Chapter 14

THE INTERVIEW THAT REVEALS ALL – OR A LITTLE TOO MUCH?

In a long-awaited series, Harry Potter, known for both his pivotal role in the underbelly gang war with the allegedly-named Death Eaters and more recently for his career in modelling, speaks of his experiences for the first time.

An in-depth sequence, the interviews and accompanying photographs are a compilation of Potter's life, his achievements, and the steps he has taken to reach where he stands today. While excitement is rife for such a telling, there too arises an anticipated resurgence of anger for the interviewer and photographer solely responsible for this series. Pansy Parkinson, freelance journalist, and Draco Malfoy, independent photographer, are the shadow to accompany the vigorous light of Potter's story. It is no secret that both Parkinson and Malfoy share a dark past, with their own contribution to the crime scene painted by mass murderer Tom Riddle being of a less than favourable kind, and the question has been upon every lip since the moment of the announcement of their involvement and…

Draco had to go outside.

He knew he had to, and not only because half a week within the safety of his flat had chewed through every tasteful piece of food he possessed. There were means of getting around that, services he could contact, but Draco had never favoured giving his address out to strangers, let alone inviting them to visit his very door. He didn't want just about anyone in his house, for that matter; it was his territory, and his alone.

But by half a week, the safe isolation of his flat had grown stifling. There was only so much daytime television he could watch, only so many books he could flick through, and only so much time he could spent in front of his clunky but serviceable computer in the throes of editing. Draco needed to get out – to the dark rooms of Building Eight, or to the mall rich with Muggles and supermarkets. Even to the footpath outside so that he could breathe the outside air from more than the living room window.

Draco wanted to get out – and yet he would admit to being scared to leave.

He'd seen the papers. The Daily Prophet arrived in the talons of a different owl every day, shedding downy feathers and printed newspaper alike onto his dining table. He'd seen the headlines, the articles, the moving pictures that were so unlike the Muggle kind he was used to taking himself and showed far too many frowning faces to feel at ease with the contents within. Draco didn't even need to read them; he could predict well enough what they said. But he read it all anyway.

The excitement: Harry Potter finally reveals all!

The questions: With his first interview, Harry Potter provides an insight into his childhood that raises as many mysteries as it answers.

The tutting and compassion: The strength of The Chosen One, to have withstood a young life without magic, or the Muggle counterpart: A loss at such a young age must have struck a terrible blow to Potter, necessitating such dependence upon his relatives…

And the adoration: He shows his bright side once more with casual wit, and the stylistic choice of natural, unassuming wear flatters Potter in a light previously unseen, or endurance of such hardships can only emphasise the strength of the person he is to this day.

They were sickening. Draco hated it, could hardly look at the articles, and not only because they were all exactly the same. They were deluded, because Harry didn't 'reveal all'. Draco knew he hadn't. They were entitled, because what right did they have to ask further questions? Their compassion was a farce, the sympathy indulgent, and the adoration was only a reboot of what the Wizarding world had clung to for years, the Muggle world the same but simply in different words.

That wasn't Harry. It wasn't for Harry that they spoke, Draco knew. It was for the idea of him, just as Harry had said weeks before when he'd revealed to Draco that he knew he was attracted to him, knew he watched him and what it meant, and had misunderstood that it was anything like how every other lustful pair of eyes regarded him. Draco hated that memory as much as he clung to every second of the night that followed. He loved and hated it equally, as he knew he shouldn't.

Just as he knew he shouldn't want to see Harry. That he shouldn't want him. That he shouldn't wonder what Harry was thinking of the interviews and photographs, shouldn't consider what his response would be to the articles that followed, shouldn't wonder what he was doing every second of the day.

Draco was leaving for Switzerland in a week, and he shouldn't be wondering just how the fuck he was going to do it and leave Harry behind him.

Draco realised, rather abruptly, that he hated the interviews. Even with only the first published in Syren but days before, he knew he would hate all that followed. And yet Draco still spent hours staring at the shots he'd taken, the shots that were as close as he'd ever come to perfection. Those pictures, the one's he'd taken to accompany the first interview – they were so nostalgic that Draco was all but forcibly dragged back to their school days. Harry looked younger in the oversized clothes that he'd always worn at Hogwarts for reasons that Draco hadn't previously understood. Younger, just as he'd been fashioned for it. He didn't have his glasses on, not in these ones, but the impression was there.

