Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters in the series.
A/n: The plot's outcome is solidified, and the end officially starts at the last bit of this chapter as I am trying carefully not to gild the lily, so to say. Who knows, updates might even be more frequent now, because I'm so excited. Also, I have to say that I've already planned a party if I reach a thousand reviews. I mean...a thousand? Excuse my French, but fucking wow. The updating will be jubilantly more frequent, too. So it would be in your best interest to review!!
Dedication: To coconut-ice agent dizzle who figured it out before I posted this chapter.
A Few Responses: Nick: Thanks! Firefaerie23: Um, compliment? Backhand face? What was that? Twilight: I would have thought you'd be all fluffed out. I am. Waj: I already told you, it's a puppy! Just kidding. Heartbreaking if the end it...gulp. He, he. Rfr: Why thank you! I fully recovered and am back in action. Slim shady style. As for psyche! I used to say that ten times a day in the loveable nineties. It got pretty goddamn annoying. Thanks!
The Loft
Chapter Twenty-Five
Installation Application
The mattress he was laying on was unnaturally comfortable. He'd never even thought of putting the bed on the floor and sleeping on it, because it was decidedly far-fetched and inelegant. Laying there, looking at his roommate's relaxed face and sleep mussed hair-Draco wondered why he'd never slept on the floor before.
His head was surprisingly clear, as if he'd gotten a good night's rest without really planning to, and waking up to a slumbering Harry was ideal in his mind. Draco had never really been fascinated by someone before, and he squinted a bit at Harry's unstrained expression, hoping to find answers, possibly, in the freckle on the side of Harry's nose.
It must have been so early that Draco was delirious, as he got up and stumbled to the kitchen with dog ear socks. The tap was freezing when he turned it on, and the water tasted metallic and gross. Draco swirled it around his mouth for half a second, made an expression of distaste, and spat it back into the sink.
The sun was shining through the stained glass, and Draco looked briefly around the apartment. Next to the door was five plastic-wrapped canvases, and a projector. Harry had placed them there the night before, hoping that the following morning they would be able to leave early and set up at the gallery. Draco had surprisingly volunteered to help out all day until the show started at nine. Blaise had said he would drop by as well.
As was standard in the loft, Draco immediately turned on the stereo, listening to some morning ambiance that would wake both inhabitants up quite aptly. Harry stirred on his mattress, turning over and raising his arm above his head in a stretch. His shirt briefly rode up his stomach and Draco raised an eyebrow as he put on the coffee.
The day promised to be highly eventful, and his own excitement for Harry overpowered any anxiety he'd sported the last few weeks. He put cream and sugar in his mug and waited; watching as his roommate continued to turn in a light doze. Draco listened a bit closer, and could faintly hear chatter from downstairs, which meant that Remus had already opened his doors, or that Mrs. Sprout had arrived for work.
Harry had taken the day off, a good move according to Draco, but only for setting up the show. He'd been working nonstop for a week, and though Draco had been home, they had hardly seen each other. Not to mention that once Harry was done with his work with Remus, he went right back to painting, and that took many hours away from sleeping.
Harry was never tired physically, but Draco was sure he got headaches from all that thinking he did. Draco rarely saw him completely still and calm, even though Harry was generally a taciturn sort of fellow. He never freaked out or anything, not like Draco did when it came to work. Draco could throw a royal fit if he tried hard enough.
He threw the filter away and closed the spoon drawer with a little more force than necessary. Harry opened heavy eyelids, and turned to look at the source of the noise.
"What are you doing?"
"Coffee. Come on."
Harry turned his head away with a groan, but got up anyway, his jeans wrinkled and his shirt nearly back to front. Draco handed him a mug and Harry nodded his thanks, pouring his own cup while yawning widely.
"Did you notice that Blaise kept fingering something in his pocket last night at dinner?"
Leaning against the counter, Harry gratefully accepted a coaster and waved a hand at Draco sleepily. "I really don't want to know about what Blaise fingers."
"No," Draco interrupted, giving him a look both amused and menacing. "I meant the ring in his pocket that he plans to give to Hermione."
A brief look of confusion from Harry, and then his eyes widened and he seemed considerably more awake. "A ring?"
"A ring." Draco moved a couple of pans to the other side of the counter and Harry winced from the noise. "I saw it. Usually you're the observant one."
"Observant?"
"Wow, not only are you ugly this early in the morning, but brain dead as well."
Harry flapped a hand at him, unconcerned, but didn't protest. He rubbed his eyes sleepily instead, and toddled off to lay on the couch rather ungracefully. Undeterred, Draco followed him and sat down as well.
"I think it's too soon," he leaned over and fixed his socks.
"For them to get married?" Harry removed his feet from the table and let Draco have the space to stretch out. "Why?"
Draco sighed somewhat benignly. "He's just not mature enough to make that kind of commitment."
At this loaded comment, Harry rolled his head toward him on the back of the couch and raised his eyebrows.
Draco quickly backpedaled. "What I mean is...I wasn't ready for commitment, and I'm excruciatingly more mature than he is."
The same expression. "Uh huh."
"Really," he said, though not so sure of himself now, and decidedly unprepared for debate. He swallowed a gulp of his coffee. "I know Blaise, and I've been in this same sort of situation before. Twice actually. One was a boyfriend I had a year or so ago-very good looking-had the nicest hair..."
"I don't think you're supposed to be having this conversation with me," Harry said, comically pained.
