Chapter 5

Flipping up the collar of his jacket to shield his neck, Harry hunched his shoulders as soon as he stepped out of the building of Estallas. The narrow road, as narrow as any other in the labyrinth of London, became a wind-tunnel with the barest breeze, and as he turned to make his way along the street he had to squint into the blinding assault of it. That was one thing that glasses were good for, and one he regretted when he wasn't wearing them.

Harry tucking his jacket around himself a little tighter, folding it across himself with one hand as the other dug in his pocket for his gloves. It was particularly cold that day, unseasonably so, and Harry left only a thumb free as he extracted his phone out and dialled a number from memory.

Ron picked up on the eleventh ring. "Yeah?"

"Are you busy?" Harry asked, pausing on the gutter and glancing absently in both directions. The traffic chugged with the speed of the turtle in its race against the hair, but it still took a dodging act to weave through it.

"Not… really," Ron replied distractedly.

"I take it you've got your hands in computer guts?"

"Yep."

"Is this a bad time?"

"Nope."

"Good, 'cause I've got a surprise for you."

Ron was silent for a moment, and Harry listened mutely to the clicking and scratching sounds of his work as he trotted across the street. He wasn't usually allowed to walk far by himself coming out of his agency's building, because everybody and their uncle seemed to know that the nondescript façade hosted Dorothea Picard and, thus, Harry. They'd had many a questionable swarm of guests, photographers, and fans clogging the street in the early days of Harry's career, enough that Dot had invested an exorbitant amount in Repulsion Charms that extended beyond the simple Muggle-Resistant wards. They worked well enough, but one particularly persistent fan or reporter still managed to slip through on the odd occasion.

That day, Von had to run off a little early. Reluctantly, because he took both his styling and his bodyguard duties very seriously, but he had. Dot hadn't finished up with her own work yet, either, still tangled in the midst of a long-winded consultation, so she'd reluctantly allowed his intervention.

"Apparate," she'd told him sternly as though he was a wayward child. "Go straight to the side street and Apparate."

"My bike is only parked around the corner," Harry had assured her without any real hope of convincing.

Predictably, Dot hadn't budged. She wasn't even close to budging. Her flat expression hadn't changed a single twitch. "Just around the corner," she'd said, "is a corner too far. I'm surely not the only one of us who remembers the last time you had to go 'just around the corner'."

Harry had sighed, folded, and accepted her orders as were duly presented. He did remember, and though it was all a little ridiculous, almost embarrassing, precautions were set in place for safety reasons. He didn't want a near abduction incident again; the most recent attempt had been messy, and not only because the Muggle police got involved.

It was strange, because such attempts always happened near Estallas agency building. On Harry's trips to Diagon Alley, he could usually pass unnoticed with the right clothes and his head adequately tucked. The same in most Muggle hubs. But such liberty didn't detract from the real threat, and though it didn't bother Harry quite so much – what could most of them do, after all? – he abided by Dot's demand and Von's slightly less demanding requests.

In the side street, tucked into the protective cover of shadows and concealment spells, Harry Apparated to his bike.

"You just leavin' work?" Ron asked, the connection jerking momentarily as the phone's electronics struggled with the spurt of magic. It was unlikely that Ron's muffled voice was entirely because of the static interruption; he sounded like he had something held between his teeth.

Harry propped himself against his bike. "Are you talking to me with shit in your mouth?"

"Is a screwdriver, no' shit."

"Right. Want me to call you back?"

"Nah, 's all good." A clicking sounds rung through the phone, a loud think and a clatter. "Wha's up? If you're finished, I could prob'ly meet you somewhere 'n grab a drink in a bi'."

"Yeah, sure," Harry said. "But that's not actually what I'm calling about."

"Huh? What was that?"

He's definitely distracted, Harry thought with a small smile. It would have been hilarious to consider that Ron Weasley, pureblood and technological ignoramus that he'd been, was now a wizard not only of magic but computers. He took pride in attacking Harry's laptop and making it 'better' whenever he dropped over, which was practically every other day. It was a little funny, but Harry was thankful enough. Ironically, he hadn't much of a hand for computers, could only just grasp to logistics of his phone. Ron was a godsend in that department.

Which was why Harry repaid him when he could. In Harry's position, gossip as much as the favours all but fell into his lap. "So. You'll never guess what happened today."

Ron's clinking and tapping faltered. "What?"

"Today. Try and guess."

Ron could never pass up a bit of gossip. He was funny like that. The sound of a tool being placed down on a table clanked on the edges of Harry's hearing. "Something good?"

"Someone good," Harry said, tucking his free arm across his belly against the cold, crossing his legs at the ankles before him.

"I'm listening."

"Are you?"

"Definitely."

"You're sure you're not too busy?"

"Okay, now I'm a little bit worried." Despite his words and their abrupt clearness, Ron sounded more engrossed than concerned. "You don't get excited about anything these days. This is weird."

