Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or settings to be found herein.
A/N: This was written for Jazzyjello for the hpslashnotsmut exchange and is a tad angstier than my usual crack-fueled faire (though I have tried to include some humour too).
After the wedding everybody agreed that the bride looked radiant. Her attire raised more than a few eyebrows; but the general consensus amongst the guests was that the antenna-like headdress was far more interesting than the usual tiara or coronet of flowers and, when it came down to it, who was to say that blue Wellingtons weren't appropriate footwear for the occasion, anyway. Besides, people would have most likely felt a tad put out if the wedding of Luna Lovegood and Ronald Weasley had been anything less than a truly eccentric affair.
Harry certainly didn't mind the eccentricity, which the Lovegood family seemed to be intent on providing in abundance. Despite the year long engagement he still hadn't quite got over the surprise of finding out that his best friend was head over heals in love with the premier Snorkack chaser of their generation. He was happy for them, though; they'd both been through a lot during the conflict with Voldemort, with Luna sustaining several serious injuries and Ron losing four members of his immediate family, and it seemed only fair that they have this.
As he walked from the small chapel-like building where the ceremony had just taken place to the traffic cone shaped Portkey that would take the guests to the venue hosting the reception, he felt a tap on the back. He turned round to see a man with light brown hair and a vaguely familiar face.
"Harry, good to see you again," he said cheerfully.
"Ernie Macmillan, isn't it?" he queried, taking the man's proffered hand and dearly hoping that he'd got the right name. The man looked a fair bit like the boy he remembered from Hogwarts; he had the same stout - bordering on chubby - build and mildly pompous demeanour, but seemed far too haggard looking to be a mere twenty-five years old.
"Yes, that's the one," Ernie said, with a handshake of almost bone crushing firmness. "Not surprised you didn't quite recognise me. Working in the Confiscated Dark Artefacts Office can add a few decades."
Harry smiled. In both looks and speech Ernie seemed to default to an age of thirty-five. One could put it down to some kind of accelerated aging effect cause by working in an area permeated by the malevolent magic radiating from all of those dark objects, but something told him that it was just a quirk of Ernie.
"How have you been, anyway?" Ernie asked, as they recommenced walking in the direction of the traffic cone. "I don't think I've seen you in years. Not since you stopped being an Auror, in fact."
"I've been fine," Harry replied. This wasn't untrue. His celebrity amongst the magical population was such that it had made it unfeasible for him to continue to work as a dark wizard catcher, and he had quit the job once it had become clear that he was only being kept on due to a mixture of loyalty, gratitude and guilt on the part of his direct superiors. He'd spent the last three years living alone at Grimmauld Place, effectively unemployed, with close friends being the only people he saw on a regular basis. For the most part this suited him; the constant recognition and awe his face still seemed to elicit from the magical public was becoming harder rather than easier to tolerate, but the fact that so many of the people he called friends were moving to other parts of the world meant that he was starting to feel increasingly isolated and reclusive. "How about you?"
"Very well, thank you. Lisa and I are getting married in September."
"Lisa Turpin, you mean?" asked Harry, dimly recalling a short, fair haired Ravenclaw.
Ernie nodded. "She's a healer at St. Mungo's. Couldn't make it here today, though, unfortunately; there's been a sudden influx of emergencies from that potions workshop explosion this morning."
Harry made a sympathetic noise.
"Still, she enjoys her job, which is more than I can say for myself at the moment. Had to spend all last week going through yet another lot of items confiscated from that Muggle lock-up the Malfoys were using."
"But that raid was years ago, just after I'd finished training."
"Ah, but you didn't see the size of the place they'd rented out, did you?"
He shook his head. He hadn't been with the Aurors who'd raided the suburban lock-up garage in which Lucius Malfoy had managed to stash a sizable cache of objects of extremely dubious purpose shortly before his capture at the Department of Mysteries. No, he'd been with Draco at the time, having just got the Malfoy heir to spill the beans on the location.
Draco Malfoy. Now there was somebody he'd been managing not to think about for a long time. Doing so nearly always led to inexplicable pangs of guilt and not being able to sleep quite as well as usual at nights.
"Everything all right, Harry?"
He realised that he'd just zoned out for a few seconds.
"Yes, I'm fine, sorry about that. I was just thinking about…." He trailed off, not entirely certain what he had just been thinking about.
"How your best man's speech will go?" Ernie supplied.