Draco loved them. And hated them. And he couldn't stop looking at them.

Just as he couldn't stop reading the newspaper articles, because it wasn't only mention of Harry that he sought. It was for his own safety. For tentative insight. To understand the meaning behind Pansy's calls that told him to "stay inside today, okay?" and that "there's a pretty vicious one about you; be careful." Just as Harry was adored and fawned over, Draco and Pansy were hated.

'Questionable choice for interviewer and photographer alike' was about as gentle as they came. It held nothing on the 'irrelevant and amateur attendants' who were repeatedly deemed 'unworthy of such an opportunity' and who 'had made mincemeat of what only Harry Potter's words and professional manner could shine through'. Even they weren't as bad as what wasn't withheld in the gossip magazines. The Wizarding world had become brutally cruel, and the Muggle one wasn't much better.

Heinous tricksters and Devilspawn.

Underhanded murderers who supposedly deceived their way into Estallas en Ascenso's blinded field of consideration.

Scum, and pureblooded villains, and a shameful smear upon society were only dampened from outright curses for the sake of their publication, Draco was sure. It wasn't that bad, all things considered. It wasn't nearly as bad as the owls, and Howlers, and pages and pages of letters that attacked his window every day. Draco had stopped letting them in long ago, but the battering of beaks, heads, and talons upon the glass was nearly constant company the first day of Syren's first release. Draco knew Pansy was being hounded with the same.

He didn't blame them. Not the letter-writers, nor the journalists, nor the public that kept their comments and criticisms to themselves. Draco hadn't blamed anyone for their hatred for a long time, for if he did he knew he would be caught up in the endless cycle of blame for a long, long time. It was just as Harry had said all too accurately the second to last time Draco had seen him: it was better to simply move past it.

Draco knew he wasn't guiltless. He knew he was deserving, was to blame – but indeed, what better way to prove the accusations couldn't touch him than to simply… move past it?

The riot that was wreaking havoc through Draco's head – about Harry, the interviews, the hatred that seemed to claw towards him like a cinch tightened around the walls of his flat – and it was only made worse by his isolation. Even Pansy's occasional visits, more frazzled and tight-faced that he'd ever seen her let herself become, didn't alleviate the tension.

Draco needed to go outside. He was just a little scared to do so.

That fear didn't stop him from rising at a frankly ludicrous hour on Wednesday morning. It didn't stop him from dressing himself far too heavily for the weather, planting a hat low onto his head and slipping a pair of sunglasses on before he'd even stepped out the door. Which he didn't do. Frowning to himself for a moment, Draco contemplated with his hand on the doorknob before stepping backwards. He drew his wand instead and Apparated on the spot.

The bathroom he appeared in wasn't in the Wizarding world. It was, in fact, so far from his world that it hardly even felt like his anymore. The cubicle had, to his knowledge, been out of order for a good long while and still appeared to be if the seatless toilet and locked door was any indication.

Pausing, straining his ears, Draco listened for bathroom attendees. When nothing but the hum of electrical lighting and the crackling flickers of that overhead light replied, he released his pent breath and slipped silently through the door. A flick of his wand locked the door behind him once more, and he was shouldering through the heavy door and striding from the distinctly grimy room without a backwards glance.

The shopping centre wasn't anything remarkable, except for being remarkably Muggle. Multiple floors, linoleum polished in a way that only seemed to emphasise the tiny scratches and scores from too many footsteps, and shops with their shutters still closed with barely a one hosting workers arrived earlier than they should have to prepare for opening. Draco squinted briefly at a distant figure that looked like a security guard, cursing his ridiculous need to wear sunglasses indoors, before hastening down the frozen escalators in the direction he knew from past experience hosted a modestly-sized Tesco.

It was almost empty. A boy at the checkout picked his nails and didn't glance up as Draco entered. He was hastening down aisles, using his wand with hidden flicks as often as his hands, and stuffing a basket full with overflowing groceries without pause, regretting as he hadn't in years that he hadn't a house elf to assist him. He'd never appreciated the house servants in his younger years, but grocery shopping had earned them a hint or two of respect since from his adult self.

The boy at the checkout heaved an expansive sigh when Draco finally stepped up to his counter, abandoning his nails and turning with ready hands and sweeps towards the basket Draco unloaded. He glanced only briefly towards Draco before dropping his attention back to his work without even a grunt or nod of recognition.

