Title: tomorrow is something we will remember

Rating: R for now

Summary: War changed people, but could people change themselves? This is not just a story, it's about moving on, being sensible and being useful.

Notes: AU.

Chapter One: War changed people

In Draco Malfoy's opinion, no one deserved to be stuck with a nagging, incessantly loud and tactless tart. Certainly not those who dressed up in awful strapless dresses, revealing their virtually inexistent cleavage. That's why he hated being in these loud Muggle bars where countless of women would throw themselves at his feet; they who flirt with him; who violated his personal space by breathing too close to him. He could feel their breaths, slow, seductive, and smelling of Chanel No 5 or Dior Poison. Draco was so accustomed to those scents – if you had covered his eyes with a black cloth, he could still tell you what fragrance you were wearing.

He couldn't understand why Lauren wanted Draco to put up his works in the bar tonight. 'It would do you good to see people from all over the country, Draco.'

'The colours in this piece is are absolutely fabulous, Draco!' A female voice screeched into Draco's ear over Maksim's music with loud annoying techno music interspersed. He turned to face an ebony-haired woman. A rather short but petite woman.

'If you scream into my ears one more time, Pansy, I swear to Merlin that I would personally cast a permanent Silencing charm on you,' Draco whispered into Pansy's ears in his charming yet threatening voice. Pansy just smirked back.

He laughed and bent down to pick up the scarf Pansy dropped. Pansy grabbed it and grinned, while he ruffled Pansy's painfully permed hair. Pansy screeched, pushed Draco's hair away and immediately brought out a mirror from nowhere to examine the state of her black hair. After making sure that no strand of her hair was out of place, she strutted off.

Draco laughed. He liked Pansy; she wasn't one of those scatterbrains, but sometimes she was as vain as them. Draco liked to mess up Pansy's make up, but Pansy would retaliate by mocking a punch on Draco's nose. Then they would laugh.

Draco liked today's show too. He sold two of his paintings in half an hour, and he was getting ready to leave this place. The day was long and he was tired.

…

Hermione remembered the tall Italian who would always walk past her desk, before stopping and giving her a grin. Hermione wanted to give him a good beating sometimes, but sometimes she couldn't resist smiling too. The man would just have a charming aura around him; even Paige, the most "proper" girl working there, would sometimes flirt with him.

Hermione always couldn't remember to ask for his name; and none of her co-workers knew the Italian too. He came as he wanted, talked with Reggie the Boss, and left as swiftly as possible.

Hermione was curious about the man. She was attracted to him, she knew; sparks were flying; but there was absolutely nothing but except for pure curiosity between Hermione and the manon Hermione's part. She thought the man rather familiar, for she thought recalled she had seen those ochre eyes around. His eyes were like a cat's; mysterious, dangerous and appealing.

Harry, on the other hand, felt the man was some dodgy character. He shook his head whenever Hermione related her latest encounter with Mister Mysterious Italian. Ron sniggered. He thought Harry was acting like a father.

'Well, rather him than you,' Hermione's response was blunt and she blushed when she realised what she just didsaid.

…

Draco wasn't in favour of one night stands; yet he found himself hanging around in Muggle bars more and more often after his shows to pick up a daft girl to shag. Shag. The word resounded in his mind as if it was something not worthy of thinking. It seemed that as he thrust, his mind was blank. He didn't care about the girl lying beneath him, who grabbing grabbed his thighs with gusto.

As an artist, Draco loved things with textures. It had occurred to him when he waswhile in Hogwarts that he wasn't some rich guy's kid, not a good for nothing. He could paint. Draw. Design. Dabble in the rich art. He loved the layers and layers of coats of paint he applied to the canvas each time; it gave the piece a feeling. A feeling that it's it really was there, and not some abstract idea floating in his head.

Yet he found it fucking insane sometimes, not to work in the Ministry or something that mundane and predictable, but preferring to spend most his life in the Muggle London. He was a Malfoy, after all. He was supposed to hate Potter and Granger and Weasel; supposed to be, living life in a large luxurious manor with dozens of elves waiting on him. He was supposed to be mingling with the upper-class society, smoking a cigar while chatting with some politicians in some social functions.

Everything changed, though, after the War.

Fuck the War.

…

If there was one thing Blaise Zabini was fluent in, it was the way he flirted. Every time he went to Reginald Corporation to have lunch with Reggie, he was sure that all the ladies would be enamoured with him. Particularly Granger. Granger claimed that she wasn't interested, but hell yes, she was. Blaise was surprised that Granger didn't recognise him, but perhaps it was because she didn't take notice of him long in Hogwarts. Funny how things work sometimes.

Reggie was amused by Blaise, sometimes. He thought it was funny the way Paige and gang worshipped Blaise. Granger, on the other hand, was one interesting woman. Reggie was grateful that Reginald was fortunate to have such an employee, yet felt that sometimes the woman need to loosen up.

Blaise and Reggie would hide in Reggie's room whenever Blaise was there, and together they would talk about their next projects. Blaise was the owner of Reginald, not many people were aware of that, but Reggie handled most of the things.

They liked how they were working together, how people didn't know about Blaise, how every woman was swept away by Blaise. They would chuckle over glasses of whiskey Reggie brought out.

…

'—fuck all them and fuck the paints, goddammit, Lauren! JUST FUCK THEM ALL!' Draco finally erupted. His boxes of acrylic paint spilled over his working desk, while she, his agent, Lauren, just sighed as Draco stood there huffily. He finally relaxed, after Lauren left the room and came back with a cup of strong brandy. Draco flicked away the shreds of canvas on his armchair and settled on it, while sipping the brandy.

Draco found it weird that even though he could conjure up a glass of brandy, he wouldn't. Lauren could too, but she insisted upon going to the pantry and pouring the brandy out herself. Everyone just reverted to Muggle ways when they were in Muggle London, apparently. It's It was all because of the War.

Draco didn't know who capitalise the "w" in the War, but he supposed there was a reason behind it. Like everything in the world. Screw sanity. Everything now was in accordance with the bloody War. If you told him that he would be an artist seven years ago, he would punch the living hell out of you (if you happened to be Potter) or just laughed at you (if you happened to be one of the Slytherins).

Bloody hell.

Sometimes when he went back to the Manor to collect his stuffsstuff, he felt the guilt coursing through. He would open the doors gingerly, but somehow one of his house elves would jump from nowhere and animatedly offered to carry his coat.

Draco, being the rich kid, would momentarily offer his Armani coat to Minky, before cursing himself for letting the house elf maul his precious jacket. Not that he couldn't afford the jacket (the Malfoy inheritance was still there), but he hated letting his house elves assist him.

…

War changed Harry Potter.

He was older, wiser, and less adventurous. He would not sacrifice his friends on stupid outings anymore. He just wasn't a risk-taker anymore. Ron knew that there was something different about Harry these days, but he didn't care. Come on, people, Voldemort's gone!

'Fuck you, Ron. Get lost.'

'Loosen up, Harry!'