Dawn comes with a scorching headache and the deadening promise of another dreary day. I don't want to go to work. This is Harry's first thought, before he opens his eyes, before he throws back the sheets to reveal a body damp with sweat, clad in red silk pajamas. His mouth is full of sand and his temple bears the invisible wounds of one-two-three whiskey shots, but he doesn't remember drinking. He doesn't remember last night at all.
The mirror, the closet, out the door to the parking lot – the route that Harry has taken many times before is marred by an ugly gouge in the gray metal of his Toyota, deep and straight in the side. "What…" He mutters, looking around the rows of cars, but there's no one nearby. He glares at the ostentatiously violet low-rider next to him, which looks suspiciously close. Harry kicks its tire, which is no solution at all, and settles for a murmured "Asshole," before slamming the damaged door of his car and heading for the train station.
I didn't go to the office today, He writes, later, sitting on the steps of an abandoned beach house, a tattered journal in his lap. Took the train to Montauk instead. I don't know why. I felt terrible this morning – I suppose I needed a break.
It's a split-second decision, standing on the usual platform, hearing the announcement for the outbound Montauk train, then running off in the other direction. He gets on just as the door closes.
It's Valentine's Day. That doesn't help.
Winter nips at Harry's fingers as he calls the administrative office for Ashfell's police department. "Hey, Penelope. Listen, I can't come in today. Will you tell Minerva for me? …Yeah, I just don't feel well…Thanks a lot."
Valentine's Day is a holiday made up to make everyone feel so bad about themselves that they buy masses of stupid trinkets to feel better. Single people spend money on chocolate. Couples spend money on useless, sparkly gifts.
The beach house is painted dark blue, its inhabitants vacated, the white shutters and door still intact. He's been here many times before, but never has it sagged this much, like a lover weary of arguing.
A face flashes in his mind: freckled cheeks, brown eyes that remind him of a fireplace. Ginny liked Valentine's Day. Apart from that, I can't think of a single flaw in her. She's reckless, maybe. But so am I. Harry sighs, looking at the beach. She loved me.
It's then that he notices the boy by the shore, standing just where the diamond-gilded ocean meets the flat, snowy sand. At least, he thinks it's a boy, with short, bubble-gum pink hair and a forest green puffer jacket. He's gazing out at the sea, just standing and breathing. Harry wonders what he's thinking, whether he's ditching work, too. He feels a slight kinship with the boy, which is silly.
The café near the beach has a decent cup of hot chocolate and less-decent booths that make Harry sit up too straight. He bends over his journal again, doodling meaningless things, writing meaningless words. Someone else walks in – Harry spots the pink hair again, and the boy. More of a man, really, but clean-shaven and with an air of sophisticated youth. He slides into a booth facing Harry, just far enough that he can still see his face. The stranger orders a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee.
Harry watches as the man brings his mug under the table, dumping into it the caramel-colored contents of a tiny glass bottle. The stranger looks up, accidentally meets his eyes. He smirks and raises the mug of coffee in wordless cheers. Harry glances away. I'm a grown adult with only two friends. I can't ever seem to make new ones, He writes, then thinks to himself, that's because I'm a shy bastard who has the social skills of a college freshman.
He manages to stop himself before that train of thought careens into dark places. Harry drinks his hot chocolate too fast, burns his tongue, then realizes that he'd forgotten to take his antidepressants that morning. Fucking hell.
The pages behind this journal entry have been torn out. Today is apparently the first time he's written in it for two whole years.
The sky grows brighter in the late morning when Harry finds a bus to take him back to Ashfell. Hands in his pockets, he waits at the stop, a breeze in his hair and gravity drawing his gaze to the ground. Then, something green and pink catches his eye – Oh, great, he thinks, him again. But there's something not entirely unpleasant about this colorful stranger, who recognizes him, and waves. Harry nods back, wearing an artificial smile, unsure how exactly to approach this man who seems his age and yet infinitely younger.
On the bus, the journal opens in his lap again. This time, Harry draws, the lumpy curves of the forest-colored jacket, the ruffles of the bubblegum hair. The stranger hasn't met his gaze yet, watching the window instead, as Montauk's wintry beach turns into the forest and houses en route to the bus's many destinations.