"Really? Well I went out with him, a guy named Jack Sloper, for a while, and he turned out to be a real jerk."
"Shouldn't we be talking about this while shopping for shoes . . . or in a tea room?"
Draco put his coffee down and leaned back, smirking. "He was nothing on you, though." He could tell Harry was flattered, and slightly hopeful that the subject would not be expanded upon.
"We broke up and then I dated this Asian girl that my mother set me up with . . . " Failure! Relentless bad luck! Harry closed his eyes and groaned.
"...And then there was one girl that was relatively nice. Lots of charisma. But she walked with a limp so I dropped the knife on her."
Harry stirred and blinked. "You broke up with her because she limped?"
"We only dated for a few months, and I couldn't really travel hand-in-hand with her because it threw me off balance when we walked. The problem was, she loved walking hand-in-hand and it's tiring saying no and not telling her the reason why..."
"You didn't want to hurt her feelings," Harry shook his head, astonished. "Why do I feel like I should commit this to memory?"
Draco laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't worry, I wouldn't abandon you if you had a limp."
Harry didn't say anything, but a small twitching smile from him made Draco's mood lighten a bit more. He grabbed his mug and got comfortable. "Paralysis may be a deal-breaker, though."
"Jesus Christ," his roommate got up.
"What?"
Draco was-as before proved-very talkative that morning. He'd woken up in an extraordinarily good mood and hadn't wanted to waste it without pestering Harry. The closest being to harp his facetious attitude upon was his grouchy-artist boyfriend, and Draco knew just what to say to push his buttons so early. He got up to open a small slit in the stained glass windows, so that a cool breeze from the river could come in.
He was excited for the art show that night, partially because Harry had said he was in the installation quite a few times, but also because Harry was including him in the proceedings. He had a feeling that being a part of the show meant that he'd hit a certain spot with Harry that brought them to a new level of intimacy. He had a small flashback of concupiscent emerald eyes and skin on skin.
Feeling more comfortable and a little tired, Draco slouched in his seat and leaned his head against the scratchy fabric of the couch. He watched Harry roll up the cords for the camera while yawning widely, and relaxed to examine the tussled jeans and the tiny bit of skin he could see between his shirt and pants.
He decided to busy himself with refilling his coffee mug, and not watching Harry, whom he assumed would not be in the mood for any 'morning sexual advances'.
The weather outside was varying from overcast to sunny and the clouds would sometimes create a shadow that made it rather cold. Remus had said something about air conditioning and a heater being installed before summer, but the lotus-leaf-sitter (direct quote from Blaise) was known to forget about seemingly important things when they didn't have to do with dandelions...or other happy plants.
He considered dragging Harry on a walk to the market, seeing as the day was so nice, but the struggle would be potentially lethal considering Harry's glare that was on full blast.
"We have no quarters for the Laundromat, did you take them?" Translation: did your nut-job best friend pilfer ten dollars in change?
"I can make more. Do we have that much laundry?"
Harry sighed. "We can probably only get two or three loads done before we have to go to the gallery," he titled his head slightly. "You know, you wear a lot of clothes."
He held up a white shirt and a blue jacket for proof of his laundry overuse. "I don't even think this is dirty."
Draco walked over and examined the jacket as well before humming in the back of his throat and pointing down at it. "See? A spot of deodorant on the underarm."
Wisely, Harry said nothing, and put the articles in a pillow case. The keys in his pocket jingled as he slipped on his Converse and yawned delicately. He glanced at Draco only very slightly before shifting into dangerous territory.
"Have you talked to anyone lately?"
"Anyone?" Meaning his parents, but most important, his father. He had told Harry that they weren't talking, but hadn't gone into detail.
"No, not really."
Harry was giving him that look, not quite resigned, but silently asking for more. "I talked with Severus on the phone a couple of days ago."
"Does he know you two aren't talking?"
"Naturally. What doesn't Severus know?"
It hadn't been stated cryptically, and Draco had meant in a general sort of way. Harry, however, did manage to look extremely uncomfortable for a few moments.
"Are you, you know, alright with not talking to him?"
Astonished, but not surprised he'd asked, Draco shook his head. "Of course not, he's my dad." A low, almost disappointed sigh. "But if he doesn't want to talk to me then I won't make him."
"That's a teensy bit juvenile, don't you think?"
"That's exactly what my mother said."
The 'so why don't you take her advice' was unspoken. Draco really didn't want to talk to his father, not because they were at monumental odds with each other, but simply because the intensity of the issue before them scared Draco half to death. He was content, for now, to be ignorant of all except Harry's art show, lunch, and what he planned to wear that night.
"Do I want to know why you aren't talking to him?"
"No, I don't think you do," he'd said it too quickly.
It seemed like no time before they were out the door and stumbling down the stairs with two pillow cases full of laundry. Draco had taken forever in the bathroom, as opposed to Harry who only brushed his teeth twice washed his face and left his hair a mess. Draco had briefly assaulted him at the front door with a long and deep kiss that he claimed he'd been wanting to give Harry all morning but had refrained on account of bad breath. Harry had rolled his eyes.
They made a lot of noise coming down, so it was no wonder that the conversation had halted long before they'd come upon Remus, Mrs. Sprout, and a few chatting customers.
"Hey," said Remus. "You off to the gallery so early?"
Harry held up the bag of laundry. "Laundry, then lunch. Want to meet us somewhere?"
Shaking his head, the botanist smiled congenially at a woman hoping to purchase one of his uglier office plants. "Can't, but I'll be there around nine-thirty."
