Chapter 6

"… sure you're more than familiar with the kinds of questions to expect from these sort of things. It would almost be dull, wouldn't it?"

"I don't mind so much. Besides, if someone asks the same question, it's actually easier since I already know the answer."

"I'd have thought you'd know the answer to any question. It's your life, after all."

"Yes, but some questions take more time to process and work out the best reply to than others."

"Well, suffice it to say that this time will be different."

"Will it?"

"No offence intended to my predecessors, but I intend to tread where no interviewer has trodden before. We're going to take a look at your real story, Mr. Potter."

"Please, just call me Harry."

"I'm sure you're aware that such casualness might not be taken so well."

"Does it matter? Besides, you've got my permission on camera, so what's the harm?"

"… you know, you're right. Familiarity and casualness is what I always strive for in these situations. It's more comfortable for everyone involved, wouldn't you agree?"

"Definitely."

"Good to hear. Shall we get started, then?"

"Fire away."

"No nerves?"

"Not really."

"Well, if anything I ask makes you uncomfortable, or you're disinclined to answer, just let me know. I don't want to encourage you into sharing anything you desperately want to keep hidden."

"That's good of you, but I think that most of the secrets anyone really cares about are already in the open."

"I wonder… Is that a challenge, Harry?"

"It wasn't intended to be, Pansy."

"Forgive me if I take it as such. In the best possible way, of course."

"Of course."

"Now. We'll start at the beginning. It's common knowledge that at barely fifteen months old your parents were taken from you. Do you remember any of it?"

"Wow. Right to the heart of the matter. You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"I'd rather avoid hacking through the underbrush and instead dive straight into the forest. As I said, if it makes you uncomfortable…"

"No, it's okay. It's actually kind of refreshing. Let's face it, everyone already knows everything, so what've I got to hide?"

"That's what I'm hoping to figure out. Everyone wants to hear your story from you rather than second-hand. A new take, as it were."

"Then I'm afraid most people will be pretty disappointed."

"We'll see."

"Or not. As it happens, I don't remember anything about the night I, uh, lost my parents. Or anything from before that, for that matter."

"Nothing at all?"

"No. There's pictures and things, and that sometimes makes me feel like I remember, but I think that's probably just projecting, you know?"

"So nothing at all? No vague memory of your mother's face or your father's laugh?"

"No."

"And what about the night you lost them specifically? It must have been traumatic, even for a child. Nothing?"

"If I did, I think it probably would have impacted me strongly enough that I'd remember, right? You said it: even for a kid it would be traumatic."

"Then, nothing?"

"No. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Not at all."

"What're you writing? Literally 'nothing'."

"Nosy, Harry?"

"Well, it is about me. I'm just curious."

"As am I. Now, as the story goes, Rubeus Hagrid was the one who took you to live with your aunt and uncle. I take it you don't remember any of that journey either?"

"I'm afraid not. Sorry."

"No need to apologise. And Albus Dumbledore? Minerva McGonagall? Stories also claim that not only were they both responsible for your relocation but that they accompanied Mr. Hagrid. No recollections there either, I take it?"

"You're whipping a dead horse, Pansy. Sorry. If I did, I'm sure some news headliner would have already written about it."

"Indeed…"

"More writing?"

"None of your concern. So, your relatives. The Dursleys, yes? Mr. and Mrs…?"

"Vernon. And Petunia. And my cousin, Dudley."

"Of course. And they're all Muggles."

"Very Muggle."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they didn't have anything to do with the Wizarding world."

"Nothing at all? Did they know of our world?"

"Should you be asking me this when this interview will be aired to Muggles as well?"

"Worry not about that. This is the first session, so we'll be a little liberal and just fix things up with the final edit. The editors will skew the story appropriately, make it more Muggle-friendly, and we'll do out bit in coming interviews. Never you fear.."

"So then, Muggles will be…?"

"Most likely those who don't follow Pagan practices."

"Huh. Well, they definitely weren't."

"And yet you yourself are, are you not, Harry?"

"Pagan?"

"Yes. Like your parents."

"Ha. Yeah. I guess you could say it's inherited? Even living without being exposed to it – I guess it's in my blood."

"Oftentimes it is. Did you manifest any particular tendencies towards Paganism at a young age?"

"… You know, some people – sorry, will this be edited out?"

"Accordingly, should it infringe upon the Muggle Awareness Act. As I said, this is the first session. We can afford to be a little more liberal."

"Right. So, you know that some people will object to the fact that I'm… Pagan. Right?"

"Is that a problem?"

"For me?"

