Loud hollering filled the air in the dingy pub. Its grimy interior was reflected in its equally grimy patrons. The place reeked of the strong stench of cheap alcohol. Gamblers roared loudly somewhere at the back of the pub, the crowd congratulating the winners and holding back the angry losers. Drunken shouting joined the chaos, yet none of the other patrons paid them more attention than necessary. It was a common occurrence in this crude place.
It was exactly in a place like this where an expensive suit would stick out like a sore thumb.
At the bar sat a young blond man dressed in what appeared to be his finest. His crisp pitch-black suit was perfectly ironed, not a crease out of place. His black dress shoes were shiny and looked like they cost more than the entire pub put together. His platinum blond hair was parted neatly and slicked back. In his pale slender hands, he carried a long cane as black and polished as his suit, its handle was a small knob of silver, intricately branded with a coat of arms no one in the pub could recognise.
The patrons sneered at him from their seats, some snickered with their buddies, a few rowdy ones loudly jeered for "rich boy to tip-toe back to his bank". The blond man paid them no mind, slowly nursing his untouched glass of scotch. The bartender snorted at him, contempt clear in his dry smirk.
"Yer gonna sit there all day?" the bartender sneered at the young man, putting down the glass he had been cleaning. The young man hadn't moved since he sat there over half an hour ago and he was taking up space at the bar needlessly. Besides, he wasn't in a mood to deal with spoilt rich brats.
The young man looked up from his scotch, meeting the bartender's eyes steadily with piercing grey ones.
"If I have to." Draco Malfoy supplied the oversized bartender with an equally condescending tone. He tapped his cane with his finger impatiently. Potter's going to pay for this. He growled internally and mentally ripped the smug grin off that smug face of an imaginary Potter.
He didn't understand why Potter would want to have a meeting in this godforsaken place. He understood the need for a secure location given his status as an Unspeakable, but couldn't the Head Auror have picked somewhere more civilized? This pub was filled with literally filthy muggles and the grime of humanity. It just made Draco's skin crawl at the mere thought of being in such a place.
And to make matters even worse, Potter was late. Terribly late.
It didn't matter that Potter technically ranked higher than him, the Boy Who Lived would soon become the Boy Who Died By The Bare Hands Of Draco Malfoy.
Draco was once again lost in his own murderous thoughts as he continued his fruitless wait. The bartender rolled his eyes at him but didn't comment further.
"And you," The bartender turned to the patron beside Draco. "Yer gonna hav'ta pay fer that."
The patron beside Draco was just like the rest, unkempt. His rumpled grey hoodie shielded his identity from Draco, who barely spared him a glance. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw the patron pat down his pockets, obviously coming up empty. A soft noise that sounded like a groan came from beneath the hoodie, Draco rolled his eyes. He really didn't get these people, wasting their already meagre money on a fleeting bliss like alcohol and drugs.
Draco heard the metallic thud of something heavy colliding with the tabletop. The rusted bar stool scraped noisily against the unpolished wooden floor with more force than necessary, its hooded occupant already briskly headed towards the exit.
"What the hell! Yer hav'ta pay in dollars!" The bartender yelled angrily after the man who was already gone. Out of habitual curiosity, Draco's disinterested gaze landed on the source of the bartender's confusion.
The innocent gold coin rested on the tabletop, its polished surface glowing even in the weak lighting of the pub. The noise of the pub faded away, Draco didn't even notice he was running until he was out in the cold streets of London's boroughs.
He would recognize that gold coin anywhere. The coin's image was branded into the back of his eyelids, haunting him every time he closed his eyes. How many years of frustration had he spent glaring at the piece of gold, studying each and every dent on its surface, recalling every piece of rapidly fading memories the coin represented.
To solve the mystery of the coin had been his never-ending obsession. Even the choice of heading the Department of Mysteries was heavily influenced by this obsession.
Draco's wide eyes searched the dark streets with an almost crazed urgency. His breaths came out short and rushed, the weight of years of frustration was tightening around his lungs. He was so close to his answers, he couldn't give up now, no, he would never forgive himself if he were to let this chance of getting answers slip away.
He ground his teeth and cursed himself for not noticing the man earlier; he had sat beside the man all night, goddammit!
Then Draco saw it. That grey hoodie.
The man was almost at the bend. If he turned he would rejoin the crowd, lost in the throngs of people forever. He started running again, his muscles burning from the exertion. The pristine suit was now messy and rumpled but for once in his life Draco couldn't care less about it.
"Hey!" Draco's mouth opened without his permission, his voice surprisingly loud for his shallow breaths. The hooded man didn't stop. Draco ran faster, his frantic heart thundering in his ears. The distance between them shortened.
Hundred feet, fifty, twenty, ten, five…
"HEY!" Draco reached to grab onto the hoodie, the desperation in his voice was clear as day. He couldn't let the man disappear, not again.
Draco didn't manage to reach the hoodie. Before his fingers could come into contact with the faded fabric, his arm was roughly gripped in a familiar tight hold. In an all too familiar motion, Draco found himself thrown over the man's shoulder, landing on the cement pavement painfully with a resounding thud.
Draco didn't stop the pained moan that escaped his lips, his features scrunched together as he rolled over in pain. The throw had brought forth, with breathtaking clarity, faded memories.
A confident laughter, a mischievous grin, a pair of sea green eyes.
Draco's eyes shot open and searched with frenzy around him. He could now clearly see the face of the hooded man over him. The exact same pair of sea green eyes from his memories stared wide-eyed right back at him.
Draco's face stretched painfully to accommodate the large smile that he donned. He was not crazy, the source and the answer to all his frustrations was standing right in front of him looking exactly like how he remembered. The rest of the world was lost to Draco when at that moment the only thing that mattered was the existence of the man still standing over him.
Screw Potter. Screw his meeting. Screw that sorry excuse for a pub.
Perhaps if Draco were more rational, he would have questioned the strangeness of the man remaining exactly the same as he remembered after all these years. Hadn't he aged at all? Alas, Draco's mind couldn't conjure up any coherent thought other than the reassurance of his own sanity.
"Professor Jackson." Draco breathed, something cold and wet ran down his cheek. He touched his face in confusion, he was crying?
The expression on Jackson's face finally softened. He reached up and pulled back his hood, allowing the dim streetlights to illuminate his angular features. He gripped Draco tightly and helped the boy up to his feet again. In the light, Draco began to notice the little signs of fatigue on the man's face. Dark rings stood out under those stormy eyes and eyebrows drawn together slightly.
"It's Percy now, Draco." Draco's smile grew even wider and almost leaked a new round of tears when the ex-professor's soothing voice reached his ears. Memories of the kind professor flooded his mind; all those times when the professor helped him tide over some of the most vicious accusations from a few of his fellow schoolmates…
Draco pulled Percy into a tight hug, sobbing into the man's shoulder as if he were a teenager once again. Draco couldn't let go, he was afraid that if he even loosened his hold by a tiny amount, the man would fade just like the rest of the memories of him.