Harry let both comments slide. He supposed it was probably a little bit true. There wasn't much that he found interesting enough to be excited about these days; it mostly felt rather dull. "Well, I had a meeting today."

"A meeting?"

"With a certain someone."

"And?"

"Someone from our mutual past. I thought you might be interested."

Ron grumbled something under his breath. "Alright, you tosser, stop baiting the bog witch. Who was it?"

Harry couldn't help but grin. He might not get excited, but knowing that something would capture Ron's interest was worth playing the game and pretending for. It didn't interest Harry all that much who he happened to bump into or hear about, but Ron…

"I went to my call-in for How It Works this morning," he said.

Ron was silent. Then he blurted out in an incredulous exclamation, "What? What the bloody hell were you doing there?"

"Are you insinuating I'm not the right person to model for How It Works?" Harry said innocently.

"Definitely not," Ron replied in an instant. "I'm not saying you've got dumbass model-brains –"

"Aren't you?"

"- but science and tech really aren't your thing," Ron continued with barely a pause. He sounded only vaguely apologetic when he said, "sorry, mate. No offence."

"Oh, I'm sure." Harry couldn't quite smother a snort. How strange it was, that as soon as the brand 'model' was tagged to someone, their presumed IQ was instantly lowered. Harry had been fawned over as a Saviour, worshipped in a way that he could only describe as being horrifyingly unwanted, but as soon as he'd become a picture in a magazine, the emphasis had shifted. The fawning forgot that – at least in Harry's opinion – he wasn't innately stupid. Did people think that the camera flash killed brain cells or something? Or did they simply think that people must have few enough in the first place to choose to pose before one?

Ron wasn't usually accusing of such dimness. When he was guilty of it, he more often than not spoke jokingly. Hermione too, and Ginny, but then again, they'd both spend their fair share of time before a camera as well, if not quite for the same purpose.

Harry didn't mind. It didn't bother him. They could think what they liked. If he got riled at every thought that passed through everyone's mind, hackles rising at every dubious eye or sceptical pursing of lips, he wouldn't have the energy to step outside. Once, maybe. Once, it would have pissed him off enough to snatch his wand from his pocket and spin furiously towards anyone who challenged him, demanding recompense or at least retraction of words and thoughts.

But no longer. It was a little hard to be offended when the greatest offence had already been dealt to him. Who could top unrestrained murder?

"Harry?" Ron asked, interrupted his silence.

Harry didn't reply. Smiling to himself, he rocked backwards slightly on his bike and waited.

"Okay, okay, sorry." Ron's apology this time wasn't quite as offhanded. Begrudging, certainly, but heartfelt nonetheless. "You're not dumb. I swear."

"Mm," was all Harry replied.

Ron sighed heavily. "Will you please tell me who you talked to?"

"What?"

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Because they're from bloody How It Works!" Ron all but shouted. "Come on, please? It's not fair that you'd get to poke around HQ for – for whatever it was you were shooting for."

"It's that new 3G thing," Harry said mildly, kicking the heel of a boot absently on the ground. "They gave me a new phone and everything. The one I was getting shots to promote. I don't really know how to use it, but you know Draco – Draco Malfoy? – he's pretty good at this sort of thing, funnily enough, and I've got a pre-interview meet-up with him and Pansy in a couple of days. She'd probably leap on this 3G. Haven't you heard of it? It's supposed to be revolutionary for the modern digital world for sharing and accessing data and –"

"Okay, now I know you're pulling my leg." Harry could almost hear Ron pouting. "Tossing around Malfoy's name like that is bad enough, but asking for his help with a blood phone is a betrayal. So stop dodging the question and tell me; I can't even think who you're talking about who would be working there for –"

"Do you keep in touch with Penelope Clearwater?" Harry interrupted, swallowing his smile. "I wasn't sure if you would, seeing as how she and Percy ended it, but given your work…"

Ron was silent for a moment. Silent but for a slight strangled sound crackling through the phone. "You –" he managed. "You saw –"

"I got her number." Harry regarded his nails, picking at the slight hint of a chip in the index finger that would likely give Von an aneurism if he saw it. "I mentioned you and she said she'd call me. Which she did this afternoon. She said you're free to contact her if I give you her number, but…"

"Fucking Merlin," Ron swore, voice hoarse. "Are you serious? You mean she -? The Penelope Clearwater said that she'd -?"

"Yeah."

"Fucking… Merlin, Harry, she'd a legend. Why the hell Percy even let her go I have no idea, but he's an idiot for doing it. If you even heard of some of what she's managed –"

"Yeah. I know. You've told me."

"She's practically the leading name in Wizarding Tech, you know?" Ron babbled, euphoria adding a slightly manic edge to his words. "She'd incredible. And she's so young too, and all. You know she's the one who built the first television that Hogwarts got its hands on almost single-handedly, right?"

"Yeah, you told me," Harry repeated.