Once, Draco would have seethed at being ignored in such a manner. Once, he would have scowled and demanded some kind of greeting, because it was polite, and because he wasn't the kind of person to be bloody-well overlooked. Much had changed since such demands even tickled the edges of Draco's consideration. If anything, he appreciated the disregard. Shoving his hands into his pockets, drawing his gaze out the yawning entrance of the Tesco and the echoing, equally yawning absence of shoppers beyond, he'd never wanted to be noticed less in his life.

I'll get this done and go home, he told himself, even as a part of him grumbled that an outing to a supermarket was hardly an outing at all. The less time spent outside, the less chance I'll be noticed. It's not good to be noticed, will be better if I can just pass through. If some tosser is looking to start a fight, then they can look elsewhere for –

"Aren't you that Draco Malfoy guy?"

Draco flinched. Snapping his attention back to the boy, he eyed him warily. He was just a kid, and he didn't seem particularly hateful, hadn't even paused in his scanning transfer of the groceries, but Draco had to be wary. He'd learnt that much over the past weeks, if not the past years.

His absence of a reply was apparently answer enough for the boy. "I thought so," he said. "I've seen your picture a couple of times over the last few weeks. You're practically famous, huh?"

Draco pressed his lips together but muttered a reply nonetheless. "Practically."

"Huh," the kid grunted again, glancing down briefly at a bag of pasta as he flipped it in his hands to locate the barcode. "I looked you up on the 'Net, you know. Saw some of your photos. You photographed that model, right?"

"Yes," Draco said shortly. Stupid kid. He really was just a kid, but being noticed at all was disconcerting. Draco should have worn an illusionary charm.

"Yeah, I saw that too." The kid tipped his head as he beeped a block of cheese past the scanner. "Are you as much of an asshole as everyone says you are? 'Cause, you know, I've read some pretty serious shit, and if you're really that much of an asshole then –"

"Yes," Draco said, his nerves taut and patience already worn thin. The stupid kid, he should just shut up. "I am. Are you done with your questions, or should I call your manager?"

The kid frowned, pouted, and grumbled something distinctly unsavoury under his breath. He shook his head, however, and within minutes Draco was handing him a fifty and slinging bags into his arms to stride from the store. He could almost feet the glare the kid shot him with from behind as he left.

Not that he cared. Kids like that… it would be better if they didn't ask questions. Better if they didn't know. Besides, what was the use in trying to convince a kid that he was an good person? In the long run, what would it do? It wasn't like the boy's opinion wouldn't be changed back again the instant another article was printed, or a friend whispered a rumour in his ear.

Draco hastened from the supermarket, and he didn't look back. He didn't dawdle on his way home either, even if he did pause to affix an illusionary charm to his face so he could leave the Tescos with a sliver of confidence. The threat had been telling; that people knew his face and already had a preconceived perception of him. Nothing had happened, nothing terrible, or daunting, or even slightly nerve-wracking.

But Draco wouldn't tempt fate.

As soon as he stepped out of the open expanse of the shopping centre and into relative privacy, he was Apparating home without a backwards glance and only a hint of regret that was easily brushed aside. Nothing had happened just yet, nothing as bad as could have, but Draco thought it would be a good thing he was leaving for Switzerland soon simply so he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder every second he stepped outside. He told himself that, because it was easier than considering what he was leaving behind.

HARRY POTTER DISAPPEARED?

With the release of the first in his series of interviews, the request of Harry Potter upon everyone's lips are: tell us more. The glimpse into his childhood, the insight into his relationship with his relatives and the experience of his Muggle school days, provides barely a taste is what has left readers longing to hear only more of this workaday lifestyle.

But it is not to be.

Far from receptive to further questioning, Potter appears to have all but disappeared from the public eye, with sources claiming that he has even ceased work commitments on a temporary basis. When approached for comment, Potter's agent and acknowledged Squib Dorothea Picard admits to deliberate denial of further questioning opportunities.

"Any more questions pertaining to [Potter] will remain unanswered until such a date as the final interview has been published," Picard states. "Until then, no future interview offers will be considered."

That Potter has all but disappeared once more raises just as many questions and speculations as it answers, and though evidence Potter has been seen in unofficial footage, his whereabouts are as of yet…

R u heading off now?

Yes

Cool. My place?