Harry gave a weak smile and patted the breast pocket on his dress robes where the parchment containing said speech was currently residing. "Yeah, something like that."
"Well, I'm sure that as long as you haven't included too many dirty jokes about Nifflers it'll go swimmingly."
Dirty jokes about Nifflers? He shook his head and wondered if this was a common convention during speeches at magical wedding receptions.
"Ah, here we are," Ernie said, as they came to a halt next to the traffic cone. "I do hope that they've organised a good meal."
"I wouldn't worry about that. According to Ron Mrs. Weasley's been baking all week." Harry smiled to himself as he remembered hearing about the heated argument between Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Lovegood as to where the reception would be held. In the end it had been decided while the Lovegood's home might be a bit lacking when it came to renovation and repairs, it would at least be large enough to hold all of the assembled guests, but the formidable Mrs. Weasley had refused point blank to back down from her insistence on doing most of the catering herself.
Two hours later, Harry found himself seated at what had once been a very large and ornate dining table, but which was now a very large and extremely worn dining table, next to his newly married and deliriously happy looking best friend. Much to his relief, five Weasleys were on hand to prevent him getting mobbed by distant relatives of both families, to whom he was still very much the Boy Who Lived and Then Defeated the Dark Lord rather than just plain old Harry. He had also been informed that his best man's speech was possibly unique in the history of best man's speeches, in that he managed to avoid causing either deliberate or inadvertent offence to anybody in the room.
"Thank you for the lovely wedding present, Harry," said a positively beaming Luna, who was seated on the other side of her husband. "It'll be very useful for our trip to Iceland."
"Yeah," said Ron, giving him a friendly – and slightly tipsy – pat on the back. "Couldn't you have got it in a different colour though? I mean, I'm going to look like a right idiot carting a lavender polkadot backpack around the mountains and glaciers."
Harry tried and failed to repress a small grin at the mental image. "It was the only one left in the shop and I thought that the fact that it can be used to store items up to twenty-five times its size mitigated the general polkadottedness."
"Nah, it's a good gift Harry, thanks."
"Besides," said Luna, sagely, "Crumple Horned Snorkacks are widely thought to be attracted to bright dots."
"Well, I hope that it works for you." Harry imagined the biting of tongue Hermione would be forced to undertake at this point had she been able to make it to the wedding. While he knew that his other best friend had developed a certain respect for Luna, she'd never quite been able to deal with the conspiracy theories and seemingly baseless beliefs in creatures that only existed in magical fairytales. Ron, he knew, didn't share Luna's unflinching belief that the Snorkacks were out there, but was more than happy to go along for the adventure.
"It's not the actual discovering the Snorkacks bit that's really important," he'd confided in Harry when mentioning the plans for the honeymoon. "It's the time we're going to spend searching for them that matters." Harry had made some teasing remarks about that not being a very Gryffindor point of view, but had thought that it was a lovely sentiment anyway.
"Well, with any luck the Aurameter Hermione sent us from Japan will help us spot where they've been," said Luna. "The instruction manual says that it can detect and identify the residual aura of any creature not hidden by an advanced invisibility spell."
"Sounds like a useful present."
Luna nodded. "It's a shame she couldn't be here, but the doctors at the hospital in Tokyo are refusing point blank to let her or any of the other researchers leave until they're certain that no more of them have Mermish Ague."
Ron snorted. "I got a letter from her yesterday. Apparently over half the staff at the hospital are unpaid House Elves. You can guess how she reacted to that."
Harry gave an exaggerated wince. "Yes, she said more or less the same thing in her letter to me."
"Did she tell you about seeing Pansy Parkinson a few weeks ago? Assistant to the Magical Attaché! Still can't believe that the Department of International Magical Cooperation would give her a job like that. Not after all that sucking up to the Malfoys the Parkinsons used to do. You remember what she and Malfoy were like at Hogwarts, don't you? Pathetic, it was."
There was that name again. The one that he'd managed to put out of his mind after his conversation with Ernie Macmillan. "Well, I suppose that they mustn't see her as much of a hazard," he said, with a shrug of forced disinterest, rather hoping that Ron would perceive that he found the entire subject a bit boring and would start talking about something else as soon as possible please.
"Yeah, but she's still a pure-blood fanatic, though," said Ron cynically. "Notice that she stopped fawning over Malfoy quickly enough after the Ministry passed sentence on him… Harry, is something wrong, you've gone a bit pale."
