I'm in the midst of writing a sequel to 'Under his Hands', but thought I'd type a small, unobtrusive little window of a ficlet out to keep my wordflow going and stop me from getting bogged down - I think when you're writing quite a long fic, sometimes you have so much plot to get down that trying to make it all perfect becomes almost an insane task, and makes you edit until you're sick, so writing a little unrelated fic helps to ease the tension!

This is a Harry-centric fic, who is Draco-centric for most of it. It takes place when Harry is thirty-six, as he sees Draco sitting in his favourite teashop. It's an observational piece I suppose, and non-slash - it is compliant with the DH epilogue and canon characters. I know someone will ask me about the brief comment made by James at the end - if you think that by this time, James is about to finish Hogwarts, he must be thinking about a career. I like the idea that Harry (or Ginny) never got signed by a quidditch team, but that James is being snapped up after graduation - this is implied-ish but not gospel so imagine whatever you like! I have a relaxed image of Draco here - it stands to reason, I think, after all, he's enjoying an afternoon tea, and is unaware of being observed...

Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Disclaimer - I do not own any of these characters. Tinkler's Teas is owned by an elderly couple who moved to Diagon Alley for the razzle-dazzle of London, and then realised they were a bit too old for it. :-P

Window Seat

A vignette by skinnyrita

Harry Potter was a fan of anonymity whenever and wherever he could achieve it. Aged thirty-six, he was resigned to autograph hunters, paparazzi hiding under tablecloths, impromptu interview seekers, and hordes of rampaging tourists. A glamour or even the occasional swig of polyjuice could assure his obscurity for the crowded atmosphere of a supermarket or a quidditch game, but it was as himself and under no other embellishments that freedom was really bought.

Nestled in the back of Tinkler's Teas, set back into an alcove of Diagon Alley, he had found an unexpected pocket of anonymity on the top floor, right under the noses of busy shoppers. Harry leant back luxuriously in his armchair, cup aloft as he observed the comings and goings of the other clientele of the unobtrusive little café. A pair of young parents were doing admirably well with their infants, squirming in their matching high chairs as they were fed pieces of Victoria sponge in manageable chunks.

A nostalgic grin stole over his features as he watched them for a while; remembering the first time he and Ginny had ventured out in public with James, their eldest son, back when he was their only child. He had been so naughty, the contents of the sandwiches they were munching on flying in all directions, that Ginny has been at her wit's end by the time they gave up and left, and Harry himself had been too flustered by a coach load of Beauxbatons students after photos and autographs, he'd hardly been any help at all. More of a hindrance, to be exact, although later on they'd seen the funny side.

Across from the young family, a pair of gnarled old warlocks were engrossed in a complicated game that seemed to cross chess with gobstones, the overcome pieces trembling pitifully on the sidelines. They were overlooked by one of the waitresses, arranging brightly coloured and oddly shaped teapots on the side of the counter – every so often, she leant over to give them advice… the other patrons, wizened witches with their knitting, a crowded table of raucous young men he'd put at Teddy's age at a guess, and a girl stuffed into a corner (much as Harry himself was), her nose stuck to her book as her teaspoon stirred idly.

Far over the other side of the teashop was the window seat, perhaps Harry's favourite nook of the entire place, where one could look right down into the Alley, though of course he'd never been able to sit there himself without a disguise. The lucky inhabitant of the seat could stare straight down among the shops and the milling crowds, all the way from Gringotts Bank down to Fortescue's ice cream parlour and the archway that led into the rear courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry let his eye linger on the lucky inhabitant of that coveted spot.

He'd put the man at a similar age to himself, he supposed, maybe a little older, as the white-blond hair was beginning to recede slightly at the temple. Just as the thought entered his head, the man turned from his perusal of the street below and reached over to pour out some of his own tea, from a rather bizarre looking teapot in the shape of a purple cat. Harry sank back a little against his chair in recognition. 'Draco Malfoy!' his mind exclaimed. He had not seen Malfoy for some time, generally catching a glimpse of him whilst dropping off or picking up Lily and Albus at the station for Hogwarts.

Curiously, he continued his watch, hoping that Malfoy wouldn't feel his glances, yet unable to stop himself from observing him as he finished pouring his cup, picked up the sugar tongs and selected a small lump, before adding a dash of the milk and stirring the tea clockwise like a proper English gentleman. Harry observed him from head to toe, unable to counteract his own inquisitiveness.

Firstly, it surprised him that Malfoy himself could sit in the hallowed window seat without being mobbed – the stealthy blond had bought out the umbrella company '(In)Quisitive Quills' several years ago, who owned both the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly amongst other wizarding publications, and as a result, the columnists who still insisted on badmouthing and deriding the Malfoy name many years down the line from the fall of Voldemort, had suddenly and immediately silenced, never to issue another word about Draco Malfoy ever again. Strangely enough, a good deal less tabloid tripe had been published about Harry Potter too, but surely that was simply a coincidence of sacking certain writers. As a result of this, and of his numerous works alongside charities and societies, Draco Malfoy, aristocratic stock of wizarding high society, was almost as famous these days as Harry.

Malfoy took a long sip from his cup, and replaced it on the saucer, shaking his hair away from his face as he turned to survey the street once more. Harry turned his attention to the blonde's aging process. He looked to be in surprisingly good shape for a man who apparently worked behind a desk. He was almost as lean as Harry remembered, and surprisingly long-legged, dressed in fashionable short day-robes akin to a tunic, with neatly tailored trousers in a dark bluish colour. They fell in soft folds to where his legs crossed at the ankle. Shrugging his shoulders to ease the tension in his pose, he returned his attention to the table and began to carefully slice a small cucumber sandwich in half with the edge of his fork, allowing Harry to scrutinise his face.

Malfoy was aging rather well, and it was probably genetic, which irked Harry. His face had filled out in a pleasant manner, counteracting the hair loss, and he had few deep lines on his forehead for a man of his age. The only noticeable wrinkle was a vertical line just off-centre between his eyebrows, but even this merely lent him a further air of distinction. The bell by the door caught his attention and the sharp grey eyes Harry remembered (glaring at him in hatred) from school flicked to the source immediately. A younger, stylishly dressed woman entered, and embraced Malfoy who had risen. She joined him on the window seat and pinched one of his sandwiches – it was surprisingly playful, though Harry supposed that all men liked to be playful with their wives. He racked his brain for her name and came up triumphant with Astoria.

Harry returned to his tea, a pensive smile on his face. Seeing Malfoy, albeit on the coveted window seat, and in Harry's special haven of public solitude, had left a curiously content feeling of satisfaction behind. It was both pleasant and a little surprising to see the other man in such a normal, carefree setting. He glanced at the couple a few times between his tea and the Daily Prophet Caustically Cryptic Crossword. The last time he ventured a glance was at the sound of a further tinkle of the bell – only to see Malfoy's back retreating from the teashop. A few moments later, it chimed again, and hearing a pair of laughs so familiar to him they might as well have been photographic, he looked up to see Ginny picking her way around the tables, James in tow.

"Harry, I have seen the most amazing broom-guard in the history of broom-guards!" his wife declared, happily, kissing him soundly on the cheek and swiping half a scone. "James is being horrible to me, he won't look at it properly, but I think it would be perfect for next season, and you can order it in a team strip."

"I already told her that the team bulk-buy their own, but she won't listen…" James grumbled good-naturedly, sharing a weary look with his dad. Harry quirked a grin, and settled into their squabble.

He may have relinquished his illusionary rights to the window seat to Malfoy, but the outlook was still pretty good from where he was sitting.

End.

Please review, it's lovely of you! skinnyrita xxx