"Harry Potter!"

Harry was halfway through answering Ron's text when the cry reached him. Pausing mid-step, he glanced down the footpath he was headed and through the thin foot traffic to its source. A man. And a woman. And maybe a handful of other men and women, headed straight for him with steps so fast they were nearly running.

Like a reflex, Harry flinched backwards. He was three buildings from Estallas and barely a corner from where he'd parked his bike. Why he'd chosen to drive to work that day instead of Apparating into the back rooms of Estallas he couldn't justify; he'd simply wanted to get out. To abandon the necessity for ducking under cover. To deny that he had to avoid and evade the sea of adoring fans who bathed in the latest news of Harry Potter as though he was a real hero and had saved the day only just yesterday.

There was only so much avoiding and evading he could take. Harry just wanted a break.

But maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have abided by Dot's precautions and Apparated, because he'd already had one incident on the steps outside of Estallas the very day after the first interview had aired. Cameras snapping, voices shouting, askance made as though every reporter and their attentive readers had the right to know – which Harry supposed they sort of did. But even so…

"Harry, can you tell us about -?"

"When you said in your interview that you –"

"How would you describe your relationship now with -?"

Shouts that were nearly screams. Questions that had long since abandoned the politeness of query and deteriorated into outright demands.

"Why –?"

"How -?"

"You have to -!"

"You must -!"

For three days after that incident, Harry had barely Apparated from his house, let alone stepped out of his front door. He hadn't needed Dot to pull him into her office, Von planted like a grim and intimidating bodyguard at his side, and impress upon him the importance of remaining hidden.

"They'll grab at anything they can get," she said with flat insistence, not a hint of concern evident in her tone despite that Harry knew she felt it. "You need to be careful. There's a frenzy going on, and if you get caught in the middle of it, you could be hurt."

"I know," Harry said.

"Don't do anything foolish."

"I won't."

"And even if you feel like you owe it to the public, no answering questions." Dot's eyes widened pointedly. "That's what interviews are for."

"You don't owe them shit," Von said in a grumble at his side.

They knew him so well. Harry wasn't even sure his friends would have leapt upon to such precaution in quite so direct a manner. Not like Dot and Von, and it struck him at that moment just how close they'd grown to him. Whether they liked it or not, and despite that they were more simply thrust into one another's company than that they chose to be, they were his friends too. Or of a sort, at least.

Harry didn't go outside in the following weeks. Not without Von. Not even with a Disillusionment Charm affixed, or an illusionary mask spelled upon own face, because experience had taught him that particularly persistent paparazzi had means of pervading such defences. There was no such thing as being too careful.

Those that strode towards him with rapid step and waving arms, already calling questions that had heads of fellow pedestrians turning and curious eyes narrowing, weren't visibly paparazzi. Or at least not at first. As Harry took a step backwards, however, he saw a camera appear from within the coat of one, a quill in the hand of another, and any doubts he'd held evaporated.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, taking another step backwards.

"Don't worry, I've got this."

Harry almost jumped as Von, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, dropped a hand onto his shoulder and tugged him further backwards as he in turn stepped forwards. Like a body shield, he planted himself before Harry, all but entirely blocking out the approaching paparazzi.

"Von," Harry began.

"Get back inside," Von said, half turning his head to glance over his shoulder. "Just leave your bike today."

"But you –"

"It's fine. Don't worry, I've got this." He gave a grim smile before turning away once more. Harry saw his arms fold across his chest, knew that if nothing else Von would present an imposing figure that could give anyone pause, and accepted the necessity as due course. There was no point in digging his heels in and protesting. Not in this instance. It would only end in climatic disaster, after all.

Turning in place, instinctively pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head, Harry stuffed his hands and phone into his pocket and strode back the way he'd come. He wove through pedestrians that eyed him curiously, didn't spare a single one a glance in return, and was climbing three steps at a time up to Estallas' front door in seconds.

Harry didn't like fame. He never had. At school, it had been a begrudging necessity that no amount of derision could deflect. After the war, he'd accepted it because there was no escaping it, and because the desperate people that needed something to cling to in the grief and destruction that ensued turned to him. And after that, with his modelling… Harry would have been content to be a small face in the industry, but his name and pre-existing fame forbade such negligibility. He hadn't known that such disregard was what he'd sought all along until it was decidedly taken from him.

