Harry blinked, and Malfoy had apparated away.

What the fuck is his problem?

He shook his head, and figured that it was just Malfoy being Malfoy. Though that wasn't entirely true—he had apparently matured a lot since Hogwarts. Hell, hadn't he even just apologized? That was certainly remarkable. Harry found himself smiling, and he shook his head and turned around. He decided he'd go for a walk; he knew a tea shop he liked wasn't too far away.

As he walked on the sidewalk, and cars buzzed past him occasionally on the dark pavement, he thought back to what had just happened in the furniture shop. He had gone in to drop off his latest creation, and then he chatted with the shopkeeper, Gloria. Then, he heard that voice. The voice that taunted him at school all those years. The voice that he had been so suspicious of. The voice that had saved his life.

He hadn't seen Draco Malfoy in three years, since he testified for him and his mother after the war. But you don't forget the voice of a person you once hated, the person who you owed a life debt to. So when he heard that voice, he had to make sure that it really was Malfoy. In a bloody muggle furniture shop of all places. But there he was: the blond hair and the thin, tall figure.

There was no mistaking it, even if there were some glamours hiding the pointy nose and chin. Bloody shame, he had thought, before he stopped himself. Surely he was only thinking that because no one should need to hide themselves, and not because he liked looking at Draco Malfoy's face.

But Malfoy had liked the bed he'd made. Malfoy complimented my art. If that wasn't a compliment, he didn't know what was. It almost made up for the fact that he himself had possibly acted slightly flirty (just to annoy the prat, of course) and then made a few offhanded dick references (completely on accident). Malfoy had bought the bed, and apologized, and Harry had offered his hand and put old differences aside.

But then the bloody git had disapparated out of the blue. One minute, Harry was feeling his warm hand and smiling up at the (still) very Malfoyish face, and thinking everything was changing. Of course Malfoy had decided to go and vanish and ruin the moment, he thought.

After a moment, Harry realized he had walked straight past the tea shop, and it was because he was thinking of Draco Malfoy of all things. As he turned around to enter the tea shop, he realized it wasn't anything new, thinking back on it… After all, he had obsessed over him all sixth year, and then worried about him being a Death Eater throughout the war, and then devoted a whole three months trying to help him win his trial. Of course he thought about Malfoy. He had been a big part of Harry's life.

He entered the tea shop, and the strong smell of pastries and hot brew distracted him for a moment. He ordered a cup of herbal tea and ordered a slice of apple pie, because it was a muggle shop and obviously there was neither pumpkin juice or treacle tart. And Harry really, really liked apples, when he thought about it enough. So, then he was thinking about apples, green apples specifically... and then he was thinking about Draco Malfoy again, for no apparent reason at all.

He took a too hot sip of his tea, and choked a bit. The handsome man at the counter leaned over. "You alright there?" He asked with concern. Harry looked back at him, and smiled and nodded. He remembered just then why he liked this particular shop, but he wasn't in the mood to flirt with the man this time. Instead he ate some of his apple pie (which suddenly wasn't as tasty anymore), and decided he needed to leave.

He paid at the counter, and realized he still had to see Hermione, and ask her about the article. Before exiting the shop, he checked the clock and saw that she'd be off work in an hour, so he thought he would apparate back to Grimmauld Place. He would floo call her when she was home.

He left the shop and found a discreet spot to disapparate from. When he had done so, he materialized back into his kitchen at Grimmauld Place. There, he stared at the article on the table, and he promptly forgot about Malfoy. He remembered the beginnings of the plan in his head, the ones he'd thought of before he had left to drop of that bloody bed frame.

He was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. He was also The Boy Who Had Disappeared From Recent News, and The Boy That The Media Couldn't Get Enough Of. What the wizarding public at large didn't know was that he was The Boy Who Was Secretly Gay. He didn't know exactly how yet, but his plan was to announce that last part publicly. If Harry Potter came out, no one could ignore the fact that wizards could be gay.

Forget Dumbledore and his private infatuation with his worst enemy… An openly gay hero of the wizarding world could change everything. There would be awareness campaigns all around, LGBT wizard help lines, magical gay bars… He could make a difference with this, he knew it. Of course, that would require escaping his wonderful, private bubble of no publicity. There would be articles, interviews, photos, posters… You name it, and Gay Harry's face would be on it.