"I've read some of her stuff - you know she's written in Wizarding magazines as well as Muggle ones? – and some of the stuff she comes up with… you wouldn't believe it. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Or maybe you wouldn't get it – I mean, it's all engineering lingo with a big chunk of programming language jargon thrown in, but…"

Harry listened with half an ear as he straightened from where he leant against his bike, pulling his shrunken helmet and wand from his back pocket and reinstating its size before slinging a leg over the seat. Another charm linked Ron's babbling line to his ear even as he blocked out the world with his helmet and, stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Harry shoved keys into the ignition and flicked the kill switch. He was easing away from the curb and into the traffic to the sound of Ron's still-rising excitement in seconds.

Harry wasn't uninterested in technology. He found it interesting, a curious study, and it was certainly useful. He could appreciate that it was impressive to have somehow modified such things to be able to function in the presence of magic, too, if not quite as enthusiastically as Ron did.

Because that was Ron's passion. It was what drove him. He'd found it, just as Ginny had found hers in quidditch, whether playing or teaching her juniors. Just as Hermione found her passion in her activism, standing up for her stalwart beliefs even in the face of her parents' denials.

Harry used to have that. Or he used to have something like that. It had always been a little different, though. Always a little less impassioned. When he was a kid, his every move was guided by the Dursleys. When he'd gone to school, the teachers had laid down further restrictions, and Hogwarts was no different. Dumbledore just added another layer, and Voldemort unwittingly with his maddened pursuit of Harry's life.

Harry hadn't been driven by the passion that left Ron shiny-eyed at Penelope's name, or Ginny glowing after a quidditch match. He hadn't stood tall, fast, and unbeatable like Hermione did in the face of political warfare, even if he had stood. He had planted himself in place like the soldier he was supposed to be but believed he truly wanted to. He'd chaffed at the bit of what bound him, struggled, and spat, and dug his heels in every step of the way. He'd resisted every constraining loop that was tossed at him because he had to. It had become habit.

But those loops were gone. No more Voldemort. No Dumbledore or professors, no teachers or Dursleys. It was as though Harry had been struggling and running, dodging away from demanding hands and pointing fingers, only to find that there wasn't any ground beneath him to run on anymore. Those reins had been snapped, the bit popped free, and now…

Harry wove through the traffic, sliding between cars that stood stationary in peak-hour. Ron was still winding himself up into a fit of excitement in his ear, and Harry let him, because he seemed so happy. He truly loved it – his computers, his tools and little gadgets – in a way that even his father hadn't. He loved too that he was recognised for the skill he'd developed with such a battle against ignorance.

Like Ginny's flying.

Like Hermione's calls to arms.

Like Penelope's skill with software, or Pansy Parkinson's with her ability to dredge up a good story from nothing, or even Draco Malfoy's photography.

Harry didn't quite have that. His was a little different. But, mock as Ron might, and tease as Ginny would that he 'had somehow gained a better fashion sense than all of them combined', and confused though Hermione was whenever he mentioned work – because modelling was a trivial pursuit, wasn't it? It wasn't really a proper job – he needed it. Harry needed it, and he needed to be wanted for what he could do.

No more chaffing at the bit. That bit sat comfortably, just as the reins settled confidently in Dot's hands as she navigated him through still-persistent fans, and paparazzi, and just about anyone who'd opened a magazine in London in the past three years. Harry was happy to let her have it.

He was early. He always was.

He didn't do it on purpose – or at least he didn't think he did. He was an early riser and had been an early riser even in his teenage years, much to Ron's horror. He supposed it probably had something to do with his aunt's own morning routine and Dudley's abrasive wakeup calls as he thundered down the stairs above his closet bedroom, but it could have just as likely been for another reason entirely.

If anything, he found such earliness a benefit these days. Harry had a workout routine he was to abide by, and on the instances that he was led astray from that routine he was called into the office to see Dot, or to meet his newest client. It served him well to have a modicum of wakefulness about him when Von latched him in his claws and sought to make a mess of whatever disaster sleep had made of Harry's appearance.

That day, however, Von didn't leap upon Harry as soon as he walked through the front door of the building. Harry didn't expect him to, and not because Von was, unfortunately, something of a naturally late sleeper himself. He didn't need to spend hours behind closed doors, lathering makeup as much as charms upon his face and hair, standing frozen as Anti-Wrinkling Charms were fixed to his clothes and all but have his shoelaces tied for him. The meeting for that day was about as casual as it got when it came to clients.

Not that casual was really Dot's style. Harry didn't think she was capable of such a thing.

The receptionist was only just setting herself up when Harry clicked the door closed behind himself. At his entrance, she paused where she was flicking through her papers, the computer before her slowly humming to life, to glance towards him.

"I've just had the kettle on," she said, reaching for and raising a mug nearly as big as her own head. From the heaviness of her eyes, bleary behind her glasses, it was clear she needed it.

"Thank, Meghan," Harry said as he passed her towards the hallway, and she nodded absently before sinking into her chair, hands wrapping around her mug. A wispy middle-aged woman, she likely didn't appear at all a figure worthy of concern to the idle client. She wore a professional face well enough, was efficient and organised, but there was nothing about her that would suggest she was a master dualist.

