A Moment Ago

Three years later

Draco wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, making sure his collar was still up high enough to cover his cheeks and adjusted the large, lightly tinted sunglasses over his eyes. Winter gave him an excuse to cover his face, something Hermione would scold him for in any other season. "You can't spend your life hiding who you are," she'd told him again and again. Of course it all circled back to the annoying fact that the woman was always right. He couldn't hide who he was, and the scars now were a part of him, but it didn't mean that he was completely alright with who he was.

The war had changed Draco. In some ways for the better, in some ways for the worse. Gone was the snobbish boy who spat hatred at everyone around him. He had been replaced by a brave, coolheaded, man with a compassionate heart. This Draco took pride in his work, and in his own independence. He never hesitated to take time for a friend, or help out when he could. However, also gone was his self-confidence. He seemed sad to those who really took time to get to know him. His laughter could be extremely bitter. It hadn't stopped hurting when people would stare, or when children shied away from him. But this was the Draco that the war had left in its wake.

He tried to stomp out the chill of the New York winter, as he entered his posh apartment building. "Good evening, Mr. Michaels," the night watchman called from the lobby desk.

"How are you, Paul?" He asked smiling at the older man.

"Can't complain. I haven't seen you since you came back from Mulan. How'd that go?"

Draco held back his laughter as he pictured the animated Asian girl with a dragon on her shoulder. Years ago, he would have ridiculed Paul for his mistake, but the man didn't deserve that kind of venom. "Milan was wonderful. Our show was quite the success."

"Glad to hear it."

"Thanks, Paul. Have a nice night."

"You too, Mr. Michaels. See you around."

Draco fumbled with the keys for a moment before finding the right one and opening the door to his apartment. This was his sanctuary these days. Here, he could feel whatever it was he was feeling and not have to pretend that he was happy. Stripping off the layers of clothing, he took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror hanging in the entryway.

He was tall and thin, though not disturbingly so. His white-blonde hair hung down to his shoulders in artful silken strands, and his piercing gray eyes were shot with shards of silver and blue. His features were delicate, but still decidedly male. When he smiled, his lips would draw at a pleasant and sensual turn. He would have been stunningly handsome, but for the scars. They weaved like lopsided spider webs across his face starting at his hairline and working their way down over his right cheek making his skin uneven and discolored over the raised and recessed lines. Lighter marks climbed the left side of his face cutting through his eyebrow and gently over his eyelid.

It had taken him a long time to not shudder when he looked at himself. He had always been extremely vain. That came from his mother, he guessed, for he could remember all the times Narcissa would stroke his pale cheek and tell him how beautiful he was. Never mind that even then he realized that he was nothing more than another mirror for her, it was one of the few moments of affection she had ever spared him. Now looking at himself, he held very little vanity. He had learned to be realistic about his looks. The word that he felt described him the best was "ugly." He didn't feel that he was "monstrous" or "revolting" or "disgusting," though some might disagree.

For the most part, people reacted to him with unease. They squirmed and looked away, rather than get caught staring. Kids, he found, to be more open about it. They looked at him with open and honest curiosity, sometimes even being bold enough to ask about it. He answered them with a smile and a quick lie about a car accident. Their parents were usually horrified by their children's questions, but he always reassured them that he was not offended. Still there were times when people's reactions made him want to crawl away and die. He was not deaf to the snide comments people made when they thought he was out of earshot, nor was he blind to the look of fear in the eyes of toddlers who likened him to the monster they saw in some scary dream.

Draco hung up his coat and put his gloves in the pocket. He noticed a blinking thirteen on his answering machine, and laughed. He guessed that eleven of them were from a frantic Chantay. His business partner had a knack for worrying about things. He joked that his real place in the company was paying the bills and calming Chantay.

In truth he did much more. When he had met Chantay Williamson in London two years ago, she gave him his purpose in life after Harry. Chantay was somewhat a mess when he met her. She had an amazing talent for fashion design, but she was not exactly adept at getting things together enough to start a business. When Draco got involved, they put together a concept for a couture boutique deciding to locate in New York. Within weeks, he found himself sketching designs of his own. To his amazement, they were every bit as good as Chantay's. Hermione was overjoyed and pitched in on the business end, handling the books. Now "Chantay Michaels" designs were everywhere. The Hollywood set had embraced them, and they had expanded enough to set up shops in twenty cities worldwide. Their debut in Milan had been a success. Chantey was the face of the company and he was the brains.

