord? Maybe tell me how much money you're getting now as the world-renowned Auror Potter? Perhaps remind me that I'm just scraping by on a few knuts a day? And I swear to Merlin, if you laugh at that choice of words, no power in the world will stop me from slaughtering you." Harry finally met Draco's gaze, only to find burning fury directed straight at him.
Harry felt like a piece of shit, considering he left Draco with the impression that everything he just suggested was in his nature. Massaging his fingers on the nape of his own neck, Harry tried to offer up the most legitimate, friendly smile he could and sheepishly said, "Actually, I just wanted to tell you that you were incredible up there."
Draco's mouth curled downward into a sort of frown as his hand worked its way to the back of his head. "Uh, thanks," he said just barely loud enough to be heard over the music.
Harry offered up his best smile, though he felt like it was just an awkward, toothy monstrosity. "So would you maybe be up to fetching a drink elsewhere when you're done tonight?"
Harry could see something that resembled doubt in Draco's eyes, but after a short pause, Draco nodded. "Yeah, sure. Why not. I get out of here in two hours. I'll meet you by the central bar." With that, Draco walked back toward the velvet curtain and Harry may or may not have watched the way the muscles in his legs flexed so enticingly as he walked away.
DRACO PRACTICALLY ran to the first dressing room he could find open. He always felt disgusting after a show. It never helped when someone he knew was out there, especially when that someone happened to be Potter. Why did that bugger have to show up?
Surely Potter had someone back wherever he called "home" who was waiting him. Potter might have been awful when they were children, but there's no way he would cheat on someone. Draco ran his fingers through his bangs as he inspected his reflection in the mirror. Surely Potter wasn't single; who in their right mind wouldn't want to be with Potter? Except, maybe those of us whose lives were made a living Hell by the bastard, Draco reminded himself begrudgingly. Draco pulled his fingers through his hair—it had gotten way too shaggy compared to how he usually liked it. He could nearly pull it up into a hair tie at this point. He decided that he would definitely get it cut next time he had the opportunity.
Draco walked over to the corner where he had left his age-worn backpack and pulled a set of clean clothes out. He yanked the jock strap off, feeling disgusting—if not from the sweat, then from the memories associated with the embarrassing piece of clothing—as he tossed it into the front pocket on his backpack.
Draco tossed the bag over his shoulder and went toward the back rooms, where he knew one of his best paying clients would be waiting. He had no idea who the client was, but they showed up every week at the same time and they tipped well. After Draco found the correct door in the poorly-illuminated hallway, he pushed it open. The first room was nothing special: a small, square space for the workers to store their belongings as they "performed" for the guest. The second room always bothered Draco. Three of the walls were lined with charmed windows that served as mirrors on the performer's side, but he knew the clients sitting on the other side could see him perfectly fine, if the tips were anything to go by. Draco took a deep breath in through his nose before he pushed the door open to enter what felt like a mirrored cage.
He knew some people enjoyed performing like this, but he hated it. It made him feel dirty and used. Maybe he'd enjoy it if he felt less like a caged animal. He went through the motions of stripping his clothes off, trying to look as sensual as possible to secure his tips. The man—if the grunts Draco occasionally heard and the hands that sometimes slipped money through the slot at the bottom corner of the front mirror were anything to go by—definitely enjoyed Draco's performance. Draco hated it—every second of it was just a reminder of how far he had fallen because of his father's stupid desire for power. He finished the routine almost half an hour later; he pulled his clothes back out into the tiny square room and pulled them back on. Only three more routines and then he'd be done for the night. Three more perverts watching him take his clothes off and pretend to be horny before he'd be able to collapse into bed for the night.
No, I have to talk to Potter first. Draco let out a sigh, wishing he had never agreed to stay out later than necessary, especially with someone like Potter.
NONE OF the other acts caught Harry's attention in quite the way that Draco's had. On the plus side, they all served as a decent way to pass the time before Draco was finished with whatever else he was being paid to do. But after Draco's performance, Harry found the cracks in the leather of the chairs to be more interesting than most of the guys who came across the stage. Not that they weren't talented in their own ways; one of the performers was flexible enough to stand on his hands and manage to bend his back so he could touch his head with his butt, which was certainly impressive in its own unique way. But even the theatrics failed to catch Harry's attention as well as the large clock hanging above the central bar.