It would mean sacrificing the hope of having a private love life. Or, at least until the craze dies down, he thought. There would also be people who would call it a publicity stunt, a way to get back in the news after months of no attention. Well, yeah. That's exactly what it would look like. But it would be worth it, and it definitely wouldn't be the first time it happened to him. Harry had dealt with frequent (and often negative) publicity since he was eleven years old, after all. And if there was one thing that Harry knew how to do, it was to be a sacrifice. He was okay with that.

For the next hour, he excitedly imagined how better everyone's lives would be. He was zealous over the idea of making a legitimate change for the rest of the wizarding world. He was also, admittedly selfishly, imagining how much easier it would be for him to find a date, and what it would be to be out in the open about who he was attracted to. He was tired of hiding under glamours in muggle pubs, even if he would have to give up all of his privacy to finally stop the hiding.

He checked the time again. Finally, it was time to see Hermione. He threw some floo powder into his fireplace, and said, "Granger residence." Then, he stuck his head into the soot and embers, ignored the terrible smell, and called out to Hermione. "Mione! Mione? Are you home?" He heard footsteps, and Hermione shouted, "Give me a minute!"

He waited, and she showed up in her living room wearing a bath robe, her hair all wrapped up in a towel. When she saw him, she smiled. "Oh, Harry." She shook her head. "You always have the worst timing. Come in."

He wasn't put off by the robe (he had seen her in much worse states), and so he climbed through the fireplace and into her living room, dusting the unpleasant soot off of himself. He took a seat with her on the couch. She sat cross-legged next to him, and leaned against the sofa's arm to face Harry, who decided to perch on the opposite arm of the couch. It was how they always sat; it was tradition by now.

"Harry, do tell me why you're smiling like a fool." Hermione laughed, tilting her head to the side to get a better look. Harry could smell her shampoo, and was suddenly self conscious of how unclean he smelled. And I saw Malfoy while smelling like this!

"You read the article in the Prophet this morning?" He asked, deciding to get straight to the point.

"Of course, Harry. I'm in it." She scoffed, frowning at him. She didn't seem to be upset, though.

"So, why didn't you tell me about it? Who's this Pennom guy? Just tell me about it." Harry pleaded, realizing that he really was smiling like a fool. He didn't know why he was so excited. It was just some bloody article, with a possibly gay reporter, after all.

Hermione obliged him, however, to the best of her abilities. "Well, I'm under an Unbreakable Vow to reveal Pennom's identity," she explained with a frown, "but I suppose I can tell you about him. The Vow will prevent me from saying anything I can't." Harry nodded at her statement, leaning forward. "So, spill." He commanded.

"Well, Pennom is gay." She stated, shrugging as if it were obvious. "He's fairly closeted, though, which is why he remains anonymous. Among other reasons of course," she held her hand to her head, as if the Vow was hurting her so she didn't say more, "which I apparently can't specify. But he takes great interest in promoting equal rights, obviously. He's also adamant about becoming a helpful member of society. He's a good man." She added. There was a peculiar look on her face. Harry had a feeling she knew something he didn't.

"Is he young? Handsome?" Harry asked, feeling excited. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and smirked. She definitely knew something.

"Yes to both. I don't doubt you'd like him." She shrugged innocently, and looked Harry straight in the eye. "Too bad I can't introduce you." She deadpanned.

Harry groaned. "Hermione, you're cruel! Cruel." He clutched his hands to his heart in mock pain, and almost fell off of his perch on the couch. Hermione snickered, and Harry lowered himself to the actual cushion, smacked her arm teasingly, and mimicked her cross-legged position. "So, where was the interview? What else did you talk to him about?" He inquired.

"The Hopping Pot, of course. We chatted about astronomy and"—she winced again— "apparently I can't tell you that. But we talked about my work with SPEW, and my advancements in the Ministry. Did I tell you that I got a promotion?" Her face lightened with pride.

"Yes, yes you mentioned the promotion. Congrats. More about the writer." Harry insisted. His mind was on a single track right now.

Hermione grimaced. "Harry, I get the feeling you're planning something foolish. Would you mind explaining your giddy excitement now?" She demanded, and Harry knew he wouldn't be able to argue with her.