But of course she was. As though Dot would hire anyone less.

The hallway was comfortably silent, the doors into the opposing office lining its length closed and likely still locked. The ambiance was kind of nice, and one of the reasons Harry actually quite enjoyed coming in so early. The aloneness was like a breath of relief, a lull before the storm hit, and he bathed in it briefly after the drive through the madness that already tore through London's streets.

Harry busied himself filling the simple staff kitchen and lounge with the heady fragrance of coffee beans. His own mug in hand, he settled himself onto the plump couch, tucking his feet up before him and sinking into the cushion as he sipped his pseudo-breakfast. It wasn't as though Harry needed the extra nudge for wakefulness, practice having him already more than alert, but it would keep him going. He didn't expect the coming meeting that day to be quite as bad as Von anticipated, Dot speculated, and his friends agreed was nothing short of horrifying, but there was nothing wrong with precautioning.

Beyond the door, as the hour stretched, noise began to build from a muted murmur to something more. Slowly, incrementally, with one person after another, the office came alive.

A middle-aged man juggling too many folders clattered into the staffroom just past eight o'clock to similarly juggle his lunch into the fridge. Harry spared him a glance – Timone, his name was – before dropping his attention back to the folder open in his own lap and taking another sip of coffee.

A pair of women, talking with such a rapid-fire exchange that they didn't even appear to finish their sentences, hastened through barely ten minutes later. Harry shared a brief nod with the both of them, absently reheated the kettle before they got the chance to re-boil it, and went back to reading through his brief.

Kerry ducked her head in for a moment, spared a short hello, before disappearing. Garrett stood so long in the doorway on his phone that Ursula had to nudge him into motion when she attempted to enter the room herself. The sound of doors closing, the fridge opening and shutting, a burst of talkback radio before whatever office it came from was silence by a closed door – it all flowed around Harry at an increasingly upbeat pace that, if not necessarily enthusiastic, certainly breathed efficiency.

It always had. It likely always would. Dot might not be the sole person in charge of Estallas, but those she shared the position with were nothing if not likeminded.

When Von all but rolled in nearly an hour after Harry, he was still as bleary-eyed as Meghan had been before she'd been brought to life by the masterful effects of caffeine, and likely s little else added into the mix. Von all but stumbled towards the kettle, grunted when he found it nearly empty, and extracted his wand rather than refilling it from the sink.

Harry absently placed his folder down before him, settling his long-emptied mug atop it, and couldn't help but smile a little as he watched Von scrubbing his eyes. No one who saw him in the full throes of his work would think Von could ever appear slovenly, and yet…

"Late night?" Harry asked.

Von grunted again.

"Do you need an ID?"

"It's not a hangover," Von said through a yawn.

"IDs aren't just for hangovers," Harry said, sliding his legs off the couch and resting his elbows on his knees. "And I didn't accuse you of having one in the first place. I just asked if you needed a potion. You were working too late last night, weren't you?"

Von shot Harry a glance over his shoulder, then sniffed offhandedly. "Yeah, well. Do you have one?"

Harry gestured towards the cupboard directly beside Von's head. "Top shelf. I think Edwin's keeping them there permanently now."

"Fantastic," Von said. He tugged the door open and hummed with sincere appreciation at the mint-green Invigoration Draughts filling the shelf in a perfect line. "He'll know I've taken one, won't he?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Just pay him for it."

"He's selling them?"

"Like a pusher."

Von chuckled as he plucked a vial from its shelf. He squinted at it briefly, raised it to his nose for a sniff, before pouring it into his own cup of coffee. "Bless his soul."

Harry smiled. Invigoration Draughts were far from the worst thing used that he'd come across in the industry, from models, managers, and crewman alike, but the higher-ups still frowned upon overuse of them. Even if they oftentimes did make such gruelling demands, the agency Harry worked with – and many others, if word of mouth spoke the truth – didn't tolerate the misuse of potions or chemicals from models or behind-the-scenes workers.

Watching as Von gradually came alive beneath the combined effects of the ID and his coffee, Harry absently began filing away the notes he'd been sent from the director at one of his latest requests. A Wizarding magazine, coveted by the world of witches and wizards, it was thick with expectations and guidelines more courtesy of Dot than their correspondents that dictated everything from stylistic differences to expectations of mannerisms and cordiality in the performance. It would all be briefed over in person, of course, but Harry appreciated the heads-up nonetheless. There were vast differences between the two worlds he dealt with when it came to modelling, and sometimes it helped to have a reminder.

"What's that?" Von asked.

Harry glanced up at him, pausing in his folding. "Just the stuff for Kelly's."

"You've got a fitting on Thursday, bub," Von said, as if he needed the reminder.