Then, he stands, and to Harry's equal horror and happiness of satisfied curiosity, walks down the aisle to join him, leaving only a seat between them.
"Hello," Says the stranger, and Harry realizes he expected his voice to be higher, but it's a smooth tenor, with an accent that's not quite American. His eyes are as grey as clouds. "I'm Draco," He continues, sticking out a hand gloved in black leather. "I saw you earlier."
"Yes, I remember," Harry says, shaking his hand a bit bemusedly. Not many people use handshakes for new acquaintances these days. "I'm Harry."
"Harry, Harry," Draco muses. Harry watches his mouth form the syllables, expressive and soft. "A common name, no?"
"I guess." Should I be offended?
"At least, I think it is. Truth be told, I've never met a Harry. I'm not making fun of you, by the way." He talks like rain, fast yet soothing. "Christ, I couldn't do that, could I? Not with a name like Draco."
"Dragon," Harry blurts, if only to get a word in edgewise.
Draco's pale face breaks into a breezy grin. His features are all edges, but the gentleness from his eyes softens them. "Exactly! A nonexistent creature in a dead language. What does that make me, a figment of my own imagination?" He gestures a lot with his hands.
"That's quite poetic," Harry comments.
"I'm glad it comes off that way. Sorry for bothering you like this." A quick change of topic, a rabbit hopping from one bush to another. "I glimpsed you earlier, but also…" Draco shakes his head, thinking, and Harry glimpses the platinum blond of his roots. He's never met anyone with a natural hair color like that. "I could have sworn I've met you, before today." He snaps his fingers, leather on leather. "Ah! Do you go to The Raven and the Mushroom? On Pitch Avenue?"
Harry instantly recognizes the name of the café. He thinks he used to love it, but he hasn't been there in a while. Certainly not since Ginny. "Sometimes."
"I must know you from there, then. I'm the assistant manager," Draco says with an air of knowingly false superiority.
"You must be rich," Harry jokes, wide-eyed, and he feels a flood of victory thanks to the well-placed quip when Draco chuckles.
"You'd think so, huh? Alas, I'm stuck in little old Ashfell. If I was rich, I'd go to Paris, probably."
"Everyone wants to go to Paris."
"Yes," Draco agrees, "Everyone does." He seems slightly disheartened by this, but the moment passes, and he continues, "So, you're getting off at Ashfell, too? I assumed…"
"Yep." Harry has been so engaged in the conversation that he's forgotten the drawing that lies unfinished but recognizable in his lap. He closes it surreptitiously, hoping Draco hadn't glimpsed the sketch of himself.
"Maybe I'll see you around again, Harry."
"Maybe."
Draco leaves him alone, going back to his seat, but not without another smile that's half-smirk, as if they now share a secret. Harry feels relieved when he goes, still seeing him as a stranger, but the encounter wasn't totally worthless. He looks back down at his journal and writes just two sentences below the drawing.
"A nonexistent creature in a dead language. What does that make me, a figment of my own imagination?"
Red, pink, and white pulses in the windows of every public building in Ashfell. Shiny hearts, sparkly streamers, and paper Cupids decorate the restaurants, hair salons, even the goddamn 7/11. Harry switches from watching the road to glaring at the street more often than he ought to, and he notices that one of the passerby's hair is not colored by a blinking neon heart as he initially thought. He stops, halfway parked by the sidewalk, and rolls down the passenger window.
"Hey!"
Draco stops, breath misting in the air. He scowls at first, but his face brightens gratifyingly when he recognizes Harry. "Hey! You stalking me or something?"
"Do you need a ride? It's freezing out there."
Draco purses his lips and gives an indecisive shiver. "Yeah, all right," He decides finally, and briskly walks over, sliding into the warmth of the car. "There are less interesting ways to die than being murdered by a stalker," He says casually.
"I'm not stalking you," Harry assures him, guiding the Toyota back into motion.
"I dunno," Draco sighs in mock concern, stripping off his gloves. His hands are as pale as his face. "You've been following me all day."
"Not on purpose, I'll tell you that much. I don't make a habit of following attractive strangers." Harry bites his tongue. Why did I say that? He's a guy. I don't find him attractive. Well, maybe objectively. Shut up, he tells himself.