Now, he'd made his decision. He would have to suffer the consequences of living the life he'd chosen.

For some people, they don't even get to choose in the first place. People like Draco. People like Pansy. People like the accused Death Eaters who had been little more than victims of war themselves and couldn't escape the accusations. They didn't deserve it. They didn't – Draco didn't deserve the vicious attacks that Harry saw increasingly splattering across the papers and gossip magazines. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. If Harry had the opportunity, he would say something, would do something, would relieve Draco and Pansy of their guilt –

But he couldn't. Or not yet, anyway. Not while the interviews were being released, and rage and hatred was thick. Harry had attempted in those interviews to paint them in the better light that they deserved, but it was the decision of the world whether or not they'd take the direction he offered them. He couldn't force it upon them.

Thoughts of Draco always afflicted Harry of late. He hadn't seen him since their final shoot, since the moment he'd walked out the door with little more than a goodbye and hadn't let himself look back. He was foolish for wondering, for considering what could happened, what had happened, and what might have been if he'd said more. He shouldn't let himself imagine what would arise should he pick up his phone and call Draco's number. Would he answer? Would he want to? Or had he already moved on to bigger and better things in the hopes of escaping the hatred that attacked him in every article printed? Was he…?

Was he angry with Harry? Did he resent him?

Harry didn't know and he couldn't ask. He wanted to – but he couldn't. He owed it to Draco to have his privacy in the midst of what was happening. It wasn't fair to ask more of him than that, even if Harry simply wanted to know because… because…

It really is more than a little pathetic of me, he thought as he crossed the threshold into Estallas' reception room. He nodded briefly at Meghan, gestured indicatively towards the hallway and back room it entailed, and pretended he didn't notice the way her lips thinned and a frown touched her brow.

Drawing his phone from his pocket as he strode into the blessed isolation of the office's back rooms, Harry pulled his phone from his pocket again and dialled a number by heart. Ron picked up on the second ring.

"You okay, mate?"

"Yeah," Harry said lowly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… you right if I head over to yours straight away?"

Ron was silent for a beat. When he replied, it was with knowing sobriety. "Sure. Just head on in. I'll be home as soon as I finish up this last job."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, closing the Apparition Room door behind him with a soft click and bathing briefly in the echoing silence of it.

"No problem. Hey, you rode your bike to work today, right? How about I swing by and pick it up? I mean, I'm not driving that thing 'cause I actually want to live to see tomorrow morning, but I could Apparate it home if you'd like? If you drive from my place the traffic isn't too bad and…"

Harry listened as Ron continued in an over-bright tone. He thanked him silently, just as he always did of his friends, that they were so removed from the mania that was Harry Potter. In the craze that had afflicted his world, it was exactly what he needed.

DRACO MALFOY, AN UNRELENTING VILLAIN

"He was disconcerting to work with. Always quiet except to tell us what to do in a frankly demanding way; he was pretty rude. That, and the way he looked at Harry Potter… I wouldn't hesitate to suspect Malfoy hasn't left his Death Eater days behind him."

Franklin Dawley, assistant photographer of Syren, speaks of his experience working beneath the tyrannical reign of convicted and reprieved Death Eater Draco Malfoy. While comments from previous employers have deemed him simply aloof and focused upon his work, the experience of Dawley and his colleague Michael Yu show a side of Malfoy that was previously hidden.

"We caught him talking to Harry Potter a couple of times," Dawley states. "I wanted to intervene, because Malfoy? He shouldn't be anywhere near him. Even on a professional level it was horrible to see a Death Eater so close to the Saviour. So Yu and I, we kept an eye out just in case, and I think it might have been enough that we were just in the room with them both."

Dawley continues to profess how daughter of convicted Death Eaters and interviewer of Potter's Pansy Parkinson allegedly made requests to privatise the interviewing. Syren employees, in a bid to protect the safety of Potter, deflected such requests and…

Draco didn't read the Daily Prophet anymore. In hindsight, he didn't know why he'd ever done so. He knew that no good news pertaining to himself would come of it. Even if it was tempting to hear of Harry – that he'd supposedly disappeared? That he was being all but hounded by fans, paparazzi, and reporters? – the weight of the accusations that struck him became too much.

He stopped looking. He stopped reading the magazines that Pansy sporadically sent him in her effort to keep him updated on her side of things, too. Instead, Draco settled himself with only his own pictures for company.