Harry didn't object to that redundancy. He had everything planned out and written meticulously not only at his flat but in Dot's office and likely on the inside of her brain, too. She wouldn't run the risk of him forgetting. "Yeah. I haven't even met the director yet."

"Not at the casting?" Von asked, eyebrow rising.

Harry shook his head.

"Of course not." Von rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee that seemed to have abruptly turned to vinegar for the sourness of his expression.

"You're still upset?" Harry asked.

"I'm not upset."

"Come on, Von. Just because they won't let you be my stylist on the day doesn't say anything about your skill. Heaps of places prefer to use their own. Most, even. Dot's just –"

"I know, I know." If anything, Von's expression twisted further. "I'm grateful and all."

"You sure sound like it," Harry muttered, ducking his head to avoid the frown Von shot him. He couldn't begrudge him his resentment. Not really. If Harry could have his way, he'd demand Von be his sole stylist all the time. Even after years of exposure, it was a still a little bit disconcerting to have strangers fussing over him with clinical proficiency.

Grumbling to himself, Von wandered across the room to prop himself on the arm of the couch alongside Harry. "What time were you in this morning?" he asked.

"Mm…" Harry frowned briefly at a page; there was definitely something worth rereading amidst the flowery language. "A little before eight."

"Did you already go to the gym?"

"Of course."

"Drive or Apparate?"

"Both."

Von muttered something else beneath his breath, but he sounded more amused that derisive when he continued. "You know, most people choose one of the other."

"I like riding my bike," Harry said, settling back into his seat. "It was my uncle's, you know."

"No shit, bub. You only tell me all the time."

"Should I tell you again?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure I heard it the first couple of hundred times."

Harry laughed and Von smiled over the edge of his mug. Only for that smile to slowly fade as his regard became intent. "How're you feeling?" he asked, almost gently. "About today?"

Von wasn't a tentative person. Not in the least. That he attempted to be said he understood the significance of the situation they'd found themselves in – or at least the significance that the world assumed it to be. Harry wasn't quite sure it warranted the emphasis.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Well, you know." Von readjusted himself on his perch.

"No, I don't."

Von frowned. He smoothed it away almost instantly, however, as sharp curiosity took its place. "You're really alright with Parkinson and Malfoy being in on all this? Really?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, to correct Von's use of surnames, because Harry had never really liked it and made a point of not doing so these days, but he held his tongue at the last moment. He dropped his gaze to his knees. How did he really feel about it?

He knew how he was supposed to feel. Unnerved. Disgusted. Riled, and objectionable, and denying such a choice. Like a prima donna, maybe Harry should have been demanding a larger crew than the handful that would be involved, a ridiculously small number both for someone of his name and notoriety and for Syren themselves. More than that, however, that Draco and Pansy, two alleged ex-Death Eaters, were primary figures in the proceedings?

When Ron had found out, he'd been wrought with bystander horror. "I'll come and rescue you or something," he'd said over the phone. "Kidnapping style or something. In the middle of the interview. Just – I dunno, bugger off somewhere and hide until the hype dies down and Dot comes to her senses about who she'll approve to do the interviews and pictures."

"I don't really care, to be honest," Harry had replied.

"You… you don't care?"

"No. Not really."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Why should I?"

"Because – Harry, because it's Malfoy. Hell, jump back five years and you'd be spitting chips at having to be in the same room as him."

Harry considered. Would he be? He supposed he would, but… not now. Not anymore. He didn't feel even the slightest hint of anger for the situation. Should he? Would he really have been so angry, once upon a time?

"Wow, has it really been so long?" Hermione had said, shaking her head as she stared at him over the restaurant table, fork forgotten in her hand. "Wasn't Malfoy under house arrest in France for two years?"

"Yeah. And apparently he's been a photographer ever since he was released."

Hermione had shaken her head again. She hadn't seemed to even realise she'd put her fork into her mouth as she'd continued through her chewing. "Has he changed much? Malfoy?"

Harry thought. When he considered it, Draco probably had changed, and yet at the same time not at all. He still wore the same aloofness, the touch of arrogance that he'd always possessed, and perhaps even more so than the boy he'd been at the end of the war. He was still immaculately presentable, clothes smooth and elegant, if simplistic, in a way that Harry wouldn't have noticed before he'd fully stepped up to his role as a model. His hair was perhaps a little longer at the top, his face a little fuller than it had been at his worst, and the set of his shoulders held a touch more confidence than he'd been capable of summoning at his most brow-beaten. But he was ultimately the same person.

Or mostly, because this Draco didn't sneer as soon as Harry stepped through the door. He didn't scowl at the prospect of working together but instead seemed nothing if not ready to step up to the game. He spoke with precise and reserved professionalism, tossing around lingo that Harry had heard from many a photographer, and not a hint of derision, or superiority, or even pride touched his words. He was different. Older. Matured and, if not as much as Harry had been told he was himself, just a little less angry.