"I was planning on coming out. Publicly. With an interview and everything." He confessed, lowering his gaze.

"Why, because you think it would enable you to meet the author?" Hermione demanded, looking cross.

Harry felt his cheeks flush. "No, as an awareness campaign. Come on, Hermione," he pouted. "I have a good reason for this. I figure that if I'm gay, then they can't ignore that people like me are out there. And think of all the hope it would give all the young witches and wizards. They wouldn't feel so alone if they knew their hero was queer, too." Harry explained, with a few half-hearted gesticulations.

Hermione nodded pensively. She waited a moment to speak, and Harry bit his lip impatiently for her approval. Finally, she spoke. "I'll help you, Harry. I know your motives are pure. And you're right; it would be huge. But are you sure you want to do this, and risk all your privacy?" She asked, reaching out for his hand.

Harry squeezed her hand and nodded back earnestly. "You know I'll do anything to help the people who need it, Hermione. This means a lot to me." He looked away, and stared at the beige carpeted floor. "And… and I need to do something. Something big. I may like the privacy, but I can't just sit and watch the world fly by."

Hermione nodded with understanding. "You should have chosen to be an auror. Then you wouldn't have to do things like this to get your adrenaline kick." She was only half-teasing, but it still stung a little.

"You know why I didn't do it. I can't have them accepting me without any training just because I defeated Voldemort. And they would have put me on all the easy, publicity missions—they couldn't risk killing their Boy Who Lived. I would have just been their figurehead." Harry muttered. "And I know I can do better than just arrest kids playing around with the minor forms of the Dark Arts." He frowned, remembering the few months he had spent with them. He had mostly investigated old, "haunted" buildings and barged into arrest the bad guy at a crime scent that everyone had already taken care of.

Hermione leaned over and hugged him. "I know, Harry. Now let's figure this out."

They ended up talking for several more hours, and ended up deciding that he would have to wait a few more months before dropping the "g-bomb" on everyone. He would reintroduce himself to the media slowly, and they would have someone on the inside leak articles about him into the public sphere. That way, they could control what everyone found out about him, and when. Harry didn't mention how excited he was that Hermione thought she could get Pennom to do it... At least for the big coming out article. She mentioned something else about Pennom and helping him, but he didn't understand what she was going on about.

When they finished outlining their plans, it was already 7 o'clock, and Hermione decided to ordered take out for them. They lounged in her kitchen, eating boxed sushi and drinking white wine, and talked about their lives in recent events.

Hermione still wasn't talking to Ron after he dumped her six months ago (for Padma Patil of all people), and she was having a "miserable time trying to find someone new to date." She said she didn't want to go into the details, and he felt like she was hiding something again. But he let her talk about the details of her promotion instead—she was certain she was on her way to becoming the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. In several more years, at least.

"So, now you know all about my life… Anything new with you, Harry?" She asked him with a wink.

Harry smiled goofily, and he knew it, so he tried to control it. He didn't know what was up with himself lately, and he didn't want it to be obvious, so he cleared his throat and talked about something else.

"Well, I've been working at the Orphanage on the weekends. The kids—the kids are so innocent, and sweet. They remind me a bit of me when I was their age, you know? I just want them to know that it's okay, that they'll be okay. That they'll be loved, that they are loved. I want them to turn out to be good, strong people." Harry babbled, burying his face in his hands. The Orphanage was small, and had less than two dozen children. Some of them lost their parents in the war. He just wanted to adopt them all, save them all… But he couldn't. He could visit them as much as possible, though.

Hermione nodded, pain and understanding showing in her eyes. "Do you think you'd like to adopt one day, Harry?" she asked. "Have a family and all."

Harry shrugged, and swirled his wine. "I dunno. It's not like I can have my own biological children anyway—and I don't want a surrogate. But I can't see myself adopting a kid anytime soon, you know? I don't have anyone I want to do that with right now." He flushed, and remembered Malfoy for some reason he couldn't comprehend.

"How's your dating life going, then?" She inquired, the glint in here eyes returning.

Harry flushed even more. "Oh, you know. I go to the muggle gay bars. I snog people I barely know. I feel empty and dismal. The usual." He scoffed. He never found anyone he just wanted to have sex with, and he never found anyone who wanted anything more than just sex. He wanted something different than that, but he couldn't find it.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. "I know the feeling. Anything else interesting?" Again, she showed no interest in elaborating upon her love life.