"No, nothing," he said with a weak and decidedly forced smile, desperately wishing that Ron hadn't just brought that up, "just not feeling up to scratch lately."
"Maybe you should talk to Madam Pomfrey," said Luna, sounding worried and nodding in the direction of the far end of the immense table, where the school nurse in question was conversing with Professor Sprout. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
He inwardly groaned. He must have gone a rather deathly colour if Luna was concerned and making medical suggestions that didn't involve removing Blibbering Humdingers from the immediate environment. "I'll be fine. It's just… just, bad memories and all that." This was true, of course, just not for the exact reasons that Ron would think.
"Sorry, Harry," said Ron, his expression suggesting that he definitely meant it. "I probably shouldn't have brought the past up like that today. I know you don't like talking about You Know Who and his Merry Men too much these days."
"It's alright," he said, shaking his head. "I'm probably just being a bit oversensitive today."
"Well, it is the first time you've ever been somebody's best man," Luna reasoned.
"Yeah, well, having this lot around is enough to make anybody oversensitive." Ron gestured to his and Luna's wedding guests. "We know half of them from Hogwarts but you'd think they'd never seen you before."
Harry smiled; this time it was genuine.
His conversation with the bride and groom ended shortly afterwards, when they were descended upon by well wishers and he was co-opted by Fred and George into giving his opinions on their latest merchandising ideas.
After the wedding he Apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place alone, read a Quidditch magazine for an hour or so and went to bed. He found it difficult to get to sleep. Each time it seemed as though he was about to drop off, he'd receive a flash of white-blonde hair, grey eyes, pointy features and the expression of utter horror etched in said pointy features and grey eyes when the realisation dawned that he'd been forcibly severed from the thing that he valued more than anything else in the world. In the end Harry managed to fall into a shallow, restless sleep punctuated by jumbled, nonsensical dreams of wedding parties in the Wizengamot.
He was awoken by the sound of something tapping on the window. Hauling himself out of bed, he opened the curtains to reveal a grey, drizzly morning and a harassed looking tawny owl. He opened the latch and let the bird in, taking from its foot the small roll of parchment. Great, another invite to dictate his life story to Eldred Worple. He immediately threw it into the wastepaper basket, before taking a few of Hedwig's treats from the box on the chest of drawers and giving them to the exhausted looking creature.
After a breakfast of coffee and a bowl of cereal so sugary that it would have probably given Hermione's dentist parents apoplexy, he found himself at a loss as to how to spend the rest of the day. He'd already done the weekly maintenance routine on his racing broom twice in the last seven days, there were no Quidditch matches on and all of his friends were either abroad or at work. He briefly considered dropping into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to see the twins, but thought the better of it. Last time he'd turned up there unannounced he'd spent over an hour trying to be polite to star struck customers who were intent on pestering him for an autograph.
In the end he decided to step outside for a walk in Muggle London, that wonderfully anonymous place where nobody knew his name or would recognise him as anything other than messy haired young man with what looked like an ill-advised tattoo on his forehead.
For a few hours he wandered aimlessly, with no destination in mind nor any thought as to how far from home he was travelling. It was impossible to tell when his feet started to take him in the direction of an area dominated by graffiti, burnt out cars and run down high rise flats, but when his brain clued in to what was happening he froze and inwardly groaned.
I've got Malfoy on the brain, he thought, as he mentally debated what to do next. He could find a suitable secluded back alley and Apparate elsewhere or he could, well… just have a quick look, not knock on the door or anything, of course, just have a see at how things looked from outside. The former option was the one that he knew he should take, but part of him was well aware, even while he was mentally debating the issue with himself, that it wasn't the one that he was going to select.
Thus, trying not to think too much about what he was about to do or dwell on what it probably said about his mental health, he continued in the direction of the building towards which he'd been unconsciously heading. It was one of the high rises: a non-descript fifteen story affair with a sign saying Primrose Heights affixed above the main entrance and a number of smashed or boarded up windows on the first couple of floors.
It really wasn't a pleasant area. As he drew near to the tower block a gang of prowling youths in hoodies eyed him as he passed, in a way that made him wish he had his invisibility cloak on. They couldn't actually do anything to him, of course, aside from perhaps shouting out a few juvenile insults, but he didn't really fancy trying to explain to the Improper Use of Magic Office why a small group of wayward teenagers had a) reported witnessing a man vanish into thin air to that bastion of great Muggle journalism, the Daily Sport, b) been rushed to hospital after all succumbing within the space of seconds to a mysterious condition that caused them to lose all motor ability or c) been transformed into oversized parakeets. Fortunately for Harry, they settled for a few disparaging remarks about his apparel and continued on their way.