"Great, he said he'd go, now can we please leave?"
"What's got you so impatient?" Harry turned to Draco irritably. The blond fiddled with his jacket, zipping it and unzipping it.
"Let's just go."
Harry wanted to say something about his mood swings, something having to do with pre-menstrual women, but simply smiled and walked out with Draco following anxiously. When they reached the street, Harry turned to him and frowned.
"What was that?"
They set off in the direction of the Laundromat, which was only a few blocks away, and Draco cast him a relieved but still nervous glance.
"One of my mom's friends. My dad's secretary's mom..."
"...Mom's second cousin's neighbor's Aunt?"
"Shut up."
Harry laughed, and then stopped to pick up a penny on the floor. Draco sneered, eyes on the dirty currency, and they set off once more. The street wasn't that crowded, surprisingly, and Harry and Draco easily wove in and out of the crowd, talking in between groups of the homeless, commuters, and a flock of tourists.
"What time are we meeting Blaise?"
"Three, but more like four because he's always late. He doesn't even get creativity points for his excuses. They're all the same."
"Some guy assaulted me..." it was a bad impression, Harry knew, and grey eyes laughed at him as they stepped into a rectangular shaped, white room with countless washers and dryers set up to the right and the left.
There, they both learned that Draco did not know how to work any type of machinery having to do with manual labor, and had never set one shiny-shoed foot into a Laundromat. In fact, he had trouble putting the quarters in, and Harry merely sat on top of said dryers and watched him in hilarity.
Once it was started, Draco thought it wise to ask, "How long do we have to wait?"
"Until it buzzes at us. Then we put it in here," he patted the one he was sitting on. "Didn't you have a maid named Yolanda that could show you how to wash your own clothes?"
"I had a maid, but I never talked to her. Malfoy's don't do their own laundry."
It sounded so utterly ridiculous that it set Harry off for about five minutes. Draco had wanted to get something to eat at the Bagel place next store, but that had only made Harry laugh even harder.
"You can't just leave your clothes in there. Someone will steal them."
"They're tailored to fit me, honestly, it's not like a bum could find any use for my multicolored polo shirts..."
A rather scraggily looking homeless man walked by them on the other side of the row of washers at that exact moment, and muttered something about the end of the world. They followed him with their eyes, one suspicious and the other laughing, and then turned back to their conversation.
"Draco Malfoy's polo shirts."
Draco leaned against the rumbling and bumbling dryer and smirked. "You know, you'd make a clever stalker."
"Says the guy who's never done his own laundry."
He considered saying something cheesy like 'that's what I have you for', but restrained himself in order to prevent an argument. Harry didn't like when he threw dumb pick-up lines; that was Blaise's area of expertise.
Harry had eventually relented and gone next door to get them something, leaving Draco to hover insecurely over their laundry. He regretted sending Harry away immediately when a middle-aged woman, about 5'4 with a snood firmly attached to the base of her greying hair approached him, determined.
"You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you?"
It was impossible for him not to seem leery of her motives. She could, after all, have any number of weapons in her obtusely large handbag. "Yes," he ventured cautiously.
The intense look died into excitement. "I just think that you're divine!"
What a fucking quack, Draco smiled politely and moved back a few steps.
"I saw in the paper that you'd gotten together with another guy, and I just want you to know that you have my full support as a fellow enforcer of human rights and equality!"
His eyebrows shot up, but he managed to keep a smile on his face which surely made him look partially insane. "Thank you?"
"Oh and that artist you got together with, he's just gorgeous. I think you make a perfect match. Are your signs compatible? They must be..."
Draco caught sight of Harry shifting two coffee cups and a bag of pastries outside of the door. The woman started shuffling in her purse.
"I think I have a newspaper clipping in here that you could sign. You will, won't you? I just have to tell everyone that you look even handsomer in person! Where is that pen? I always put so much stuff in my bag and I can never find anything."
As she was looking down, Draco shook his head frantically at Harry. He made a motion of turning around with his hands, and Harry tilted his head and frowned. Draco pointed to the woman, and Harry looked as well. A moment later, Harry had raised his eyebrows and disappeared. Draco turned his attention back to her, trying hard not to grimace.
"Here we are," she handed the pen and newspaper to him. It was a picture he hadn't seen, of him and Harry standing outside of a club with Blaise. "My name is Dolores, and could you sign it at the bottom? Not over your partner's face. Oh!"
She looked into her bottomless bag once again. "I have some Tarot cards with me, would you like me to chart your new relationship? It might ensure success and lessen the chance of abrupt death or infidelity!"
"Er," an undignified way of expressing confusion. "No thanks, I'm great."
The woman said something about it being better not to interfere with 'true love' and gave a giggle that seemed half an ahem. She eventually left in the flurry with which she'd come in, and Draco couldn't remember if he'd put Raco Alfoy, or Rac Malfy on his autograph.
Flustered, he nearly jumped two feet when the washer buzzed at him.
Harry stood at the door laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. "Holy...fuck . . . "
"Shut the hell up."
Before their laundry was finished, they managed to get into two easy-going arguments, and the bum from earlier decided to come back and accost them for money. Harry didn't have any more change and Draco had told the guy he'd forgotten his wallet. The man had cupped his hand and waved it in front of them until Harry had placed the penny he'd found on the street earlier that morning into the man's palm.
They laughed for a while about the woman, and Harry brought out a few of his useless comments like, "Did you know that Panama is the only place where you can see the sun rise on the Pacific and set on the Atlantic?"