Twenty minutes shy of one o'clock, Harry stood and began making his way toward bar. He ordered another round of gin and tonic, tossing the coins on the counter as soon as he ordered. Harry began drinking it as soon as the glass hit his hand, hoping it would somehow manage to calm his nerves. He knew that Draco had only agreed to talk, but that was something, right? After all, Draco had agreed even after Harry watched his…performance. Hell, if Draco had been the one ogling at Harry's ass in a jockstrap, he probably would be too bloody embarrassed to even look at Draco again. Harry's focus snapped back to reality as he felt his own face growing warm, though he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or the alcohol that was causing him to blush. Probably a mixture of the two, he decided as he took one final gulp of the drink before setting the glass down on the bar.
When he looked back up, he saw Draco heading his way. He looked very different from before, but still just as incredible. His shoulders were broader than Harry remembered, but his body tapered down to his waist, where long, graceful legs began. Draco was still wearing a white, button-down shirt, but the leather pants had been replaced with a pair of close-fitting denim jeans. Without realizing what he was doing, Harry licked his lips as he pushed himself up off the barstool.
As Draco pulled a light leather jacket over his arms, he nodded at Harry, though his face showed how little he still trusted Harry's intentions. Even if Harry hadn't had spent years reading body language as an auror, that much would have been obvious.
"So do you have anywhere in mind?" Harry asked as he closed the gap between himself and Draco.
Draco simply shrugged. "It's your game; surprise me."
Draco's response was practically dripping with venom, but Harry simply tried to smile in return. "Does tea sound good? I know a place just down the street if you do like tea."
Draco's face lit up a bit as he huffed out air through his nose. "Yes, Potter. I do enjoy tea. I haven't become a complete barbarian."
"I wasn't trying to imply that you—" Harry stopped talking as Draco threw a pretty scalding look his way. "Yeah, sorry. Ignore that," Harry offered as he turned to walk toward the main exit. Harry had no idea if Draco would follow him or not. At this point, he'd be content enough regardless of Draco's choice, though he'd certainly prefer him to be following. To Harry's mild surprise, Draco was only a couple of steps behind him when he turned around to check. Harry would never admit it, but he did feel a light weight lift off his chest when he realized Draco was following him.
When the two got to the door, Harry pushed it open and turned right, walking briskly toward Tillman's. The two walked in tense silence as thick as the cold air surrounding them toward the little café. To Harry's dismay, the lights were already out and the door was locked. Draco stood behind Harry, laughing quietly. "Well, congratulations on not realizing it would be closed by this time."
Harry felt the blood running to his face as he pulled his robes tighter around him to keep the chilly night air away. "Forgive me, I was a little distracted by pounding music and a certain Malfoy who was acting like he'd rather see me dead than alive."
"Oh, and which one would that be?"
Harry looked back at Draco, not sure of how to interpret his change in tone. It was lighter, perhaps still slightly offensive or aggressive, but definitely light-hearted compared to his earlier tone. If the smirk on his face was anything to go by, Draco was less upset at Harry than he had been back at The Wizards' Wands. Instead of continuing the jesting, Harry tried to focus on an alternative. "To be honest, I don't know if anywhere else worthwhile would be open." He paused, unsure of whether he should make the offer he was considering or not. "Or, uh…we could always go back to my place and I could make us tea? It's just around the corner from here."
Draco's smile dropped, his entire expression changing to something Harry couldn't quite read. "And what would I have to gain from going to Auror Potter's house?"
Harry shrugged, not really sure how to respond to that. "A warm cuppa and an opportunity to catch up with an old friend?"
"Is that really what you would call us? 'Friends'? I wouldn't have thought, considering the number of times you threatened me."