Had Draco Malfoy changed? Harry supposed he had, but then who of them hadn't? Pansy had, too, and Harry had mentioned just as much to Hermione, which seemed enough of a distraction for her as she'd diverged into a spiel of, "I've read a whole heap of her articles, you know, and they're actually not bad."

"You should shag him."

Harry had turned to Ginny with a blank stare where she'd been sitting at his side, leg slung casually over the arm of his couch and all but sprawled in her stretch across the cushions between them. She grinned at him upside-down, a grin by no means lessened for being the wrong way around.

"Excuse me?"

Ginny had snorted, grin widening. "You should. He was always pretty fit, right?"

"Ginny."

"It's not uncommon for models to fuck their photographers on a casual basis, right? You said so yourself."

"Gin."

"And honestly? Really honestly, Harry." Ginny had pushed herself onto her elbows, turning towards him properly as her grin had settled into a smirk. "Apart from the end of sixth year, you were always kind of obsessed with him. It was only when we started dating that you really backed off any, and we all know that was more because of your sexuality crisis unconsciously nagging at you than because you were interested in my boobs." She'd paused, then poked his thigh with a finger. "Ob. Sessed."

"Was I really?"

Harry pondered the idea. He supposed he had been, once. He supposed he'd been a lot more passionate about everything else, too, just as Ron, and Ginny, and Hermione had told him. Even Molly Weasley had said on several occasions that she'd noticed he seemed to have become 'settled', whatever that meant.

"It's lovely to see, dear," she said on those occasions. "It was always so upsetting to see you become so angry when you were younger."

That anger had long faded, vanishing to where Harry couldn't find it even when he looked. Maybe he'd used it all up in the war and it had disappeared right alongside any willingness to fight anymore. Or maybe the simple act of accepting that his life was governed by someone else – by Dot, by the agency, by every photographer, and director, and headline that demanded a response – rather than fighting against it had changed something in him.

When it came to Draco and Pansy, Harry should have been many things, but he wasn't. He wasn't any of it.

"Harry?"

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Harry glanced once more towards Von. "Hm?"

Von was frowning again, and Harry wasn't surprised. Von had never been a particularly active member in the war, his mother a Muggle and his father all but entirely separated from the Wizarding world as it was, but even he hadn't been able to escape the ingrained prejudice that most of the world still held for ex-Death Eaters.

Resting his mug upon his knee, Von shook his head slightly. "It really doesn't bother you? About Parkinson and Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "No. Not really."

"And you're not worried at all about having to actually talk to them again in," Von glanced at his watch, "less than half an hour?"

"No."

"Wow. Well, you're a better man than I, bub. I wouldn't be able to even look at the pair of them straight, and definitely not if I were in your shoes."

Harry left the words hanging, simply watching as Von rose to his feet to take his mug to the sink. Dropping his elbow onto his knee and his chin into his hand, he barely realised he was staring at Von's workaday motions across the room as he fell back into his thoughts. Half an hour. Half an hour until he was faced by something that should have unnerved him but really didn't.

You're a better man than I, Von had said. Harry didn't think that 'better-ness' had anything to do with it. Harry was just… Harry.

"Why are you taking pictures in the interview itself?"

Draco paused in setting up his tripod, sparing a glance towards Von where he'd wedged himself into a corner of the room. After a moment, however, he glanced towards Harry and, despite the question arising from Von's corner, he addressed Harry when he replied.

"I'll be including a sequence of behind-the-scenes footage that will be released in increments after the primary installments," he said. "So long as you've got no objections?"

Harry shrugged. He didn't really care what footage was used, even if he knew that Dot did, and Von, and every other person in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds who had any kind of interest in him. It wasn't ever truly for him to decide, anyway. It was out of his hands, and even if Harry did have a problem with what his shots were being used for, it wasn't like he had any say in the matter. Despite what the world seemed to think of noteworthy models – a term he'd never attributed to himself until Ginny had very emphatically informed him that he'd apparently become pronounced in his own right – he didn't have much say in what he did at all.

That was what Dot was for. And bless her for having a rational head on her shoulders.

The room was simple, unadorned but for the pair of chairs and round table between them, and not unlike the interview studios Harry had been in countless times in the past. Except that this wasn't a studio. It wasn't even really an interview room, but a study of sorts in one of the higher rooms of the building of Estella en Ascenso. While most of the interviews had been booked to take place at Syren, alongside every fitting, correspondence with editors, and meeting with the coordinators, the pre-interview session was to be held in private quarters. Dot had managed to instate her demands in that much, at least.

Dot herself was speaking to Pansy across the room, and from the firm set of her face and Pansy's all but silent nods of reply, she was likely laying the ground rules. Again. Harry had it on record that she'd shared many a threatening phone call, sent many a tight-lipped fax, and shared numerous such conversations with Pansy in particular already. If he wasn't already aware that such an interview with the 'Chosen One of the Past' was drawing disproportionate attention, he would have thought it unnecessary. He still did, to a degree, but…

"I'll not have this blowing up in our faces," Dot had said only that morning, and not for the first time. "Even Jack and Jill in London and beyond shuns this agency and everyone who's involved for keeping our hands on you rather than letting you go to somewhere with a bigger head on their shoulders. I'll not give them any more fodder."