Draco had glared. "Stop it with the bottle cap facts!"
By the time they had called for a cab using Draco's cell phone, they had their laundry packed up and folded. The gallery was all the way across town, and the cab driver was complaining about the smell of the detergent they'd used on their laundry.
"At least it doesn't smell like the ass-end of a quicky mart, like your fucking back seat!"
Harry had to give the cab driver his money, because Draco refused to hand it to him. Their walk up the steps of the gallery was spent with Harry admonishing Draco for fighting with the cab driver who could barely speak any English, and was perhaps wearing the worst toupe in the history of fake hair replacement.
They were greeted by, low and behold, Oliver Wood, who hugged Harry way too long as Draco had silently steamed.
"Nice to see you again, Malfoy," Wood said civilly. He was wearing a brown coat with jeans and sneakers, and Draco glared at his handsome face. He must have seemed ridiculous with two pillow cases full of folded laundry, trying to look intimidating and territorial.
"You too. It's a pleasure."
Smack! Draco held his shoulder and flinched. "What is your problem? Quit it with the dramatics," Harry said, leading him down the pure white halls.
"Oliver, could you look after our laundry until a friend can take it back to the loft?"
Draco just knew, just knew that leaving his laundry with Wood seemed like a fatal mistake. The man would probably sell Draco's clothes and add Harry's to his 'Harry Shrine'. He was steaming when Wood agreed amiably, and made a comment about them sharing loads (derogatory prick, Draco noted) and furthering their surprisingly wonderful relationship.
He wanted to say something on the lines of, yeah, we are getting further, and yeah, he's with me so back the hell off, but the two old friends had already gone into the back for the equipment. He was being nonsensical, since the last time they'd talked Wood had practically given his consent to the relationship. Draco supposed he was just in an odd mood.
The gallery was exceedingly nice. There were three floors, an upstairs that served as a balcony overlooking the second floor that had five different rooms. A spiral staircase lead downstairs to the older pieces and artist awards. The ceiling was glass, letting sun shine through and warm everything around them. Wood told them enthusiastically that at night the tender had installed twinkle lights that would shine as well as the neon lighting on the walls.
He liked the designer, and Wood, to his displeasure, said that he'd designed some of the show's decorations as well. Harry had an entire room to himself, which in itself was odd, and Wood had already set up the screen that would show the installation.
"There will be a D.J. in the room next to you, and drinks in here and room four, the lighting in here is the best, I think." The ceiling was glass in there as well, but the lighting was from outside and at the bottoms of the walls so they could illuminate the paintings. Two bean bag chairs sat in front of the projector, and Harry ran over and plopped into one.
"Because you designated it?" Draco growled.
Harry looked at him, and Wood grinned wolfishly. "Mm hmm."
The man was clearly mocking him now, and he admitted silently to himself that his own attitude was rather ridiculous. He snorted a bit, and smirked. The tension was gone.
"I want one of these," Harry said, squishing down into the chair happily.
"No," he objected automatically. "Let's get started, already."
Wood helped them put up the canvases, which shouldn't have taken three people but it did. Draco kept his temper copasetic and observed Harry's art work as they put it up. A lot of his works were divided into themes. This batch was based on different types of surreal landscapes, as opposed to the last art show that had a focus of storms and night scenes. Harry had pointed out that one of his 'ironic' landscapes with city lights and flowers didn't have a lightening bolt in it. The first and only one of his paintings without one.
It took only a few hours to get the room set up, and by then it was close to when they would have to meet Blaise for lunch. Harry helped Wood install the lights in room three, before coming back to check the installation projector. He'd told Draco teasingly, "You'll have to wait until tonight to see the installation. It should be hilarious."
What that meant, Draco didn't know, and didn't really want to know. He supposed he would be embarrassed when the time came. They left Wood as he was talking to the gallery director and the D.J. and set out for a French café that Draco claimed his mother adored.
When they got there, it was no surprised that Blaise was no where to be found, so they sat down on a lobby chair and waited to be seated. They didn't wait long, after all, Draco Malfoy was there and he would not be subjected to a waiting list. They decided to sit out on the patio.
The waiter came by and they ordered an aperitif and Draco called Blaise to see where he was. They didn't need to wait that long, because soon enough they heard a honk and the sound of the front end of a car hitting a parking block. Draco rolled his eyes.
"I am on time-a, yes?" Blaise said, in an atrociously bad French accent. The host had followed him all the way to their table, making sure his best friend was under control before sighing in relief and slouching back to the front of the restaurant. Dishes clinked as Blaise sat down, and the sounds from the kitchen were distracting.
"Hey there, Harry, my good man. Can't wait for tonight!"
"You're only going because there's free food," Draco said, stirring his drink lightly.
Harry smiled at Blaise as he sputtered, indignant. "I am not! I'm going to support a brilliant artist and soon to be best friend-in-law with his endeavors."
"Support him in his endeavors, huh?" Draco shook his head.
The waiter came back, grinning politely, and asked Blaise what he would like to drink.
"A demitasse, with a bit of cream and sugar. And a spoon."
Harry closed his eyes and bit back laughter as the waiter gave Blaise a look that said he was clearly not impressed, and more than a little annoyed.
"A cup of coffee, anything else?"
"Cream and sugar...and a spoon." Blaise seemed oblivious, just happy that he had said something French in a French café.