Harry dropped his eyes to his own shoes and rubbed his fingers along the tip of his wand that was still tucked up his sleeve. "Well, maybe I'm a different person from then? Maybe I was just a scared boy who needed someone to call an enemy who wasn't one of the most powerful, feared wizards alive? Maybe I'm sorry for everything I did wrong to you and would like to be friends?" Harry couldn't bring himself to look back up at Draco, and after what felt like hours of silence—but was surely mere seconds—Harry shook his head. He began to walk toward his home, offering his apologies, "I'm sorry, I'll just—" He stopped talking as warm fingers wrapped around his arm.
"Potter, I'm…I think I would like that."
Harry still stared at the road beneath him. "Like what?"
"To try out that whole 'friends' thing?" Harry practically heard the offered smile in those words. When he looked up, he saw Draco staring intently at him. His mouth was curved upwards into the slightest smile. The hand that wasn't holding Harry's arm was tucked into his jacket pocket.
Harry swallowed, his hands tightening into nervous fists. "Yeah," he said as he ducked his head. "Yeah, that sounds good." He felt like he should do something more—like the moment that he and Draco finally managed to put aside their differences and try to become friends should be marked by something greater than a simple nod exchanged in a dark street. But he ignored that urge and simply began walking toward his house. Draco pulled his own hand back away from Harry's arm, but he followed closely behind Harry.
Harry flicked his fingers toward his front door, dropping the protection charms he had cast earlier in the night. He wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of the door knob, but hesitated before pushing it open. Without realizing it, he pulled his lower lip between his teeth and was worrying it into an angry red as he glanced at the ground back behind his shoulder just in front of Draco's feet. "I'm sure this won't meet your standards, but uh, it's home." Harry let out a quiet puff of air, watched the vapor form a light fog in front of his face, and then pushed the door open. The scent of old wooden floors drifted across the back of Harry's senses, but he was so used to the scent after years of living in the house that he didn't pay any mind to it. He turned his head and motioned toward the door, causing it to swing shut behind Draco.
"Oh, Auror Potter knows wandless, silent magic, does he?" Draco was probably the only person in this hemisphere to manage to make it sound like wandless, silent spells were child's play. Regardless, there was still an air of jest to his tone, one that Harry probably would have mistaken for arrogance back when the two still ran around the halls of Hogwarts.
Harry turned back around and began walking toward the kitchen. "Well, it certainly does give me an advantage when I'm working." Harry paused to take a breath in before quickly adding, "Take your shoes off if you want, or not. I don't mind either way."
Draco didn't respond, but Harry heard a set of quiet thuds. Draco followed up behind him, jogging to close the distance between the two in the hallway. Harry half-turned to look at Draco as he approached, but as Draco tried to stop, his socks proved to be a challenge and he kept sliding. Harry, not sure of what else to do with Draco approaching, simply spread out his arms so that their bodies would collide and keep Draco from running into a wall or falling. Draco slammed into Harry much harder than expected, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. Harry chuckled, but Draco's face was blood red and he looked mortified.
"Oh come on, Draco. Even you aren't too prim and proper to slide in your socks sometimes," Harry jested as he turned the corner into his kitchen.
Draco chortled behind him as Harry heard what sounded like Draco pulling out one of the chairs to sit on. "You'd be surprised, Potter, to see just how far I've fallen from back in the days when we hated each other."
As Harry went about putting the tea on, he continued to worry his lower lip between his teeth. "Did we ever hate each other?"
"Don't try to play that game. Merlin be damned if you don't acknowledge the fact that we used to hate the very sight of each other."
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I like to think of what we had as maybe a healthy rivalry?"
Draco laughed in a way that could only be described as patronizing. "Potter, you accused me of more offenses than Dumbledore and Snape combined."
Harry's fingers wrapped around a bit of loose hair near the nape of his own neck. "Well, in my defense, Snape never punished you for breaking the rules unless another professor was around."
"I'll give you that. Regardless, you know that if you were talking to Ron or Hermione back in those days, you would have said you hated me."
Harry massaged his fingers in small circles on the back of his neck. "Maybe." He slowly worked his eyes up to meet Draco's gaze. "But that was also a long time ago. I know I did wrong by you, and I'm sorry for that."