"Keeping your hands on me?" Harry had echoed. "What am I, a chew toy?"

"Practically," Von had said.

Dot had ignored them both but to pin them both with a hard stare. "Don't pretend this won't add even more weight to your every move, Harry. Making your story professional and the interviews deliberately focused was always an inevitability, but we don't have to play to the expectations of what's going to arise. So be careful."

Harry was. Not intentionally, but he was. He didn't go out but with his friends, and always draped in Concealment Charms. He Apparated where possible because he had to, and always had company in interviews and castings that he only rarely attended as he'd been required to before. Fame was dangerous, he'd found, and not only from malicious sources.

Glancing back towards Draco, Harry regarded him for a moment. Whether it was Von's words or those of his friends, or perhaps even the disgruntlement of the Wizarding world and Muggle photographers in response to the announcement, he felt a flicker of curious arise within him. Instead of telling his own story, he'd rather learn what had become of Draco over the years. And Pansy, for that matter; she'd surely paved a colourful path to be able to plant herself as such a distinctive interviewer and reporter.

Draco had bowed back to his task, long fingers working with meticulous proficiency over the cameras as he settled and adjusted flicks and switches. His head tipped to peer at it sidelong, his blank focus was disturbed only by a slight frown, nearly lost behind the curl of his white-blond fringe that flopped across his brow.

Smooth, groomed hair, down to the perfect angle of the side-comb. A simple, elegant outfit that managed to make him seem even taller than he was in a way that Harry wouldn't have understood before he'd been made to appear so himself on countless occasions. A dark tie tucked into his sleeveless vest, the sleeves of his dress-shirt underneath folded precisely to his elbows, shoes polished to a shine; if anything, he looked like the kind of person that should be standing in front of the camera rather than behind it.

"Do you have something you'd like to say, Harry?"

Harry allowed himself a small smile. How easily swayed they both were, that a simple decision could have them disregarding years of derisive address to speak with familiarity. Nothing but a hint of boredom touched Draco's words. It was almost as though they hadn't been rivals at all, and the thought, the difference, the change that was more apparent in that instance than Harry had considered it before, struck him then.

"Because it's Malfoy," Ron had said, his horror thickening his voice as he'd all but demanded an explanation over the phone. "Has he changed much?" Hermione had asked repeatedly, fascination hushing her words. "You should definitely shag him," Ginny had teased, because she knew that, in the past, such a thought was not only inconceivable but horrifying in itself.

In the past. Harry nearly snorted. How much things had changed indeed, that he could contemplate such a thing as casually as the urge to recross his legs.

"Not really," Harry replied to Draco's askance, because he didn't have anything to say. Not in the slightest.

Draco glanced at him sidelong, and though his fingers still worked – adjusting minutely, squeaking the frame into place – he didn't blink away for a long moment.

When Dot finally released Pansy from her claws, Pansy crossed the room. A hint of something that wasn't quite a smirk niggled at the corners of her lips as she settled herself. "Well," she said with a sigh, adjusting her seat and plucking a notepad from thin air. A pen – not a quill but a pen – appeared a moment later. "Now that our babysitter has finished bulldozing me, shall we start?"

"I consider her more of a bodyguard than a babysitter," Harry said, settling back into his own seat.

"A bodyguard?" Pansy glanced briefly towards Von. "You have two?"

"No. Von's just a pretty face."

To his credit, Von only grinned, shaking his head as he leant a little more comfortably back against the wall. Dot, naturally, didn't budge an inch. She could have been a stone gargoyle as she watched them from her own perch.

Pansy chuckled. She actually chuckled, which Harry supposed he'd have to tell Hermione about, what with her avid curiosity. He'd never thought she could make such an affable sound in the past. "Good to know which direction I should defend myself from should I slip up again."

"Which you won't," Harry said, propping an elbow onto the arm of his hair and resting his cheek in his hand his hand. He smiled. "I've heard you're pretty good."

"Have you really?"

"I have some reliable sources."

Pansy's smirk seemed to soften just a little. "Good to know that even in Harry Potter's circles I'm not considered entirely disastrous."

"He never said that," Draco murmured from behind his camera. "Don't make assumptions, Pansy."

"I do believe that cameras aren't typically supposed to talk," Pansy said, shooting him a glance.

"Then you clearly haven't dealt with a wizard's camera all that much."

"More's the photographer that I have an objection to. I should find a new one."

"So soon? That's quick of you. You do yourself proud."

Harry glanced between them at their snapped exchange. It was somehow just a little fascinating. He'd never considered that they could share such companionability despite their friendship, even if it was underscored with teasing and jabs. It made sense given they were friends, but…

"Isn't this Harry's interview?" Von asked, cutting into their not-argument. "Or should we all leave the room to let you finish?"