The windows he was looking for were on the third floor and would look to both the casual and conscientious observer like just about every other set of windows on the second floor: grimy on the outside and blocked by thick net curtains on the inside. There was no clue as to whether the flat's inhabitant was in or not.
For a while he stared, half expecting the netting to twitch at any moment. It didn't, and after five minutes of staring it occurred to him that anybody watching the Muggle CCTV feed right now would probably think he was doing something untoward. He gave a small humourless snort. He'd been accused of becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy once in his sixth year at Hogwarts - an 'obsession' that had been vindicated by the fact that Malfoy had actually been planning to kill Dumbledore and let a band of Death Eaters into the school. At present, however, he had no excuse other than a mixture of morbid curiosity and self-indulgent guilt, neither of which would be particularly indicative of psychological stability.
It wasn't guilt for Draco's fate itself - that had been entirely the decision of the Wizengamot and Harry had just been there to give evidence. No, it was what had come afterwards.
The punishment had been the ultimate in poetic justice.
They couldn't kill him. He hadn't actually murdered anybody.
They could send him to Azkaban. But let's face it; Azkaban just wasn't what it once was. Besides, the prison was overcrowded and there had been three successful escape attempts since the surviving Death Eaters had been rounded up.
Memory wiping, which would negate any further threat he could potentially pose, was a possibility. But then the problem with that was that he wouldn't be aware of the punishment.
Banning him from ever again using a wand was a suggestion. After all, it would be fitting for him to have his magical abilities restrained in such a manner, but it was possible, if not probable, that he'd eventually manage to illicitly acquire one.
There was, however, another option. Magical children whose parents refused to send them to Hogwarts had always been a liability, forever causing inadvertent transfigurations and accidental explosions. It had therefore been decided – after a widely publicised incident in which an entire Muggle football team had, in the middle of a game, become suddenly convinced that they were a band of dry-land synchronised swimmers - that a solution really ought to be found. And two months previous it had: an experimental and potentially very dangerous set of charms that would cut off the subject from any magic that they might possess. The trouble was that owing to its highly experimental and potentially dangerous status, nobody was willing to test it on innocent children. Here, though, was the perfect guinea pig.
It was, Harry had thought with great satisfaction as the decree was read out, the perfect revenge. There was Draco Malfoy - Death Eater, pure-blood fanatic - about to be effectively turned into a Squib. To take away his wand would have been a blow, but he would have still retained his elevated status amongst his purity obsessed peers. This would remove him from that world forever. He'd be at best despised and at worst pitied.
At first Malfoy had sat on the chair to which he was manacled with an utterly blank expression on his face, as if he hadn't heard. After a few moments, however, realisation clearly began to dawn. First grey eyes widened, then the jaw dropped as all remaining colour fled from his face. This was followed by a noise that sounded like something half-way between a whimper and a strangulated scream. A few seconds later the begging and pleading started. At this the feelings of venomous gratification that Harry had at first experienced turned to well… distinct unease; he wanted Malfoy to suffer as he and his friends had suffered, yes. But fantasising about inflicting torment and humiliation was rather different to having the reality of it pitifully sobbing in front of you
Despite the urge to leave he'd stayed until Malfoy had been dragged from the room. To do otherwise would have been the worst kind of cowardice.
In and of itself this particular event, however unsettling it was to witness at the time, would not be preying on Harry's mind now if it had been the last time he'd seen him.
Three years after Malfoy had been packed off to live as a Muggle, a minor Death Eater, who had until then managed to evade capture, had revealed under the influence of Veritaserum the existence of Lucius Malfoy's secret stash of dark objects.
Harry, fresh from Auror training and just starting to realise that he was likely to spend the rest of his career being handled with kid gloves, had been despatched to Primrose Heights to attempt to wrest the information as to where the haul resided from Draco, while his fellow dark wizard catchers were out doing the dark wizard catching.
What he remembered most about that visit wasn't the bare walls or the dilapidated furnishings or the sound of the couple next door having a violent argument or even the black eye that his old nemesis was sporting. It was the desperate look of hope that flashed through his tired-looking eyes when he opened the door and saw Harry standing there.
