Thank you reviewers, you made my day. Now I'm happy enough to write some more.
The black haired man turned to Draco, a half-smile on his face and a look of slight confusion in his eyes. "I'm sorry sir, but I don't think we've met."
"Drop the act, Potter," Draco said angrily. "Do you really think you can fool me? All those years as enemies and you thought I wouldn't still shudder in disgust at your face."
Harry stopped, the smile falling from his face. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall for support as he did.
"You were supposed to be dead," Draco continued, sensing weakness. "I even went to your funeral like the upstanding citizen I am. It was a lovely affair. Such a shame you weren't there. You could have comforted that mangy little Granger girl. She was bawling her eyes out, a disgrace to the Wizarding World if I ever saw one."
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"Not one for small talk today, are you, Potter? Don't you want to hear about your funeral? About the obituaries, the speeches, the coffin? They erected a statue of you in Diagon Alley, you know. 'In memory of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World.' It gives me the willies every time I walk past it."
Harry opened his eyes and looked past Draco, out at the street. "The rain's stopped," he said tersely. "Follow me."
Draco allowed himself to be led through a twisting mass of streets which were still mostly empty; a good number of pedestrians had found they had errands to attend to in the sidewalk shops when the rain had started. He had to step carefully to avoid the puddles collecting in the dips of the pavement. A large white cat, fat and content, watched him pass by from its warm, dry seat on a low windowsill. He let himself hate it for its superior attitude before putting his attention back to the more important task at hand: staying dry.
Harry eventually stopped in front of a squat beige building ornamented with a garish embossed frieze of vines and a few ugly gargoyles perched on the roof, too busy spitting out mouthfuls of rainwater into alleys to the sides to pay any attention to the men below them.
Harry unlocked a large metal grille that covered the doorway and then the grey wooden door with its bulky brass lock. He closed them both carefully after Draco entered and the two men walked first up a flight of stairs then down a corridor with peeling lime-green paint illuminated by a bare bulb.
Draco walked through a door held open for him and looked around Harry's flat. The paint wasn't peeling and the place was neat, but the couch was threadbare and the table with its two chairs was deeply worn.
"Sit down," Harry gestured to one of the two chairs and took the other himself. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and sat expectantly, waiting for the inevitable question.
Draco obliged. "What are you playing at here? You could have everything. Wizards would be waiting in line to kiss your boots. You would be rich, famous, everything anyone could ever want."
Harry thought for a moment, as if considering the matter for the first time. Eventually he shrugged and said, "I could, but I won't. You know I always hated it in school? Popularity is fickle. One day they were all on my side cheering me on from the sidelines and the next I was their pariah, Ishmael for all intents and purposes. I much preferred anonymity, but I suppose that's over now."
"Over?"
He pushed black hair back from his forehead, exposing the scar that had been the cause of so much trouble. "You see that? I know you do, everyone does. It's all they ever see, all they ever have seen. Once you tell them I'm still around every witch and wizard will be on the lookout for it.
"I don't begrudge you the chance, though," he continued, seeing Draco's expression, "after what they've put you through you deserve a little redemption." He laughed morosely, "If you're lucky they might even forget who your father is."
Draco looked at him closely; saw the resignation in his eyes. "No, actually, Potter, I don't think I will."