Draco chuffed as he shook his head. "Potter, you have no idea how much you've affected me, do you?"
The kettle began to whistle, distracting Harry from the immediate conversation. He pushed his chair back and offered a quick, "Pardon me." Harry handed Draco one of the cups of tea as he approached the table again. Draco had sat in silence since he last spoke. "So you say I've affected you a lot." Draco nodded. "Care to explain?"
Draco laughed sardonically. This was clearly a sore subject for him. "Where should I even begin? I mean, I know you never tried to harm me—after Voldemort's fall, at least—but you still affected me indirectly. My father, foolish as he was, caused the Malfoy name to be destroyed: the power of our family name crumbled with Voldemort's power. Of course, I have my father to blame more for that than you, but you still played a role." Draco paused, his fingers running furious circles around the edge of his cup. Harry had no idea what he should say, so he sat in silence staring dolefully at Draco.
Draco took a harsh breath in through his nose before continuing. Harry noticed the skin around Draco's eyes growing redder, his eyes glossier, but Harry had no idea what he could do to assuage Draco's pain. "Since then, it has been hard. My father squandered what money we had left in his crazy, desultory attempts at reacquiring even the faintest drop of power. Mother did her best to support him, but in the end, we both left him to rot in his own madness—as if we could do any differently." Draco's eyes grew glossier and glossier by the second, and Harry knew tears were imminent. He had no idea what he should do, and instinctually pushed his chair back, walked behind Draco and offered his hand. Draco's eyebrows furrowed together and his head cocked slightly to the side as he looked at it, but Harry simply gestured forward some more, hinting at Draco to take it.
When he did, Harry pulled him up and wrapped his arms around him. Initially Draco stood stock still, his free arm plastered along his side, but he quickly gave in to the hug, wrapping his arms around Harry's back. Draco let his chin fall down to rest onto Harry's shoulder. Harry heard Draco sniffling in an attempt to fight off the tears. It was a failed attempt, if the slight dampness pooling on Harry's shoulder was any indication. Harry ran his hand up and down Draco's back, hoping the gesture would serve as some form of comfort. "Hey, I'm sorry. Let's just put off that tea, okay? Come on; let's go to the sitting room."
Draco nodded his head just enough for Harry to notice the motion before he guided Draco by his hand to the sitting room where a large couch was waiting for them. Harry sat on the left side of the couch, and Draco quickly chose to sit on the opposite end. As he sat, Draco continued, his voice shakier and slightly quieter than it had been before. "My mother died in what the press called an 'accident' just two years ago. I'm sure you remember it; it was the so-called 'case of the decade': 'Ex-Death Eater Meets Death Early'." Draco practically spat out the headline as he glared downward toward his feet at nothing in particular.
Harry nodded, trying to piece together the proper thing to say. "Yeah, I remember that. They wouldn't let me work that case, even though I had asked. They said it would be a conflict of interest."
Draco cast a questioning look toward Harry. "And why would you want to be involved?"
If Draco had intended his question to sound so accusative, Harry ignored it. "Maybe I realized how stupid I had been back at Hogwarts and wanted to somehow get on better terms? Maybe I realized we were both just scared, confused boys who happened to be the most important pawns on opposite sides of the same war? I didn't have a sudden realization tonight that I had messed up; it's been bothering me for years now."
Draco's eyes squinted slightly as if he was searching Harry's body language for something more, something to confirm what Harry had just admitted. Or maybe he's looking to see if I was lying, Harry thought. After a few seconds of heavy silence, Draco nodded slowly, his gaze falling back to the space between his feet. "I don't suppose you're supposed to talk about cases with low-life pedestrians, are you?"
Harry shrugged. "Hypothetically speaking, if I felt like the aurors who worked the case had personal biases, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you. I also wouldn't be allowed to tell you that I agree with you that most of the evidence pointed toward your mother being murdered."
The look Harry got from Draco was hard to describe, but it resembled something like sorrowful thanks. As Draco's eyes drifted away from Harry's face, Draco's fingers worked their way up to the jacket he still had on.