Draco had watched the show from the darkened wings with great pride. He could see approval written across even the toughest critic's face. The line was sophisticated, yet fun and colorful with a decidedly ethnic twist. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when it was all over though.

He picked up a bottle of pills and pressed the play button on the answering machine, only half listening to her list of problems. Swallowing the pills without water, he felt a pang of guilt. Paxil. Hermione had chastised him a million times for taking them, but they were one of the few things that helped him through the bad times. She had managed to deal with losing Ron without medication, and maybe that made her stronger than he was, but he wasn't about to stop taking them and go back to the worst of it.

Draco woke up the next morning with a headache. He couldn't recall his dreams, but he didn't really care to. Neither dreams nor nightmares did anything positive in his life. He had learned that to really be fulfilled you had to work hard and live in the real world. Instead of eating, he merely sipped coffee, before bundling up and heading out the door.

He still hadn't managed to fall in love with New York. Too many people, too much chaos. He missed the wizarding world. Sometimes, he longed to take a leisurely stroll down Diagon Alley. The magic that was still a part of him ached to get out. The wand tucked away in some box called to him.

Barely two steps in the studio door, he was nearly bowled over by a caramel skinned goddess. "Who is he? And what is he sorry for?"

Draco laughed. "What are you talking about? Would you at least let me get through the bloody door!"

Chantay stepped back. She was a tall, very beautiful woman. More than once people had commented on a marked resemblance to Tyra Banks. She looked at him through her thick lashes. "I want details now."

"I swear I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Well, I'm guessing he does," she said pointing to a vase full of yellow roses.

Holding his breath slightly, Draco strode up to them and touched the petals lightly, breathing in the fragrant aroma. There was no card. "When did they come?"

She shrugged. "Just a few minutes before you got here. Do you know who sent them?"

He shook his head still in awe. "No. But why did you ask what he had to be sorry for?"

The look she gave him was priceless. "Because yellow roses mean you're sorry, duh. I thought you knew this kind of thing."
"I'm a gay fashion designer but I'm not a damn florist."

"You're not very good at listening to your messages either, prat," a voice chimed in. Hermione was standing just behind them. "Who sent the flowers? And why's he sorry?"

Draco sighed. "I just told Chantay—I don't know."

"They're beautiful," Hermione said whistfully.

"Take them," he offered.

"Oh, no, someone wants you to have them. If you really want to give me something, you can give me a date on you're next show," she told him with a laugh.

"Not yet," he replied. He'd yet to take his eyes of the delicate roses. Who would send him roses?

He didn't have much time to ponder it. By ten, he and Chantay were seated side by side with a pile of headshots and resumes in front of them. They had yet to choose models for the upcoming New York show. No big names this time, they were going for a slightly independent feel—which fit well with the designers. Tossing a file down, Draco rubbed his temples. "Who's first? Men or women?"

"Men," she replied with a grin. Chantay had had more than one fling with male models. Draco, on the other hand, had seen the look of disgust on more than one of the beautiful men's faces and didn't even try.

The first three were not at all what Chantay Michaels needed. Draco sighed as he picked up a black and white headshot. The man was dark haired with and bright smile and engaging eyes. Maybe this one held some promise. When the young man strolled in, Draco held his breath a bit. His eyes were green, not "Harry" green, but green enough to bring up the memory. Beside him, Chantay noticed his discomfort and eyed him suspiciously. He jolted himself enough to make it through the rest of the interviews.

On the cab ride home, he was still lost in thought. Hermione cleared her throat beside him. "Sorry, Mione," he said sheepishly.

"Thinking about Harry?" she asked softly.

"Yes. Today has me in one of those moods I'm afraid," he admitted.

"Want to come to my place and chat over some wine?"

He smiled gratefully. "That would be perfect."

The cab stopped in front of their apartment building and they chatted in the elevator about prospective models. He said goodbye to Hermione when she got off and hit the button up to his own floor. The two had given being roommates a valiant effort before admitting that while they loved each other dearly, they simply could not live together. They drove each other mad. It was best that they live close, but in separate quarters.

Draco tossed off his coat once more and sighed.