"Potter?" he'd said, voice oddly dazed and retaining only the smallest vestige of mocking derision.
"Hello, Malfoy," Harry had replied. "I need to come in and have a word."
Draco didn't say anything, opting instead to turn around and walk towards the dimly lit kitchenette that resided at the end of the flat's narrow hallway. After a brief pause Harry followed, closing the door behind him. The place smelled bad, really bad and as he entered the tiny kitchenette he could see why. Some of the plates that filled the sink and littered the counter looked as though they hadn't been washed for months. One would have thought that Draco had learnt how to do his own housekeeping by now.
"Malfoy, Alecto Carrow's been apprehended in Dorset," he said, as Draco filled an electric kettle – a task made somewhat difficult by the aforementioned accretion of filthy plates in the sink – before plugging it into a wall socket worryingly close to the overflowing sink.
Draco turned to him and gave a small shrug. "So?"
"She told the Aurors who interviewed her that before his capture your father mentioned hiding several dark artefacts in the Muggle world. Unfortunately for us she didn't know exactly where. So-"
"So you think I'm going to tell you, Potter, just like that?" He gave a sneer, which almost made him look like his old self. "You know you can't make me tell you, don't you?"
"I know." Harry nodded. It was true. The charms that had been placed on him to cut off his magic had had the wholly unintended side effect of altering the effect that a few of the subtler forms of magic had on Draco.
"What are you going to do then, Potter: apply a pair of thumbscrews or appeal to my better nature?"
"Do you have a better nature?"
"What do you think, Potter? Anyway, what are you going to do... make me an offer I can't refuse?" The last part was spoken quietly and had a beseeching quality to it.
He felt a peculiar clenching sensation in his gut, as if he was about to kick a defenceless animal. "I'm sorry, Drac- Malfoy, there's nothing I can do about the spell."
"Nothing you can do about it?" Draco's face fell. There was more than a hint of despair about it.
Harry found himself wishing that Draco would turn off that horrible air of helplessness. He could have easily dealt with anger, hostility, mockery or even violence; but this… this whole helplessness made him want to dash straight out the door. He didn't, of course; the Gryffindor within wouldn't let him.
"Nothing… I'm sorry. I could try to-" He didn't get a chance to finish telling him what he could try to do because Draco suddenly shoved him against the counter and quite literally smashed his mouth against Harry's.
Harry was too shocked to move. Things like this just didn't happen.
After several seconds Draco pulled away. "I'll do anything, Potter." Surely he couldn't be insane enough to try and offer up his body in return for what he seemed convinced Harry could do for him him.
"You can't say you're not completely uninterested. You think I didn't spot how you'd sometimes look at me at school, do you?"
He opened his mouth to protest but found that he couldn't answer without lying. The thing was that, as distasteful as he found it, he was attracted to Draco on a purely physical level.
"I know you could persuade them to reverse what they did to me, Potter. You're their hero; you could persuade them to do anything for you."
For one horrible moment a small part of him was tempted. Here was an attractive, if presently unkempt, yet morally reprehensible person quite literally throwing himself at him, and all it would take was an intimation that he'd try and get something done about Draco's magic-less condition. Not that he would follow through with that, of course. But given some of the things that Draco had done and supported… well, in comparison misleading him in this way wouldn't really be that terrible.Except for the fact that it would be. Malfoy was, at this moment in time, wide eyed and desperate to the point of irrationality and taking advantage of that would be the worst kind of wrong no matter how one looked at it.
"Look," he said, firmly. "There's nothing I can do about the spell. I mean, I don't even know if it could be reversed."
Draco looked just about ready to scream.
"But," Harry continued, taking in once again the black eye, "I know that some wizards have been giving you trouble and I think that I could help you sort that out."
There was no immediate response. Draco just moved further away and looked at the floor.
"All right," he said eventually. "I'll tell you what you want to know."
So he did.
Harry immediately reported the information to the Auror office and extracted a grudging promise that Draco to be given some kind of protection against those magical folk who were intent on attacking him in his reduced state as revenge for crimes – or at least perceived crimes - past. He then waited for confirmation from Kingsley Shacklebolt that the haul was where Draco said it was before, with an uncomfortable goodbye, quickly leaving the building.