"Technically it's not a proper interview yet," Harry said.

"Precisely," Pansy said, turning back to him. "Which is why I would have told you not to be nervous or anything – all empty platitudes, you understand, but necessary for procedure – except that you don't appear to be needing kid gloves. Do you?"

Harry hitched a shoulder, blinking slowly. "Not to sound like a prat, but I've done this a couple of times before."

"Not to sound like a prat, he says," Von said, shaking his head again. "Bub, I don't think I've ever actually heard you sound like a prat."

"Really?" Draco asked, once more not looking towards Von. His eyebrow arched as he stared at Harry, but he didn't continue.

"Both of you, mouthy cameraman and Pretty Face, can leave the room if you would be quiet," Pansy said pleasantly. She smiled at Harry. "What do you think?"

Harry didn't need to reply. Draco's scowl and Von's grumble but subsequent silence spoke for them. From the corner of his eye, Harry thought he might have even seen a hint of approval touch Dot's stern stare. With a shrug, Harry took that sentiment as well as thoughts of Draco, Von, and anything beyond the room and placed it out of his mind.

"Whatever you'd like, Pansy," he said. "You're the one in charge in this situation."

Pansy blinked. If he were to hazard a guess, he might think she even looked a touch surprised. Any evidence of such vanished an instant later, however, when she plucked her pen out of the air where it had been suspended and set the nib to her page.

"Alright, then," she said, scratching out a few words. "I figure today we'll just have a bit of a rundown of what we'll be doing, brainstorm the potential routes we want to take, and work from there. Yes?"

Harry nodded.

"So, to start off with, I'm thinking we'll divide the sequence into four section with four interviews and shoots each." Pansy wrote as she spoke yet kept her eyes upon Harry as though gauging his response. "They'll have to go for a couple of hours each, mind. You're aware we're going pretty in depth, aren't you?"

Harry nodded again.

"I mean more in depth than those previously."

Harry raised an eyebrow slightly. Was he supposed to care? In many ways, it would be simpler having everything out in the open than keeping it all under lock and key. Besides, he didn't have all that much to hide. Not really. "I don't care."

Pansy shot such a brief glance towards Draco that Harry almost missed it. For Draco's part, Harry noticed his expression was even blanker than it had been before. He was watching Harry too, his hands rested atop the camera, and posed so still that he hardly seemed to be breathing.

"Good,' Pansy said after a moment. "That makes things easier."

"I'm sure Dorothea will jump in if she feels you're overstepping your boundaries," Harry said.

Pansy grunted. "I'm sure she will." She tapped her nib several times, twirled her pen briefly, then resettled it. "Alright, so we'll start with early life in our first sitting: where you grew up, who you lived with, what it was like in a Muggle household. I think Syren was going to try and get an interview with them, but I don't know how successful they've been so far."

They can try, Harry thought. Even with fame, I doubt Vernon and Petunia want to have anything to do with me. Maybe Dudley wouldn't be quite so bad, but who knows?

"As far as I'm concerned, I don't feel the need to address them directly. So, unless Draco wanted to try for a shoot…?" She nodded as Draco gave a nearly non-existent frown. "Right. So, we'll move onto school life with the second sitting. Not that most people don't know the gist of it, but your experience directly is what we're really looking for."

"My experience?" Harry echoed.

"People want to hear it in your words," Pansy clarified.

"Oh, I doubt that. No one really wants to hear the truth; they want to hear what they want to hear."

Pansy's pen paused. She considered Harry for a moment, slowly pursing her lips. "You know," she said just as slowly, "you're not as stupid as you look. And seem."

Von growled something across the room, but Harry only shrugged. "Thanks? You know, I get told that a lot, actually. Do I really seem so stupid?"

"Or act so smart," Draco murmured nearly inaudibly. Harry glanced towards him, momentarily confused by what he meant, before Pansy recaptured his attention.

"We'll skim over the big incidents in your school years," she continued, eyeing Draco sidelong once more as she did so. "We'll touch on that a bit more in the next sitting, I think, with the war. That one will have to be a big one, so… we're looking at half the day? Maybe extending it further?"

Harry didn't even bother nodding this time.

"And then afterwards, we'll go into your life and career as the Saviour of the Wizarding world and beyond. The post-war rebound, deciding not to return to school, how you got into modelling…"

She continued, but Harry didn't feel much need to add his two cents. He was there to listen and respond to her questions, after all. And, not so surprisingly as he'd felt just that way in years, he didn't mind. He didn't feel disgruntled that his opinions were practically overlooked. He didn't care that he didn't get to choose who interviewed him, or what was to be asked, or what he would wear in the shoots and how it would all be compiled and presented. He simply didn't care.

Life, Harry had found, was far easier, far less objectionable, and far more peaceful when he simply let things happen. Rather than chaffing at the bit, it was easier just to stop fighting entirely.

A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter. I can't even say how lovely and supportive I found it. Each and every single message made my day, so I can't thank you enough.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'll see you next time!