They splayed across the table. He knew he should pack them away, should stow them for when he would inevitably return from his trip, but Draco had been staring at them for over an hour and couldn't draw himself away. His Portkey was set to leave that afternoon, and he anticipated hype at the terminal simply for being there – but he couldn't turn away from the images. He'd already pushed back his departure unnecessarily once – but he almost couldn't bring himself to leave.

Was it wrong of him to look? To stare at pictures as though he were truly one of those lustful onlookers, the fans and photographers, the Samuel Ipetsky's of the world? Should Draco look away from what he sorely longed to follow, to approach, even to call just to talk as they'd never really had the chance to?

Probably. Draco should probably look away. He should probably smother the urges within him, because Harry wasn't just an icon. He wasn't just the Saviour. He wasn't a picture framed in white to be ogled at and pined over. Draco should put the pictures away…

But he couldn't.

There was the one where Harry was sitting on the ground from his first shoot, his knees drawn up a little before him and the neck of his oversized shirt pulled to the side just enough to leave his collarbones exposed. Harry stared at the camera, and he looked so young that Draco was once more all but overwhelmed but a wave of nostalgia. That makeup artist, Von – he had a way with a brush. He'd worked wonders.

There was the picture reminiscent of wear and tear, of exhaustion and near defeat that he'd somehow pulled through, that Von had managed to encapsulate perfectly with more of his makeup artistry. The one that was supposed to be from the war but was more correctly a snapshot reminder of the aftermath of the night Harry had slept at Draco's flat. Even with the circumstances that had forced him there, Draco found himself thinking more of the night after the club than of Sammy-fucking-Ipetsky and what he'd seen. He didn't want to think of that, and looking at Harry, at the head shot of his profile and where he stared into the distance, it was easy enough to do.

The last photo Draco had taken of him in the studio was there too, where Harry stood proud and aloof, like the model that he was, every line of him enhanced and defined into a work of art. There was nothing complex about his stance, nothing but planted feet, a raised chin, and a steady gaze, but that gaze had always captured Draco. Even in a photograph it caught him. There was a touch of perfection in that shot.

But the others? The phots that really struck Draco? They weren't to be seen by the readers of Syren. They weren't for the eyes of anyone else, because they were special. They were Draco's. They were the moments captured in motion, in passing, by chance, as Draco had clicked his camera to life and Harry had allowed him to capture his image. Spread in a scattering array, a mosaic of shots and fragments of time, Draco drew his eyes over them again and again and again.

A half turn over his shoulder towards Draco as he headed down the hallway at the end of the day.

A glance in the reflection of the dressing room mirror, face only half-made, to meet the eye of Draco's camera.

His bowed head as he read something on his phone, fringe falling into his face.

Little shots, little glances, little moments that Draco had captured and no one else was privy to. He clung to them, because those moments were Harry. When he was wearing his glasses, when his hair was less than sleek and as contained as it ever became, when he was muffled in so many jumpers and scarves that it was impossible to think it was all a fashion statement.

When he smiled. At Draco. For Draco. Like that last shot that Draco had taken before Harry had 'disappeared'. To Draco, that shot was the best he'd captured – and yet also the worst, because it was the last. Because Harry smiled at him, for him, and then he left with barely a tilt of his head and a murmured "goodbye".

Draco had stared at that picture for a long time. It was untouched by editing. There was nothing to disrupt the slight impression of smile lines, the barest smear of make-up in the corner of Harry's eye, the wisp of a fly-away curled from his head in defiance of Von's taming from that morning. It was Harry – and that made Draco love it.

"What the fuck am I doing?" he asked himself in barely a whisper, just as he had countless times before. Really, what was he doing? Pining like some lovestruck teenager for someone who thought he only wanted him for a quick fuck? Why hadn't Draco told him it wasn't that? That it was more than that? He should have… he could have…

It was bad. Draco knew he had it bad. Pansy didn't even tease him for it as she more than likely sorely longed to, so it must have appeared as utterly pathetic as it felt. And Draco couldn't do anything about it. He hadn't even seen Harry since that last day, that last shoot, let alone spoken to him. For all Draco knew, Harry wanted nothing more to do with him. It didn't necessarily fit the person that Draco understood Harry had become, but maybe… just maybe…

His phone rang.