He hadn't seen Draco again after that. But his mind did sometimes insist on wondering what had become of him. Given the apparent state of the other man's mental health, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he'd decided to off himself; but if that'd happened it would have probably been mentioned in the Prophet. The guilt, well, that always seemed to set in when he thought of him alone, friendless and living in squalor with an ever decreasing standard of mental health. It wasn't remorse for any particular action, more of a generalised sense of regret for leaving somebody like that.
He'd never told even his closest friends about this: Ron would have doubtless looked at him funny, Hermione would have probably told him that it was a hangover from his 'saving people complex' and Luna, being Luna, would most likely give him a sympathetic look and say something to the effect of: 'Oh that's a shame, why don't you go and have a see how he is then?' Though, actually, when you thought about it, this was exactly what he was doing at the moment.
Coming to the conclusion that he should go away before he attracted unwanted attention, he turned around and looked for the most discreet place from which to disapparate.
Had he remained where he was for another ten seconds he might have noticed the hem of the net curtains move a fraction.
The next two days were taken up with a tedious visit to Gringotts and spectating at a not so tedious Chudley Cannons' match, which he attended with Fred and George, who'd recently acquired their own box at the club grounds.
On the following day, however, he found himself at a loose end and taking another long walk in the direction of Primrose Heights. This time he managed to stop himself before he got too close. The next morning, however, he once again found himself staring up at a second floor window as he walked past, simultaneously hoping and fearing that he might spot some sign of activity. This happened once more a few days later and again a few days after that. On each occasion he saw no sign of habitation.
After a period of about a fortnight he managed to come to a sort of peace with the idea that he was stalking Draco Malfoy. He dealt with it by telling himself that what he was doing was a) not malicious and b) unlikely to trouble the object of his minor obsession, given that said object of minor obsession was completely oblivious. So, it took only a little more self-convincing before Harry decided to don his invisibility cloak and spend more than a few minutes lingering outside Primrose Heights.
The first time he tried this he spent over an hour watching the comings and going of the tower block's many residents and was eventually greeted by the sight of a pale hand reaching from behind the net curtain for an object on the windowsill.
The second time he tried this was at night, and he saw the light on and a silhouetted figure moving about.
The third time he observed an elderly woman being mugged by two young men and, compelled to intervene regardless of secrecy statutes, prodded and poked the assailants on the back until, terrified, they fled the scene.
The fourth time he was actually there when Malfoy, or at least somebody who looked very similar, walked out of the building and was strangely glad to see that he looked almost as if he was back to his old sneering self.
The fifth time it was the early hours of the morning and, unable to quite see where he was going, he tripped up over the hem of the cloak and crashed into one of the discarded shopping trolleys that seemed to be dotted about the area. He was unable to keep himself from giving a cry of pain as his shoulder hit the ground. For several seconds he lay still on the concrete pavement outside the building, trying his level best not to make any noise. When he was certain that nobody was about to come and investigate, he got to his feet.
As he prepared to Apparate home, however, there was the sound of a window opening.
Harry looked up and saw a rather indignant looking Draco Malfoy peering outside. Well, at least he couldn't see him.
"For God's sake, Potter," an annoyed voice shouted. "It's three in the bloody morning, you idiot."
Not quite sure how best to respond, Harry pulled off the invisibility cloak. "How did you know?" he called back.
"I've seen you lurking around for weeks," Draco called back, before adding: "You weirdo."
"Oh."
Knowing that they couldn't really carry on the conversation – if it could be called that – like this without somebody noticing, Harry did the only thing he could. He pulled his invisibility cloak back on and Apparated into the corridor outside Draco's flat. He could have materialised inside easily enough, but he thought that after being caught loitering outside, it was really only polite to knock.
Draco answered the door wearing what looked suspiciously like a pair of black tracksuit pants and nothing else. He looked quite understandably tired, but his features seemed to have recovered from the gauntness they'd possessed.
"What the hell do you want?"
Harry wasn't quite sure what he wanted, but he also knew that he had to say something. "I just…er, I just wanted to see how you were."
Draco regarded him with an amused but entirely derisive look. "You're seriously disturbed, Potter. You know that? Most people would have written a letter or something, but you decide that skulking around under my window every day's a better option."
"Sorry." He wasn't sure quite how else to respond. "It wasn't every day though."
"Seriously disturbed," Draco reiterated. "You coming in then?" He gestured to the hallway, which while by no means a contender for any style awards, did at least now look as though it had been painted.