"I know you probably don't think it means much, but I truly am sorry. Your mother really was a wonderful woman. At the end of the day, she really only cared about you. I wish there was something I could do to get her justice."
Draco scoffed as he shook his head. "Thanks, but justice won't do anything at this point besides maybe getting the family name in the papers one last time."
Harry lifted his hand, but stopped when he realized that rubbing Draco's leg might be going too far too soon for something as simple as showing sympathy. He simply settled for nodding, unsure of what else would be considered appropriate. The two sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, the mood in the room practically bearing down on their shoulders. Harry watched Draco's face throughout the silence, noticing the way his face managed to show so much when he wasn't trying to mask his emotions. After watching Draco chuff and then shake his head a few times, Harry tried to shift the discussion to a lighter topic. "So, uh, The Wizards' Wands: how'd you find yourself working at a place like that?"
Draco shook his head, a look of disgust coming across his face. "I went to Gringotts one day and removed the last ten sickles to my family's name. I knew I had to do something, and that excuse of a business was the only place left to get a job."
Harry felt himself blushing, feeling embarrassed that he met Draco somewhere he evidently didn't hold in high esteems. "Well, I thought you did really well on stage."
Draco scoffed, this time throwing Harry a look that almost looked like pity. "The last person who told me that was some old man whose age hasn't had two digits for nearly a century. So tell me Potter, what brought you to that fine establishment?" The last two words were practically dripping with sarcasm.
Harry shrugged. "Maybe my wand needed some attention?" He couldn't help but grin at the terrible play on words.
Draco smirked, "Potter, that innuendo is atrocious enough on the neon signs. Please don't perpetuate it in our mature discussion about your lack of a sex life."
Harry definitely blushed this time, not sure quite how to respond. He opened his mouth in an attempt to dignify the insult with a response, but only managed to work out a few noises that failed to actually resemble any words Harry—or any living creature, for that matter—knew. Draco pushed himself up off the couch and smiled down at Harry. "It's getting late and I have to work tomorrow night; I really should head out. It was nice talking to you." Draco walked toward the front door as Harry remained stunned on the couch. Draco might as well have just charmed Harry with stupefy. To be sure he hadn't, Harry clenched his fingers into fists and relaxed them.
Harry slowly pushed himself up onto his feet and walked toward the kitchen. He poured Draco's mostly-untouched tea down the sink and took his own into the sitting room. He stared out the window, watching tiny snowflakes begin to dust the streets a soft white.
DRACO SHOVED his hands in his pockets as his body convulsed from a cold chill. The night air was far colder than he remembered it being when he was walking with Potter; the snow drifting down around him only made the cold seem more severe. Draco was struggling to figure out what exactly was going on between the two of them. The camaraderie was extremely unexpected, but Draco couldn't really say he disliked it; in fact, it was kind of nice. He hadn't really had anyone he could go to with anything since his mother died, and breaking down in Potter's kitchen wasn't even half as embarrassing as it should have been. It actually felt nice, Draco thought as he turned the corner in the hallway. He found the door to his apartment and pulled his wand out to unlock it.
He walked in and pushed the door closed behind him, trying his best to ignore the scent of mildew and dust that flooded his nose. He had spent weeks trying to convince himself it was simply what old buildings smelled like, but after being in Harry's house and smelling the warmth of the age-worn wood, he couldn't convince himself anymore. Something about the scent of Harry's home had simply smelled like a home; this…this smelled like an old dump someone had died in and forgotten. "Fitting place for someone like me," Draco whispered into the stale air. He locked his door, threw his backpack on the ground, and then walked through the main room to get to the shower.
If he collapsed into a ball beneath the pounding water that had only been warm for the first five minutes of the shower, no one would know. They also wouldn't know that he stayed curled up under the frigid water for another half-hour doing his best not to cry. He eventually climbed out and toweled off. He made his way to the ratty couch against the wall in the main room of his apartment and pulled a scratchy cover over him, doing his best to make himself comfortable on his temporary bed.