Harry looked up and met her eyes. "I, uh, I saw Malfoy today. Draco Malfoy. H-he's changed." He confessed. She raised her eyebrows in response, as if this were very interesting indeed, but she let him continue. "And has great taste in furniture. And he's fucking gorgeous still." The last words tumbled out unexpectedly, and he held his hands over his mouth and gasped.

Hermione raised her eyebrows even further and smiled knowingly. "I did ask about your dating life. So, you like Malfoy, do you?" she snickered.

"N-yeah. I mean, I don't know. Bloody hell, I can't stop thinking about him." Harry felt compelled to answer everything she asked, which he realized wasn't wuite right, and not quite unfamiliar. "Hermione, did you spike my wine with Veritaserum?" He demanded.

Hermione smirked. "Yeah, I did. Wanted to see if there was any hidden motive behind your coming out plan."

Harry gaped. "That's illegal!" He cried.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, like you haven't broken the law, Harry." She stood up and grabbed his shoulder. "It's getting late. I think it's time to send you home, yeah?" She pulled him out of his chair and towards her living room.

Harry only glared at her as he made his way to the floo. "What are you going to do now?" He asked as he pulled out a bag of floo powder.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, as she often did. "I think I'll owl Pennom."

After apparating back to his flat, Draco had realized he hadn't even bought a mattress for his new bed. So, after returning the bed to its proper size, he apparated back into muggle London to buy a mattress.

To a large scale mattress store, where I won't meet any old Hogwarts enemies, thank you very much. He didn't want to think about Potter. Or how confusing he was. Or how different he had become, or how he was still the same ridiculously brash Gryffindor. And how he was probably straight. Draco groaned to himself at that. He couldn't allow himself to brood over ridiculous facts like that. Besides, what did it matter that Potter was straight? Draco didn't care. He didn't care at all.

He stormed into the huge, warehouse-like store, terrifying a muggle mother and child with his foul mood. He composed himself a moment later, apologizing to them cooly for shoving past them. He focused on his breathing again as he walked through rows and rows of mattresses. Who needed that many bloody mattresses, anyway? They were just mattresses.

He spent the next two hours in the ridiculous mattress store all the same, with his ridiculous thoughts of Harry Potter. And his own ridiculous refined tastes were not satisfied with a single brand-name mattress. Wizards do everything better. He thought bitterly. Like Potter's bed frame. But not gay acceptance, remember? Draco's thoughts were drawn back to the article, and wondered what people thought of it. If there would be outrage, agreement, or if it would just be ignored. Would the editors for The Prophet track him down?

Draco realized he had been laying on the same mattress for the past five minutes like some oblivious fool. He sat up, figuring he must have liked the mattress well enough to forget he was laying on it for so long, and so he decided to buy it. He tried not to think about how many other people (people, not simply muggles, he reminded himself) had laid on those mattresses, and he tried to vanish the feeling of filth accumulating on him.

He bought the mattress in the proper size for the bed frame (Potter's bed frame, he remembered, almost giddily), and he used muggle money to do it. For the second time that day. He smiled to himself, declaring himself a changed man. Which he truly was.

Just a few years ago, after the trial (where Potter had testified for him!) he wouldn't have fathomed it. But here he was.

Draco scolded himself for such sentimental, sappy thoughts. He also scolded himself for allowing them to continually drift back to Potter. His usual ice towards these kind of thoughts were melting.

He shrunk the mattress and apparated back to his flat. He realized that it was already two in the afternoon, and he had not yet opened the record shop. He sighed, and decided he wasn't going to today. Instead, he fixed the mattress onto the bed, and took a long, hot shower to clean off whatever filth that had accumulated from laying on the practically public mattresses. Honestly, who came up with that idea?

He came out smelling like apples and cinnamon (apples from shampoo and cinnamon from his body wash) and feeling perfectly refreshed. He wrapped himself in his soft white towel, and sighed again dramatically as he remembered he had not opened the shop, and wouldn't still. He then remembered the maybes from before, and decided he might oblige them get drunk and laid later in the evening.