Draco's eyes are liquid copper in the orange light of the passing streetlamps as they meet Harry's in the rearview mirror. "Perhaps you should make it a habit," He says, and before Harry can think of a proper reply, adds, "Take a left, just up here."
A few beats of silence as the car turns, Harry's hands flexing against the steering wheel. "Sorry if I was a little overbearing today," Draco says.
"Overbearing?" Harry's attention is a bit divided – he hopes Draco didn't see him blushing when he called him attractive. Something is very wrong about today, but the pink-haired stranger seems to be the only thing right about it.
"I talk about myself a lot, even to people I don't know," Draco explains. "It's a personal flaw I'm working on. I'd like to think I'm not narcissistic, but…oh, there I go again," He groans.
"I don't think you're narcissistic." Harry keeps his eyes firmly on the road this time, but he can feel Draco looking at him in the glass.
"You don't know me."
"Well…it's okay if you do most of the talking. I'm a better listener, anyway." Ginny used to go on for hours, and Harry never minded.
"Yes, you are a good listener," Draco agrees, and Harry allows himself a smile at the compliment. "Take a right – not here, the next one. Wisteria."
Soon, the gray Toyota slides in front of a narrow apartment building, built of red brick, most of its windows already dark. Draco slips out, straightening his green jacket. He hesitates, the door open, engine idling. "I need to get something," He blurts, "But don't leave. I'll be right back."
"Erm…" Before Harry can agree, Draco leaves, jogging for the door, quickly letting himself in. Harry closes the car door to keep the heated air from escaping and decides to wait. He shouldn't be long.
Draco arrives a few minutes later, rosy-cheeked and out of breath. The object in his hand is so small that Harry can't tell what it is until he opens the car door again.
"Give me your hand," Draco says, and Harry obliges, dimly registering that it was a command, not a request, that made him move. Draco's fingers are cold and feather-soft as he takes Harry's hand, fingertips touching palm. He brings the object to his mouth – a blue marker – and opens it with his teeth. Seven digits appear black on Harry's brown skin. "Call me when you get home," orders Draco, letting go of his hand and capping the marker. "My friends don't call me enough. You have to be different."
"Friends?" Harry echoes.
"I'd like you to call me," Draco presses. "I have a proposition for you."
A proposition. Okay. "Okay. I will," Harry promises.
"Good. I shall wait eagerly by the telephone," Draco exclaims dramatically. He slams the door, gives a friendly wave, then promptly bounds back inside.
The short ride home is silent, Harry too busy turning over today's encounter in his mind to bother turning on the radio. He thought he'd notice a person like Draco in Ashfell – though it may be progressive and diverse for a small town, a man with pink hair and a penchant for making spontaneous friendships would stand out. Although Harry couldn't be sure Draco had a penchant for spontaneous friendship. He just met the guy. Perhaps he had no other friends and normally preferred the company of pet rocks.
The apartment is dimmer than Harry left it. There's a few wineglasses, plates, and forks awaiting attention in the sink, but he heads straight for the phone, mounted on a scrap of wall just before the space he deems a bedroom. By the light of a lamp, Harry reads the numbers and tries to think of what to say. Hello would be a good start. He should ask about the proposition, though knowing Draco, he'll mention it without being prompted. Harry's brain stutters at the thought. Knowing Draco? He doesn't know Draco.
But Harry does know himself as an expert of overthinking, so he dials the number before he can change his mind about calling.
"Evening, Harry."
"Hi."
"So, my proposition." Harry grins in spite of himself; he was right. "You know the Charles River?"
"In Boston? Sure, I do."
"It's frozen this time of year. Got to be a couple meters thick, at least." Harry's mouth twitches at "meters"; perhaps he's not the only non-native stuck in this cold outpost of America. "It's still and beautiful and quiet, and you can see the stars much better there. So?"
"So, what?"
Draco laughs, teasing. "So…" He drawls the word, and it slides like honey from the receiver. "Do you want to go there with me tomorrow night?"
A gesture of friendship, or perhaps something more, hangs before Harry like a gem. He hesitates, wondering what path taking it would place him on. He hopes the strangeness and misery of that morning has led him to something more wonderful than he can imagine.