"For you. And your career. A prominent figure such as yourself – our correspondence and subsequent publication shouldn't infringe upon your work."

"If anything could infringe upon my work it would be the overprotectiveness of my agent."

"Your bodyguard, you mean?"

"Yes, she is sort of that."

"I see. Regardless, have no fear in the translational department, but we can discuss post-interview what should and shouldn't be revealed."

"Really? Most interviewers don't allow their subjects to comment on that kind of thing."

"This isn't like most interviews, Harry."

"Yeah, I'm starting to realise that."

"We're getting off-topic. So, your relatives. You lived with them until you attended secondary school, correct?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me a little bit about them?"

"There's not really all that much to tell. They were… family. We were never particularly close, and Dudley and I didn't click, so that probably put a bit of a wall between us. Or maybe it was because of my Pagan blood."

"A wall? In what way?"

"Oh, nothing drastic. Just that I suppose we weren't as close as most families are."

"You don't think that your distance manifested any kind of behaviour unreminiscent of familial interactions?"

"… What?"

"Did they ostracise you? To my knowledge, Paganism and Pagans are often excluded in some circles."

"Ostra –? Oh. No. Not really. I mean, we never had particularly deep conversations or anything, but Dudley and I used to play together sometimes with his friends. I always had breakfast and dinner with them and everything. My aunt and I actually used to cook in the kitchen a little bit together."

"A hidden talent for cooking? How unexpected, Harry."

"I don't know if I'd call it a talent."

"They seem affectionate enough, then, yes? But what about your tendencies? Did any incidents arise pertaining to that?"

"Incidents… I suppose maybe a little? I think I was probably a bit of a wayward kid, so I didn't follow the rules quite how my aunt and uncle would have preferred I did. They had to come up to school a couple of times because of some disagreements, and that caused a bit of a rift between us."

"A rift?"

"In the loosest sense of the term. That, and other little things. Like how I didn't ever really like my aunt cutting my hair, so we'd argue over it. Or that some of Dudley's games weren't really to my taste, so we'd have the odd disagreement or two about it. Stuff like that."

"That seems nothing if not usual family dynamics."

"Yeah. Probably because it was. Nothing outstanding."

"And how did they respond to your acceptance into your secondary school? You were provided with gifted placement because of your parents, I'm sure you're aware. Being non-Pagan, how did they take it?"

"Not great. I mean, it wasn't a disaster or anything, and they eventually agreed when the school approached the directly, but it's against their own religion. You can't exactly blame them."

"Of course not. Were you upset to leave them?"

"Not really, to be honest. As I said, we were never exactly close."

"I see… Now, taking a step backwards a little bit, your education was fairly typical in your primary years…"

Syren was quite literally buzzing with activity. Whether it was the lunch hour or simply that the size of the company exceeded most that Draco had previously dealt with, he didn't know. Or maybe it was because it was one of the few that juggled the fragile Wizard-Muggle overlap without infringing upon legalities. Even as a new company, they were rapidly becoming famous for it.

Ultimately, however, Draco didn't care. He'd been standing behind a camera for the past three hours and was revelling in the chance to stretch his legs a little. And his back. And his fingers. It wasn't particularly unfamiliar to him, but filming wasn't his forte. Nor was it his preference, for that matter. He was looking forward to the following day when the proper shoot would be underway.

Or maybe 'looking forward' wasn't the right way to phrase it. Certainly not aloud. That Draco really was almost eagerly anticipating shooting Potter…

I don't know if that will ever not feel strange, he thought as he deliberately shifted the 'Potter' to 'Harry' in his head once more. It wasn't like I felt the need to change it, but if Potter – if Harry is disregarding past terms of address, it would be juvenile not to do the same.

It was still strange, though. Different, which was a reality that Draco was becoming more and more certain of existed in Harry himself, too. Even more so after the initial half of Pansy's interview for that day.

A spitting sound snapped Draco's attention from where it had drifted. In the middle of the hallway, he slowed in step and glanced sidelong at the man who even then was only just passing him. Narrow-eyed, square-jawed, lip curled. Aggression radiated off him in almost visible ripples.

"Fucking Death Eater scum," he muttered before striding away in the opposite direction to Draco, shoulders rigid with tension.

Well, that's original. Snorting to himself, Draco shook his head and picked up his pace once more.

It wasn't unexpected, that he was shunned. It wasn't unfamiliar to be glared at, to be sneered at, to be the subject of hissing and spitting as though surrounded by a particularly disgruntled horde of kneazles. Draco was used to it – or had become used to it in the years he'd been back in London. The war had passed and the post-war clean up all but swept under the rug, but memory still remained.