In the meantime, he made his bed with his silk sheets that he still had from the Manor. They felt as good as new, and luckily, they fit the new bed perfectly. He wouldn't have known what to do if they didn't; you do not try and transfigure silk sheets into a different size. Unless you wanted to destroy the threat count and fabric texture, which Draco certainly did not.

The bed made, adorned with silk sheets and cashmere blankets and a goose feather comforter, Draco felt satisfied that his downsized living space was by no means cheap quality. That is, if you ignored the lack of all furniture besides a kitchen table and a few chairs. At least he had kitchen appliances, and he used them often. Learning to live without house elves was more entertaining than he had thought; Draco had discovered that he loved cooking, even if he wasn't exactly talented with it.

Which reminded him, it was mid afternoon and he had yet to eat anything. His stomach grumbled, and he set to cooking a proper meal. He opened his magically cooled ice box to find several blocks of tofu (a muggle food that resembled a spongy white block that he had taken a surprising liking to), various types of produce (mainly onions and cabbage), and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. Making a mental note to go grocery shopping later, but feeling disinclined to go out again quite yet, he threw copious amounts of all of it into a pan and hoped for the best. It tasted surprisingly good.

Draco patted himself on the back for that. He hadn't reached gourmet levels just yet, but he certainly was creative.

He wasted the next several hours listening to every record he had in the shop and imagining what other furniture he would need to fill his flat with. And thinking of Potter and his ridiculously beautiful furniture. When the sky had long gone dark, and Draco was done moping around his home, he changed into his nicest casual clothes and apparated back into muggle London to find himself some handsome man to buy him drinks and shag later on in the evening.

The fog was still out, and it was utterly freezing, but Draco hadn't thought to wear a coat. He often wondered why muggles just didn't wear robes; it was much less layering to think about anyway, and they were certainly much warmer, even if they weren't as good looking. The latter thought was reinforced, once he entered the nearest gay club and found a bloke with a nice arse and a tight pair of pants to show it off.

Yes, muggles were much better at the whole gay thing.

The music was crass, and it was nothing he would have sold in his record store. The lighting gave him a bit of a headache, too. He drowned out that disappointment with several cheap alcoholic drinks that some fellow in a suit had bought for him, and then he was drunk enough to snog him silly. But it didn't feel right.

He wasn't what Draco wanted. Draco wasn't coherent enough to know exactly what (or who) he wanted, and he wouldn't have known if he were coherent enough anyway. So he moved on to another man, but he didn't feel right either, and by the end of the night Draco felt like he had tried more men than mattresses and he didn't even let anyone get him to second base.

So, he cast a sobriety spell on himself and safely apparated himself home, disappointed in his incompetence to get himself laid—but it was really everyone else's incompetence, he decided. He was also vaguely aware of the satisfaction that he had brought no one home to desecrate his silk sheets and his plain old muggle mattress and the bed frame that he now permanently had decided was still Harry's.

After he had washed the taste of the alcohol out of his mouth, he made his way to his bed. He was interrupted, however, by a tapping at the window. He peered closely to see an unfamiliar owl perched on his window sill, and he let it in anyway. It gave him it's letter, and he gave it an owl treat from the jar in his kitchen. He patted its head, and wondered who would be owling him so late at night.

His stomach lurched as he saw the name written on the envelope. Adam Pennom.

Was it The Prophet? Had they found him already? Did he really need to open it? There was the familiar imagery in his mind of wolves snapping at him, and a fluttering, cramping feeling was twisting in his stomach. He felt the beginnings of a panic attack, but he just took a deep breath and opened the letter.

Pennom,

I've got a job for you. I need you to cover a story for me. Well, it's for Harry. He said he saw you (well, your normal identity) today— but don't worry, I didn't tell him about the article. We need you to release a slow and steady stream of articles on him for the next few months. We'll tell you what. I understand this is far below your caliber (I know you prefer much more deep subjects than celebrity gossip), but I promise it's for the greater good in the end. And it will help you prove your self. If you're willing, I'll schedule a meeting between you and him and he can tell you what he needs written. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that; we don't want you letting anything slip until you've sworn an Unbreakable.

Regards, Hermione Granger

Draco wasn't sure what he had just read. Was Granger offering him a job? To report on Potter? And a possibility to redeem himself?

And another chance to see Potter, he realized. Maybe he was still a little drunk, because it seemed like it was an offer that was just too good to refuse.