The waiter eyed the knife, fork, and spoon sitting on top of a napkin in front of him. Blaise looked down and shrugged with a grin. Further observation showed cream and sugar already on the table. The waiter walked away.
"You're an idiot."
"I thought it was clever."
"You're going to get 86'd if you keep it up," Harry said to him, putting his chin in his hand. Blaise shrugged, and lit a cigarette. Draco made a show of coughing and blowing the smoke away.
"Hi, I'm Piers and I'm going to be taking over as the new shift. Are you ready to order?"
"Piers?" Blaise said, blowing smoke down the table. "Like taking a long walk off a short pier?"
The new waiter chuckled, though if it wasn't fake then Draco was a virgin. "Oh, well, yes, I don't know..."
"Is it spelled like Pierre? That would be a good name for a guy who works in a French café," Blaise said, showing his savior-faire.
Harry and Draco both said, "Shut up," and Harry threw a napkin at him.
"What can I get for you?"
Draco gave Harry the 'you order first' look, and then smirked at Blaise. "Watch him order. It's hilarious."
The artist ignored him and set stern eyes on the waiter. "I want a soy souffle very lightly baked, no eggs, and if you don't have soy I want a steamed plate of vegetables, but only green beans, carrots, broccoli and asparagus, preferably a bit crunchy but not too crunchy since they are steamed. If you have soy beans, I would like those as well, though if you don't have a soy souffle then I doubt you'll have any beans, so forget about it if you don't. A sweet potato, no sour cream or butter, unless you have soy butter, but we've already been over this."
Harry took a breath. "I'd like some lemon juice, but organic, if you have it, and a side of...lentil soup, and wheat bread. Some courgette, if you don't have the souffle as well as the vegetables. Oh, do you have unsweetened jelly?"
The waiter had been writing frantically and finally looked up, overwhelmed. "I... can check?"
"No, don't worry about it. But if you do, that would be great."
"Anything else?" The man said a bit fearfully. Draco looked at Harry and tried not to grin manically. Harry hummed, and shook his head, folding up the menu.
"No, thank you."
The waiter, looking relieved, turned to Draco expectantly.
"I'll have the pâté de lapin," he said simply and handed over the menu. Blaise sat up when the waiter looked at him.
"I'm going to have to try the...au gratin?"
"That's onion soup, Blaise, you're allergic."
The waiter chose this moment to interrupt deftly. "We do have other non-French meals, of course."
"Oh," Blaise said, looking around at his companions. He handed his menu to the waiter and grinned. "I'll have a cheese pizza."
When he left, Blaise made to swat at Harry. "I can't believe you! Did you do that on purpose?"
Harry looked mildly offended, before his lips twitched in an almost smile. "Yeah."
"He does it every time. I don't know why," Draco shrugged. "Doesn't like waiters, I guess."
"No," he defended himself, moving his cutlery to the side and taking a drink of his water. "I like being specific. I think it's helpful to be specific instead sending it back when it's wrong."
Blaise looked at Draco and nodded to Harry, grinning. "Says the artist. Speaking of which, what is the gallery like?"
"Oh it's great. I've never had a show there before. Three floors."
"It's pretty nice," Draco acquiesced, and then got a malicious glint in his eye. "Wood's there right now getting the rest set up."
As planned, and Draco got a glower from Harry in response, Blaise frowned and looked ready for a fight. "That fucker!"
He said 'fucker' loud enough to attract attention from the surrounding tables. Harry waved a hand at him. "Calm down. He's a nice guy, really."
"My ass," Blaise snapped, and looked genuinely pissed off. "I can't stand that guy."
"Just chill, okay?" Draco placated. "I'm sorry I brought it up." Harry stopped glaring at him.
Blaise lent back and put out his cigarette in an ash tray. "He'll be there tonight?"
Harry shrugged. "It's likely."
"Shit."
Why Draco had brought it up, was obvious to everyone at the table, and Harry wasn't impressed. It wasn't very cunning to manipulate small-minded Blaise into taking his side on the matter, and they all knew that nothing would come out of it except Blaise starting a fight where he shouldn't. Harry remembered the way they had fought last time, briefly smiling at the vision of Blaise's flailing arms and legs. Silly, the entire situation seemed silly.
"Remember, you promised to take our laundry back to our place. You're riding with us over to the gallery, yes?" Draco saw fit to remind him. '
Blaise got his coffee and started to fix it, scowling all the while and refusing to look up. Which meant that he had forgotten... "Yeah, yeah, I know. I have to leave right after that then, drop your shit off, and then pick up Hermione."
"And hopefully take a shower," Harry suggested hopefully.
Blaise looked up from his now caramel colored coffee and mocked him sarcastically. "And hopefully take a shower."
"Speaking of which," a careful diversion by one Mr. Potter. "Draco went to the Laundromat for the first time today."
"Oh yeah?" Blaise looked highly amused. "I remember when Hermione dragged me to one. Those buzzers..." he shook his head.
"It scared me too! It's also the personal headquarters for the homeless!"
"Your mom is headquarters for the homeless."
"Fucking Blaise . . . "
They eventually got their lunch, and Harry's was miraculously perfect. There turned out to be no soy souffle, but the proper steamed vegetables were there, the sweet potato, the wheat bread and the lentil soup. To top it all off, the waiter hadn't forgotten the jelly, which he assumed was unsweetened. There was, however, a new face serving their food.
"I'm Marietta. Piers is on break," their replacement said, and then scurried away.