Reaching absently into his pocket, gaze still fixed upon the spread before him, he raised his phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"Draco?"

Pansy's voice called him from his reverie and, with a brief moment to close his eyes, Draco set about gathering the prints. "Yes?"

"Oh, I caught you before you left? That's good."

"I'm just leaving now."

"You'll call me when you get there?"

Draco paused, print in hand and staring at where Harry had sat at a table in the dressing room, his chin in his hand, smiling slightly at where Von sat alongside him. Even with Von's size, Harry was the centrepiece of the image. He always would be.

"You're being strangely protective at the moment," Draco said, slowly laying the print back down. "What's wrong with you?"

Pansy huffed into the phone, though it sounded more amused than indignant. "Am I not allowed to express my concern? The world is vicious at the moment you know, Draco."

Draco allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. "It is. So you should watch yourself. I'll be halfway across Europe."

"I know. And leaving me behind, at that. How dare you."

"I won't be gone long, I shouldn't think."

"No, no, don't say that. Stay longer. It's a shooting range here at the moment and we're the dummies. Better you stay away."

Draco smiled softy. He could do that when Pansy was only on the other end of the phoneline; she couldn't poke fun at him if she didn't know he did it. "Thanks. Maybe you should take a trip too?"

"I was thinking as much," she murmured. "Maybe I'll go down and visit Blaise."

"And get hammered every night?"

"I'd only be joining him. Word has it he does so himself every other night."

Draco chuckled. "You should, then. Have fun."

"Maybe I will." Pansy paused for a moment. Then she cleared her throat, and in a surprisingly tight voice continued. "Take care, Draco. It really is better to stay away at the moment."

Draco's smile died. "You too, Pansy. I'll see you on the other side."

"See you."

The line cut out with a beep. Draco lowered his phone from his ear, hand tightening around it in a squeeze, and stared at the stack before him. It was an abuse of the prints to stack them as such, and a part of Draco protested the manhandling without even the protection of magic between each layer, but a larger part of him didn't care. It didn't care enough when he scooped them up to fold them against his chest before lifting the extendable bag at his side and starting towards the door.

Only to pause with his hand on the doorknob, the other clenching his phone in a death grip. He stared at the door, lowered his gaze to his phone, and couldn't help himself.

Just once, he thought. Just… just one call.

With a deep breath – he was only tempting fate, was only going to make his inevitable departure worse, but he couldn't help himself – Draco clicked his phone to life and called the number that he'd never directly called before. A part of him soared as soon as he pressed the button.

THE SECOND REVEAL – AN INSIGHT INTO HARRY POTTER'S SCHOOL LIFE

As fans and admirers alike swallow every ounce of news pertaining to Harry Potter, the second interview reveal is met with raucous excitement. Despite that much of his schooling years has been tracked and deduced by onlookers and many speculations published, this reveal marks the first in-depth exploration of the first years of Potter's magical life.

From the terror of his first confrontation with the once-feared He Who Must Not Be Named, to his final days at Hogwarts and the death of Albus Dumbledore, this interview spans the laughter, the friendships, the trials, and the tribulations of Potter's educational career. At present, Potter still remains uncontactable, but this latest reveal provides the temporary balm to soothe the burning enthusiasm for his story…

Harry stared down at his phone. He stared much as he'd been staring for the past hour as pre-dawn drifted towards morning. His eyes had long become blurred, the figures of the familiar phone number all but overlooked, but he still stared.

How was he supposed to respond to that kind of message?

He'd missed the call. but the voicemail still echoed in his ears, despite listening to it only once at the ludicrously early hour that he'd received it. Hi, Harry! Sorry we parted a little awkwardly last time – or a lot awkwardly, I suppose you could say, haha. We're okay though, right? You didn't get into any strife over it? I'd bet not. You're pretty good at talking your way out of things. Anyway, listen, turns out I'm back in London for the moment, and I was wondering if you'd want to catch up again? Maybe we could finish up on better terms this time?

Harry wasn't angry. He'd never been angry at Sammy for how he'd quite literally disappeared from The Corner weeks before. He wasn't mad that he hadn't sent even a single text since, hadn't called, hadn't checked to make sure the 'strife' wasn't unmanageable.

Harry wasn't angry. He simply wasn't anything towards Sammy.