Harry nodded, not sure that he actually wanted to, but aware that he didn't really have that much of a choice if he wished to retain his mental image of himself as a non-weirdo.
He was led into the kitchenette, which had thankfully been graced by the presence of some pretty damned strong detergents since the last time he'd visited. Clearly Draco had managed to master the basics of elementary housekeeping.
"Why are you here, Potter, honestly?" said Draco, looking him in the eye.
He shrugged. "Like I said, I started wondering how you were."
"Yes, but why?"
"Guilt, I suppose. I mean you were pretty messed up last time I was here."
Draco gave a snort and a shake of the head. "Guilt. Giving yourself a bit too much credit there, aren't you?"
Harry opened his mouth to apologise for the perceived insult. Draco, however, spoke first.
"And don't say sorry again."
"You seem…" What was the right thing to say: 'rude', 'contemptuous', 'back to your old obnoxious self'? "…better."
Another little snort. "Couldn't let you bastards win, could I?"
"I'm glad… that you're feeling better, I mean."
"Better, no. I still hate this bloody Muggle place. But I won't give you the satisfaction of having a nervous breakdown."
It seemed sensible to refrain from pointing out that from where Harry had been standing three years ago – or rather, from where he'd been pressed against the counter having his mouth unexpectedly ravished – three years ago, it looked like the breakdown had come and gone.
"I don't suppose you're here to make me an offer I can't refuse, are you?" Despite the affected bored drawl with which he spoke, there was a small undercurrent of hope in his voice.
"No, I'm not an Auror anymore."
"Oh, couldn't take the pressure, could you?"
Harry felt a stab of annoyance. "Couldn't take being wrapped in cotton wool all the time," he snapped.
Draco smirked in a fashion that Harry was certain shouldn't make him feel so relieved. "So what do you do now, then?"
He shrugged. "Stay at home, have friends round, watch Quidditch, try to avoid Eldred Worple."
"I bet Granger disapproves of the new layabout lifestyle, doesn't she?"
It was wrong to grin at this - Hermione was after all one of his dearest friends - but he couldn't help it. Before she'd left for the Far East she'd made several not so subtle hints that he should start thinking about doing something productive with his life. 'Hogwarts could probably use a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,' she'd said, after noting that hanging around Grimmauld Place all day had to be a tad boring.
He was almost tempted to go for it, as well. After all, he did seem almost in danger of turning into a semi-recluse, especially since Ron and Luna were going to be on their Snorkack hunting honeymoon for at least six months. The thing was that he didn't think that he could handle being The Harry Potter around all of those kids any more than he cope with being the Boy Who Lived at the Auror Office.
"What's your job then, Malfoy?" he asked, feeling that it was only fair that he should get to return the query.
A look that seemed half-way between embarrassment and anger crossed Draco's face and he mumbled something inaudible.
"I'm sorry?" said Harry, wincing at the fact that he'd obviously touch a very raw nerve.
"I work at Tesco's." The words were spoken through clenched teeth and with such venom that Harry had to bite his lip to keep himself from letting out a small giggle.
"You mean as in Tesco's the supermarket?"
"Yes. And don't you dare laugh, Potter. Don't you bloody dare."
"I wasn't going to," said Harry, trying to alleviate the urge with a small cough. "What exactly is it you do there?"
Draco glared at him for a moment before drawing himself up and saying, "I put things on shelves."
"Oh." There really was nothing that Harry could say that would sound the least bit comforting. Instead, his mouth, not really keeping in sync with the sensible part of his mind, decided to ask the question that the perverse part of his mind desperately wanted to know the answer to. "Do you have to wear a name badge?"
For a moment Draco looked as though he was considering inflicting severe bodily harm upon him. "Yes. It says: Hello I'm Drake. The bastards couldn't even spell my name right."
At this Harry couldn't help but give a choked laugh.
"Think it's funny, do you, Potter?"
Lying was futile. "Well, a bit."
Draco picked up the kettle off the kitchen top next to the sink and filled it. "Do you want tea or coffee?" he asked.
"What?" said Harry, somewhat thrown by the question. Had Draco just offered him a drink?
"I said," Draco repeated slowly, "do you want tea or coffee?"
"Let me get this straight, you're offering to make me a drink?"