Draco couldn't help himself, and he started to laugh. "That's two waiters gone, how many more to go?"
"The entire Upper East Side workforce!" Blaise exclaimed happily.
"Well I didn't mean to cause trouble." That statement caused both Draco and Blaise to groan at Harry in amused disbelief and throw various table ware at him.
It was really too bad their first waiter never came back, because Draco tipped heavily on their way out. Marietta looked happy enough, though they all knew Piers would be quite mad at himself when he realized he'd given up a forty-dollar tipper.
"Too bad, so sad." Blaise motioned for them to get in once he'd unlocked his car. Harry, remembering Blaise's driving habits all too well, gave Draco a look.
The ride back to the gallery was relatively uneventful, except for the frequent traffic stops, paying the toll to get on the thruway, and Blaise having a speaker fight with the guys sitting at the stoplight next to him. Harry and Draco tried their best to detain him, but eventually gave up and rolled down the windows to get fresh air away from the smoke.
Draco felt restless, a little mentally tired, and (per usual), anxious in Blaise's car. They had spent a bit over an hour at the restaurant, and the day was coming to a close. He felt content that it wouldn't be over and that it had practically just started. He didn't think that Harry was too nervous about tonight, but then again the artist had a way of seeming completely emotionless. Either that, or he was just confused.
They pulled up to the gallery, and parked rather crookedly in the first available handicapped space. Draco rolled his eyes and they walked up the steps, only to be met by Oliver Wood. Smiling all the while, Wood told Draco there wasn't much to do left, and Harry suggested he go home and get ready. Draco didn't care much for leaving Harry alone with the man, but figured he was grown enough to take care of himself.
After Blaise shoved a warning finger in Wood's face, Draco grabbed their laundry and headed out. The last thing he saw before they pulled away was Wood's hand on Harry's lower back as he steered the brunette back inside. As unfounded as his jealousy was, Draco decided that he would look stunning that night, and he told Blaise so, as they careened down the street-back to the loft.
The thrum of the pulsing music was easily heard over the crowd of cars and conglomerations of unique looking people. Lights adorned the outside of the gallery, sparkling lavender and blue over the glass rooms and windows. A line lead into the lobby, letting one person at a time enter and pay a small gallery fee, before they disappeared into a mass of jostling and laughing bodies. Lighting from the ceiling faded in and out across a neon spectrum, and from outside, it looked as if it were a top notch club rather than an art show.
Draco knew it would be impossible to spot Harry in the growing multitude of visitors, but it didn't prevent him from looking from behind the tinted windows of his limo. Blaise had told him to arrive in style, the common Draco Malfoy way, if only because he wanted to make a flashy scene, but admittedly, he likewise wanted to show Wood who was boss when it came to Harry. Blaise had promised to give the rally cry when he showed up around ten, and in a very uncharacteristic change in mood, Draco was ready to riot with him.
He opened his doors just as the techno blasted out of the gallery, and caught sight of the herd of reporters a moment too late.
"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy!" they flocked around him, and he dodged a journalist with humongous feet that threatened to dirty his polished shoes. "What are you doing at tonight's opening? Does it have anything to do with Mr. Potter?"
Feeling dreadfully annoyed, and more than a little surprised at such a stupid question, Draco turned around and addressed the reporter, who was the only one lucky enough to get a word out of him that evening. "No shit."
Gob smacked, the paparazzi stepped back and let him pass, the dramatic clicking of the cameras still going off. When he reached the front doors others parted for him as well, equally cowed but not at all shocked that Draco Malfoy had shown up. If only, Draco thought vindictively, the people he really wanted to intimidate were intimidated...at least anybody but a pack of artsy-fartsy bohemians.
What I do for this guy, he shook his head slightly to himself as he paid the fee and sidestepped the ropes baring the lobby from the separate rooms.
Pushing through the floods of admirers (he assumed that all of them had come out to see Harry's main exhibition) Draco made his way to the room he had helped set up that morning. If getting through the first two areas was hard...Harry's room was probably the worst.
The entire place was bathed in blue light, and the projector was playing a part of the installation project maybe in the middle or at the very end. Draco stopped next to a couple decked out in multiple tattoos and rings in their ears. He barely gave them a disgusted glance before he was instantly drawn toward his own face on the screen.
He was hot among the crowded bodies, but didn't dream of leaving as he saw himself meticulously making coffee and what looked like a bagel. There was no music, it was just him and his morning breakfast, and he truly wondered when Harry had snuck the camera in his face. The scene lasted barely four minutes before a body jumped in front and turned the camera toward the mural, which did not have the black streak across it. Harry smiled into the screen cheekily.
There was music suddenly, blaring and overpowering, and Harry was at the mural painting and the people around him were laughing. He was laughing as well, because right there on Harry's back jean pocket was a hand print with bright blue paint. Harry was dancing while he dabbed details on the wall, and Draco remembered watching him do those same moves randomly around the apartment.
"I wish Harry the best of luck with life," Blaise's head appeared. "I mean, he's a good guy, and one hell of a painter." He shook his head. "But I have no fucking idea what he's thinking with this not-eating-meat thing. The guy's bug fuck if he thinks that's going to go down with the in-crowd. He's gonna get real popular and then wham!"
Blaise slapped his hand into the camera. "Sorry," he brushed it off with his sleeve. "Its social suicide. If going out with Draco isn't already..."