Maybe he should reply. Maybe he should take Sammy up on his offer, because why not? Why the hell shouldn't he? What was wrong with meeting up for a drink and a thorough fucking, even if it was with someone who would disappear at a moment's notice and not look back? If Sammy wanted it and Harry wasn't entirely averse to the prospect, then why shouldn't he?

Harry let his phone flop down into his lap, slumping back into the arm of the couch. He wouldn't. Didn't want to. Couldn't quite make himself. It wasn't that he was a prude, or even particularly reserved; Harry knew himself, knew his habits, and knew that it was a blessing word of his night habits hadn't found their way into the papers, because it would surely tack 'promiscuous' onto his name alongside every other tag.

It wasn't for such reserve that he didn't message Sammy back. He simply didn't want to. For once, not even the knowledge that Sammy wanted to himself was enough to urge him to reply. Not this time.

Harry's flat was empty. It was quiet. It was so clean that he couldn't even busy himself with the mindless task of dusting, or unstacking his dishwasher, or running a charm over the rugs that covered the otherwise immaculately empty wooden floors. He'd spent enough time indoors in the past weeks, enough time pottering around in isolation when he wasn't at his friends' houses, or in their occasional company, that there was little else he could do.

So, Harry sat. He ignored his phone where it rested in his lap and instead tucked a knee up before him to his chest and dropped his forehead atop it. How was it possible to feel so tired when he did so little? Working out in the secreted little gym he attended that was about as close as he could get to privacy wasn't stimulating. Watching the television was utterly dull, and there was only so many articles he could read in magazines in his attempt to dodge around those concerning himself, or Draco, or the resurgence of hatred for Death Eaters that routinely arose and had simply been biding its time for a suitable trigger.

Harry was biding his own time, but he wasn't quite sure what for yet. In avoidance, maybe – of the paparazzi, of his obsessive fans that he couldn't even speak to, of his own thoughts… Definitely his own thoughts. They were dangerous territory. It was unfortunate that when he was left to himself those thoughts welled forth.

Had Draco left yet?

Had he flown or taken a portkey, as he'd said he would?

Where exactly in Switzerland was he going?

And, most importantly, was he alright? With all that was going on, every story in the papers and the magazines, and what would surely be less than amiable confrontations in public, was he alright? Harry wanted to know. He wanted to ask, wanted to pick up his phone and call just as he'd never done before, because he cared. Unexpectedly, too late, and quite suddenly yet in a way that didn't feel sudden at all, Harry found that he wanted… that he wanted to…

His phone rang.

Harry closed his eyes. He couldn't even bring himself to look down at his phone where it vibrated against his belly. Please don't, Sammy, he thought, willing the call to end prematurely. Please just leave me alone for the moment.

Sighing, resigning himself to the inevitable – for Sammy had a history of persistence when ignored – he opened his eyes and picked up his phone. Only to freeze when he caught sight of the name and number on the screen.

He's never called before. Harry's throat tightened. Why would he call? He hand clenched around his phone. Why would he…?

Harry pressed his phone to his ear. "Draco?" he almost whispered.

"Harry."

Just that. Just a simple word, and almost as tentative as Harry's. And yet it rung on echoing repeat in Harry's ear and he clung to it fiercely.

"Are you –?" he attempted before his voice caught. Swallowing, he tried again. "Are you alright?"

"I'm…" Draco trailed of for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. "I'm just about to leave."

It hit Harry like a hippogriff kick to his chest. "Oh." A pause, and then, "Have a safe trip, then. I'm sure you'll enjoy being away from it all –"

"Do you want to come with me?"

Harry's words stuttered off. His breath caught. "What?"

"Only if you want to," Draco said. Something distinctly urgent touched his words, almost managing to override what sounded oddly close to pleading. "Only if you really want to, Harry. Not because I asked it of you, or because someone else is making you. Do you… do you want…?"

He trailed off, and the silence that followed reverberated in Harry's ear. He almost couldn't breathe, his breath coming in stutters. His other hand rose to cusp the phone against his ear, and in the midst of a ballooning, incredibly warm swell in his chest, Harry realised he was nodding almost desperately.

"Yes," he croaked. "Please."

He was on his feet and out the door in minutes with barely a second paused to recognise the sudden euphoria that swept through him for what it was.

A/N: I am so sorry for the lateness of my update! Real life bogged me down and I'm only just getting myself organised enough to properly post.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and hopefully I'll get back on track for next week. Thanks for reading!