"Yes, Potter. I am offering to make you a drink." Draco rolled his eyes. "I've got tea and coffee. Oh, and a bottle of vodka in the fridge, but I didn't think you'd want a mug full of that as you'd probably end up either being sick all over the carpet or splinching yourself in the hallway, which would be fun to watch until the men from the Ministry showed up demanding to know what I'd done to you."
Harry bristled slightly. "I can hold my liquor, you know." He then realised that this could possibly be seen as throwing down some sort of challenge. "But tea'll be fine, thank you."
As the kettle boiled Draco took two mugs from the draining board, placed a teabag inside each and then brushed past Harry to get to the small fridge next to where he was standing. The proximity caused Harry to tense, as a very vivid flashback of having his mouth devoured while momentarily pinned to the very counter upon which he was now leaning hit him. Draco gave him a look of amusement.
"Don't worry, Potter, I won't try and kiss you again." Then he added in a much quieter voice, "Unless you want me to, that is."
Had Harry been drinking something at that point he would have invariably choked in an extremely comical fashion.
"Things haven't changed; I still can't change anything about your… your condition."
Draco gave an exaggerated sigh. "That wasn't what I meant. Besides, Kingsley Shacklebolt came to see me six months ago about something to do with my mother. He told me that the Experimental Charms Committee don't know how it could be removed without sending me completely mad, anyway.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy," he said, finding himself a tad surprised that he actually felt as though he meant it. "But I still don't see why you'd be willing to kiss me."
Draco stopped what he was doing and looked directly at him. The combination of the attention and nearness did some not entirely unpleasant things to his insides.
"Well, all right you might be a half-blood Gryffindor who's at least partially responsible for the fact that I'm being forced to live like a Muggle, but I suppose that you are okay looking and it's not like I'm likely to be stalked by another obsessive wizard or witch anytime soon, is it?"
For some completely inexplicable reason Harry felt as though he'd just been paid a compliment. "Some Muggles are all right," he said, deciding against going to the trouble of trying to counter the obsessive stalker label.
"You've not met my neighbours, have you?"
As if on cue, the sound of loud expletives filtered through the walls.
Harry couldn't help but be a little amused by this. "I said some Muggles."
He was rather startled when a second later Draco gave him smile that almost looked as though it might not be a smirk. For some unfathomable reason this had the unprecedented effect of causing him to feel something almost approaching tenderness towards the man.
Before he knew quite what he was doing he was leaning forwards and placing a small kiss on the side of his mouth.
It was worth it just to see the expression of shock on his face.
"That wasn't much of a kiss," Draco said, after a rather dazed seeming pause.
Two seconds later, an arm snaked around Harry's back and he found himself being drawn into a slow, yet oddly passionate kiss. Draco's lips were surprisingly soft and the whole experience was really very pleasant. He did, however, take exception to the fact that Draco's right hand seemed to be intent on sliding downwards in a very presumptuous fashion. So much so that he pulled away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, trying and failing to sound stern.
"Showing you how to kiss me properly."
"You were trying to grope me."
Draco gave him a look that seemed to be composed of fifty percent disappointment and fifty percent amusement. "Do you wait until the second date until you let somebody do that, Potter?"
"I usually wait until they know me well enough to start calling me by my first name. Anyway, it's not even as though we've even actually had a first date yet."
"Do you actually want a first date?"
"Are you asking?"
"Maybe." Draco gave a shrug.
He considered this for a moment. He'd never liked Draco. At school the Malfoy heir been a bully and in his late teens a Death Eater. But on the other hand, despite being one of the Dark Lord's followers, he'd never actually cast the worst of curses and Harry was attracted to him. Besides, they did have things in common. They were both prone to demonstrating less than mentally healthy patterns of action, for instance: Draco with his self-loathing induced breakdown, Harry with his tendencies towards obsessive, though altruistically motivated, stalking. Then there was also the fact that neither of them was likely to meet anybody else anytime soon, owing to Draco's dislike of all Muggles and Harry's obtrusive celebrity.
"Well, if you are then I might."
"All right then, but don't expect flowers and chocolates."
And that was all right, because Harry didn't.
They might not be the most conventionally suited pair. And a shared tendency towards pathological behaviours and inability to find anybody more suitable probably wasn't, on paper, the best basis for any kind of romantic attachment. But as long as Harry had time to waste on lurking outside a block of flats under an invisibility cloak and Draco's contempt for Muggles prevented him from actually socialising with them, then they didn't really have much to lose by having a go at being dysfunctional semi-recluses together for a while.