The music changed drastically then, and the slow guitar chords created an extremely melancholy theme. Harry was standing in front of the mural, the paint and details added, and he developed the thinking pose as he examined the wall. The scene flashed and Blaise was added; mocking the same stance right behind him. A close up of Harry, who shyly tossed his hair toward the mural.
"It needs something."
Voices, traveling from outside the loft, alerted the empty room to the arrival of Harry and Draco. They were arguing, and it was an argument Draco had regretted having the other night.
"I don't know how they broke in, all right!"
Draco had a murderous expression on his face. "I have my key, so they must have gotten yours," he insisted.
"That's not true," Harry shook his head. "I'm the paranoid person about keys and things, and I know no one stole it, because it's in my bag."
"Someone must have copied it. Remus always locks the doors."
Evidence of the break-in was still strewn a bit about the floor, and over the mural, which showed the black streak, its first appearance, running through it. "I'm sorry," Harry then said, dejectedly. "I swear they couldn't have copied my key."
Draco sat down on the couch with a huff. "I just don't understand why they would come in here and throw stuff around, but not take anything."
"Maybe they did and we haven't noticed," Harry suggested, though there wasn't much hope in his tone, but it did carry some caution. For good reason, because Draco saw the opening and took it.
"We would notice. Someone would notice if they were hiding something."
Low blow, and the Draco now watching himself realized that fully. Suddenly paranoid that the viewers had noticed his entrance, he moved a little closer to the wall just as the music picked up again, and Harry was painting, but this time on the ladder that Draco swore would be the death of him one day. Blaise, whom the audience had gotten used to very fast, was shouting up at Harry who had his head phones on.
"I don't fucking care about the fucking rent but fucking Hermione wants to know who's going to handle the bills when we get fucking married!"
Harry didn't seem to be listening to him, and Blaise took out a cigarette and lit it. The people around him laughed as Blaise leaned against the mural, putting a hand print in the wet paint. He glared, meaning to have a talk to Blaise about touching what didn't necessarily belong to him.
The rough beat was back again, and the scene went backward to Harry examining the damage done to his mural. There was paint in his messy hair and all over his jeans, and he stood with one foot extended in front of him, a comfortable and flexible pose that Draco hadn't noticed he'd do until just then.
"That's it!" Harry exclaimed, and suddenly ran toward the couch and jumped over it, disappearing. I told him not to climb on the furniture, he scowled.
Everyone got an eyeful of a dancing Blaise, who seemed to think he could pull off freak dancing in the middle of their apartment. Harry was in the background watching him, a paintbrush behind his ear, and Draco wondered where he was before he heard his own voice.
"Get the fuck out of here!"
Dennis had the camera next, and was looking into it with one eyebrow raised. "It is now two weeks into the mural project, and it has been messed up a grand total of..." Dennis looked off to an unknown source for the answer. "Seven times."
"Blaise, don't slosh that water..." Crash!
Dennis grimaced. "Eight."
The music changed into a faster beat but lower volume. Draco chuckled a bit, seeing a conversation he remembered all-too well. He briefly looked around the room, which must have gotten more crowded as he was watching the projector.
"That liar!" Draco in the installation exclaimed. "He said he had packing to do, and fed me to the wolves!"
"You're so dramatic, Draco," Blaise murmured. "Is that blood? Holy shit I'm dying . . . " He pushed his used tissue toward the couple and pointed. "Blood, see? Right there."
"That's disgusting," Draco leaned over, successfully avoiding the tissue, and smacked Blaise on the back of the head. "You're such a baby. I don't know why you came here looking for sympathy. You're a glutton for punishment."
"Honestly, Draco, he's sick," Harry nodded to a moaning Blaise. "And even though I really don't appreciate getting an eyeful of someone's snot rag, I think I can safely say I still sympathize with him. Being sick isn't any fun."
"Oh well, yeah." A scene change. "Someone was installing something."
"No, not the cheese!"
"'...isn't the acacia fascinating...'"
A sleeping Draco.
"Yeah well, at least I'm not disabled."
"We're going to make this the best installment ever!"
The scene dissolved before him, the room still blue, and the mural appeared just as itself, completely finished and absolutely lovely.
Draco hadn't given much thought to the fact Harry had covered the wall with a white sheet all this time, and now that he could finally see the finished product, he truly knew why Harry was so popular. He smiled a tiny true smile and crossed his arms over his chest. The screen went black, and the lights flashed. Those who had watched started to shuffle out or move along the walls to look at Harry's other paintings. The film started over again and Draco turned away, grinning.
He was taken by complete surprise when a hand grabbed his arm and tugged him into the crowd. He could see Harry's bowed head and felt the himself being pulled relentlessly and he followed, amused. They eventually got into the back, where stacks and stacks of boxes, paint, and plastic wrap sat around from earlier that morning.
Draco laughed softly as Harry closed the door, searching for any peeping toms. "I saw the finished product, and I really must say..." but he couldn't really say anything and just continued to smile.
Harry turned to him and looked away shyly, smiling despite his obvious nervousness. "It's packed out there."
Nodding, he waved a hand. "It's all for you. It's a wonder why your ego isn't-"
"As big as yours?" Harry cut him off, moving closer with a sly smirk.
Draco let himself be wrapped into a light embrace, and thought of how devastatingly romantic it would be to engage in certain activities in a storage room. Harry seemed to sense his barbed humor, and he dimpled boisterously.
"Did you like it? Tell the truth."