If it was a little more pronounced, a little more frequent, and just a little more aggressive of late…

It's only to be expected. After all, how dare an ex-Death Eater be in the vicinity of the precious Saviour, let alone two of us.

How it must rankle the petty minds of witches and wizards alike, that not only was Pansy the one gifted the opportunity to interview Harry Potter for his 'proper' and 'complete' life story, but that Draco would be the one to photograph and film him. How it must vex that none but himself, Pansy, Von, and the pair of silent and largely dismissed Syren employees were the only attendants in the room at such interviews. How it must frustrate and worry the fretful minds of Harry Potter's adoring fans.

Draco might have even revelled in such provoked anger had it not been for the death threats and equally threatening warnings that had, predictably, begun flooding his mailbox and his kitchen with letter-bearing owls of late. That part was certainly not to his taste.

Picking up his pace further as another woman, one that didn't actually seem to be a witch this time, shot him a frown as though he contaminated the air with his presence. Draco rolled his eyes when she was out of sight. Muggles had even gotten their knickers in a knot over the situation. As the national curiosity that shining star Harry Potter was, the Harry Potter who remained steadfastly loyal to the negligible Estallas Agency – that he was in the hands of a pair of insignificant nobodies like Draco and Pansy was a veritable offence to their delicate sensibilities.

Not that Draco cared. Or Pansy. Or Harry, for that matter.

Pressing himself briefly against the wall as a string of hastening men and women darted past, Draco cursed the narrow hallways of Syren's head office. With all their rising prominence, surely they could afford to widen the blasted hallways, couldn't they? Grumbling to himself, Draco took a left into an equally narrow passage beneath an indicative sign and shouldered his way into the men's room.

Only to pause as the door swung shut behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, found no words, and closed it as he couldn't help but stare.

Watching Harry through the lens of his camera hadn't been enchanting. It hadn't captivated Draco in unblinking attentiveness, forgetting himself and his work to stare at the man who he'd once only glared at yet always in appreciation. That was simply how Draco was; when he was looking through the eye of his camera, he was working. It was only afterwards, when he saw the shots, clinically tracing his eyes over the lines of his subject, that he could begin to appreciate them for what they were.

In the frozen image of a photograph, but also when they posed before him without the filter of a camera at all.

Harry stood before the bathroom mirror, attention trained upon his reflection and head tipped slightly forwards as his fingers plucked at his overlong fringe. He didn't seem to notice Draco's entrance, or at least didn't heed it, for he didn't pause in his meticulous ministrations, for which Draco was grateful. It allowed him a moment to stare without being caught.

Draco had seen models. He'd photographed them. He'd directed them into just the right stance, into just the right expression, and had been satisfied enough with countless takes even if they hadn't been perfect. He recognised beauty in features enhanced and streamlined by makeup that could be so subtle as to be all but mistaken for natural as often as screaming in pastel like a flaunting peacock. Draco was used to that.

So why was Harry so different?

The bathroom, in contrast to the hallway, was wide, refined, and smelt remarkably clean for a men's restroom. All dark tiles, contrastingly pale bench and matching faucet. The doors of the cubicles were actual doors rather than the half-sized impressions reminiscent of school restrooms. But Draco hardly noticed. How could he notice when Harry, the 'different' Harry that seemed to immediately demand his attention when he saw him, was right before him?

It could have been because Draco had seen him before. Because he'd witnessed his awkwardness in adolescence, the years of baggy shirts and jeans, messy hair that had nothing artful about it, and old-fashioned glasses that hid too much of his face to properly discern the truth finesse of it. It could have been that they'd shared a rivalry that seemed to have somehow disappeared like smoke on the wind, or that they'd stood on opposite sides of the war and yet Harry had still saved him from fiendfyre, still stood testimony for him at his trial, and still given him his wand back. It could have been all of that which captured Draco. Or it could have been simply that it was Harry Potter.

For whatever reason, Draco couldn't help but stare as Harry rearranged his fringe with delicate fingers that would never have been capable of such in the past. As he leant slightly closer to the mirror, free hand pushing himself up an inch with the aid of the counter before him, hip cocked slightly in a way that was likely unintentional but still drew the eye. It was as though, despite being off the studio floor and way from prying eyes, the habits of a model had seeped into Harry's every move and influenced his every stance.

Of all the people in the world, Harry wasn't someone that Draco would have ever considered to be a model. Not even close. It wasn't because of how he looked, but how he held himself. How he walked. His confidence in all the wrong areas, his disregard for frivolities and even greater disregard for actually looking presentable.