The heavens have dressed in their finest diamonds for tonight, glittering in all their natural glory. Harry is struck dumb for a moment, boots in the snow, staring up at the bits of pinpricked sky between the branches of the copse.
Draco rushes ahead of him, to where the land meets the river, a great, frozen giant that lies sleeping. "Come on!" He urges, and Harry carefully steps on the ice, shuffling along it as Draco sprints ahead. "Isn't this exciting…? Whoa!" Draco exclaims, arms pinwheeling, and he slips, falling backward.
"Draco!" Harry runs as fast as he can across the ice, which isn't that fast. Draco groans loudly from the ground, and it takes Harry a minute to realize he's just being melodramatic. "Pfft, you're fine."
"No," Draco winces, clutching his back. "No, I'm afraid I can't walk anymore. Come down to where I am."
"It's cold," Harry states, rather obviously.
"Come here." Draco reaches up to tug at the end of Harry's red scarf. Harry sighs heavily but joins him, lying faceup on the cold, hard surface. The chill seeps into his coat, but he barely notices.
The sky is infinite, sprinkled in the white, lilac, and blue of the pale stars, arranged in their cosmic dance. It's silent, save for the twin puffs of breath that paint the air with mist and the distant, faint roar of the highway. A knot that he didn't know he had untangles deep within Harry.
"My mother used to tell me that the stars made music," Draco says softly, and Harry turns to look at him. His upward gaze is as dark as the night. "Only the pure of the heart can hear it, in total silence."
"I'm not pure of heart," Harry mutters, but Draco doesn't reply. He's listening with his eyes closed.
Cosmic music is too magical a concept for Harry to accept, but he humors Draco's words for a moment, watching the heavens like a rapt audience member. For a moment, he fools himself, and imagines a stringed symphony playing in a silver-fretted chamber.
One page of the journal is dedicated to this night. "My mother used to tell me that the stars made music."
A cassette mix plays softly in the background of the long drive back to Ashfell. Draco insisted on playing it, but he's since fallen asleep, pale face bent towards his jacket, soft lips parted. Harry has never heard music like it before, something like rock, but atmospheric. It's nothing he can hum along to, but he finds himself enjoying it, and makes a mental note to ask Draco what it is later.
They arrive back at Draco's just as morning begins to trundle along in full swing, the streets filling with commuters and parents taking their kids to school. The noise of cars replaces the sound of the cassette tape as Harry takes it out of the console, then rests a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Hey. We're here."
Draco's hand reaches absentmindedly for Harry's – whether to push it off or hold it is unclear, and he comes to full consciousness before Harry can tell. "Oh…hi." Draco pulls his hand away and blinks in the sun. "Christ, I'm tired," He mutters, stretching, and the green jacket slides off his chest. "Do you have work today?"
"No." Saturday, o sweet reprieve.
"Can I come over to yours?" Draco murmurs, silver eyes half closed. "To sleep?" And there it is again, but only now does Harry register it, the blatant advance that borders on romantic. Yet there is no love, no lust, that blossoms between them. If Draco had been a woman, Harry would have kissed her beneath the light of the stars. But Draco's a man, unusual though he may be, and Harry seizes this friendly question with all the strength he can muster. He wants to know him.
"Okay. Yeah, that's fine."
"M'kay. I'll just go grab some stuff. Wait here." Draco opens the door, leaves his jacket on the seat.
"You think I'm going to leave?" Harry asks teasingly.
Draco only laughs and closes the door.
Harry leans his head back against the seat. He's tired, too – he hasn't stayed up all night in a long time. Not since high school, which he doesn't want to remember. Those five years are a blur, mostly, and Harry wants to keep it that way.
Someone's staring at him.
Harry looks through the passenger window. A girl stands a little way down the sidewalk, glancing from his car to Draco's apartment building. Her black hair is chopped to her shoulders, dark, thin eyes ringed with eyeliner. Dressed in all black, from the overcoat to her boots, she resembles a crow, eyeing Harry beadily, suspiciously.
Harry doesn't recognize her at all. He looks away, uncomfortable, and when he glances at the sidewalk again, she's gone. He hopes Draco gets back soon.