Instead of answering-because really, Draco was no good with sincere compliments - he put a hand at the base of Harry's neck and brought his lips forward into a kiss. Arms were around him, and he was clutching Harry's elbow to keep them both steady. Harry dipped his tongue further into his mouth, and soft lips glided across his own like velvet. Smiling into the kiss, Draco tilted his head and made it deeper, more passionate, just as his hands started to grasp Harry's waist and bury into his hair.
The door to the storage room swung open, and Oliver Wood stood there for half a second before giving a comical partial scream and closing the door with a slam. Draco, one of his fantasies having just been lived out, laughed uproariously until Harry saw fit to shut him up with a dead arm.
They were soon greeting Remus, still red-lipped from one last kiss, and hearing continuous praise from Harry's many admirers. Harry's face was as red as a tomato by the time Blaise showed up with Hermione on his arm. They were arguing fantastically, and most of the people who had watched the installation already, looked on in curiosity.
Harry's art show would be written up the next day as a total success. Some critics even wished that the mural hadn't of been painted in the loft, not realizing that the apartment itself was a work of art in its own. Draco was proud of Harry, especially when a highly popular gossip reporter named Rita Skeeter commended him on winning the crowd.
Wood, with a huge beaming grin on his face and eyes shifting in between he and Harry, tapped the artist on the arm to distract him from a conversation he was having with a woman from a local paper. Wood motioned for him to follow as well, and they went up to the third floor balcony, where some people observed the proceedings beneath the glass ceiling.
"Well, I've done my job right. Not only are you two making out in the storage room," a blush from them both. "But your paintings are all sold...and someone wants to make the loft a museum."
"What?" Harry shook his head frantically. "That's Remus' apartment really, and he's the landlord. I asked permission to paint it but I can't ask him to . . . "
"Calm down," Wood said firmly. "I told the person no, but he did say the offer still stands. Forever."
"He could at least wait until we move out," Draco said snottily.
"Draco! You can't just go making promises that you're not entitled to make."
He gave Harry a look that said otherwise, and turned back as Wood congratulated him on his success, and then left.
"I can't believe someone bought all of them. Again!" Harry turned to him excitedly.
"Neither can I," he smirked. "How about we go home and celebrate?"
Harry glared at him. "How about you be patient."
The music was still pounding throughout the gallery as the night turned late and people eventually started to drift off. Blaise left with Hermione, still fighting but at the 'not talking' stage, and Remus excused himself, but not before calling Harry and Draco a cab.
He was right to call one early even though Harry and Draco left a lot later than Remus. The cab was caught in traffic and managed to get them out of there a little after one o'clock in the morning. Harry was lightly dozing next to him and he himself was barely able to keep his own eyes open. He'd been aware enough, however, to make sure the cab driver wasn't the one he'd gotten into a fight with earlier.
When they finally pulled up to the loft, they stumbled out and Harry shuffled for the keys tiredly. Remus had turned all of the lights off save the staircase night light, and once again, they made huge amounts of noise walking up the stairs.
They opened the door and stumbled over a few things before finding the light. The overhead fan made a steady humming noise and immediately the room was filled with refreshingly cold air. Harry slipped off his shoes and dropped his back pack. Draco looked at his heavily socked feet and titled his head sleepily.
"You want to use the bathroom first?" Harry asked, yawning.
Draco shook his head and slumped toward the kitchen. "No, you go ahead." They had been full of energy earlier, but the time had eventually caught up with them, and Draco wondered if he'd be able to stay awake to persuade Harry into warming up.
He poured himself a glass of water and drowsily stepped toward the couch when his foot caught on something heavy and flung it sloppily across the floor boards. Frowning, he looked down at Harry's backpack and froze.
Draco hadn't noticed the bag all night, but must have gotten used to Harry taking it everywhere. Suddenly struck in the median between do or don't, Draco stood without breathing and stared. The zipper must have been open, because things from the inside of it were out and all over the floor. He knelt down, placing his glass on the coffee table and cursing silently.
He picked up some papers that had fallen out, a few CD's, and a long, old looking brown book. Draco looked at the door cautiously, hearing the sound of the water pipes still going in the bathroom. It was unthinkable, against his resolution, wrong, wrong, wrong...but nothing was holding him back from looking at the articles in his hand. All of which seemed unimportant and not at all an invasion of privacy.
Glancing inside the now empty bag, he could see an old billfold at the bottom. He took it out curiously and opened it up. There were no credit cards, no ID, nothing but the money in the inner fold. Draco frowned, looking at the one-hundred dollar bills, coming to the conclusion that there must have been at least three thousand dollars in there.
Draco looked at the papers next, and found that they were letters. The first one he opened he blinked at, glancing at the door again, and read the bottom to see who it was from.
Your loving father,
James Potter
His heart beating a mile a minute, he listened for any noise outside and looked at the other letter. Draco frowned, noting that this one was anonymous. He put aside the last one, unconcerned, and thought for a moment.
Was this what Riddle meant? These letters? But Draco didn't have any time to read it, because the water had turned off, and he was starting to panic. He began to put everything back inside, and looked curiously at the last article under speculation. The brown book, which looked like leather, was embossed with a leaf-like symbol. Draco ran his hands across the indent, and bit his lip. A journal?
The book smelled old, and when he opened the cover the paper was yellowing and flimsy. It was a balance book, Draco noted with increasing pessimism, and written in clean precise writing were different transactions and numbers. Huge amounts of numbers. Draco observed the money portions and very nearly whistled. He looked up at the account title, and his mouth dropped open involuntarily.
It belonged to Madison and David.