And yet he was. Harry was, Draco realised, a model. An actual model, who was actually good at what he did. He didn't think he'd fully accepted that fact until that moment. That, and because, despite the familiar weight of his stare that Draco always felt when they locked eyes, Harry really was different. He hadn't realised how much, but he was. Very different.

"Have you forgotten what you came in here for?"

Draco nearly flinched as he was tugged from his silent staring. Folding his arms slowly, as much to give time to gather himself, he raised an eyebrow that Harry likely didn't see. "Are you gussying up?"

"Of a sort," Harry murmured detachedly, frowning slightly in the mirror.

"Isn't that what your stylist is for?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't want to inflict disaster upon Von when it wasn't necessary." Harry pursed his lips slightly. "I'm cleaning before the cleaner comes over, or however you'd like to call it."

Draco didn't really know what that meant, but he'd lived enough years without house elves to make rational connections. He supposed it even made sense, in a way, especially given that, thought Von wasn't the only one of the stylists involved in the shoots and interviews – that was one area in which Syren had put their foot down – Harry had an unusually good relationship with him.

Even so, Draco couldn't help but return to his staring as he slowly pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room. He paused at Harry's side, and though he knew that Harry noticed himself being watched, doing so with deliberate awareness erased the shame of it. Or at least it did for Draco.

For that matter, Harry didn't seem to care all that much either. Poking himself absently in the cheek, still frowning, he didn't quite turn to Draco when he spoke. "Can I help you with something?"

"You," Draco said.

"Yes? What about me?"

"You're different."

With only a flicker of his eyes, Harry darted a glance towards Draco. How his stare could be so wide, so unwavering, so stupefying even sidelong, Draco didn't know, but he'd already accepted the fact that it was. He'd accepted it years ago, and likely even before anyone else had noticed.

"Different?" Harry asked, slowly lowering his raised hand to the counter. "How so?"

"You mean besides acquiring fashion sense? And a haircut? And finally realising that your glasses were an abomination?"

Far be it from becoming angered, Harry smiled. An actual smile, amused and everything, if only small. "That wouldn't be particularly hard given that I was starting from rock-bottom to begin with," he said. "You can blame Von for that. He's the one who fixed me."

"Fixing you?"

The smile grew crooked with self-deprecation. "I wasn't exactly the beautiful swan, Draco. The ugly duckling, maybe."

"The ugly duckling?" Echoing was all he could manage.

Harry glanced to the side for a moment, a twinge of thoughtfulness casting his expression vaguely distant. Then his face cleared and he corrected himself. "'The Plucked Cockatrice' I think is the Wizarding equivalent."

Draco frowned. That old fable? The ugly cockatrice without a plume to his tail that had in fact been a griffin hidden in the cockatrice nest by a desperate mother? Not only did Harry's words reek of further self-deprecation, but… "The plucked cockatrice who turned out to be an immature griffin, you mean? The one who grew into a glorious version of itself?"

Harry wrinkled his nose slightly. How he managed to make the expression anything less than a disaster upon his face, Draco didn't know, but he did. He did quite well, for that matter. "I didn't say it was an exact analogy. Just the beginning part."

Draco grunted. Is he really that oblivious to himself, or is it natural for models to fish for compliments? Draco had encountered such behaviour before, such a need for validation from the subjects of his shots. It was a little pathetic, in his opinion, and not only because it spoke of deep underlying insecurities. They always knew, at least a little, that their query was only in search of confirmation. For whatever reason, Harry sounded different again.

"I'm not so sure about that," Draco said, pinning Harry with a stare. Surely he couldn't be that blind.

Harry blinked. He stared at Draco for a moment before shrugging and raising his hand to his hair once more. "Either way, it doesn't change the underlying problems. Von still despairs over my hair. I think he's compensating."

"For his lack of?"

"Exactly."

In spite of himself, Draco had to swallow a smile. It wouldn't do to admit that Harry's words actually amused him. Shaking his head slightly, he propped himself backwards against the bathroom counter, settling his folded arms a little more casually. "That wasn't what I was referring to, actually."

"Oh?" Harry returned his gaze back to his reflection, and though it was intently focused, he didn't appear to be glorifying in himself as Draco might have almost expected. It was more as though, just as Draco did, he assessed the shot of himself for flaws and just how much he could let those imperfections slide without directly editing the image.

"Yes," Draco continued. "You've become a prissy princess."

Harry's smile grew a little wider this time. "Can you blame me? When your whole job is about looking your best, wouldn't you do the same? Though I wouldn't exactly call myself a princess."

"What, ensuring your own devastating attractiveness isn't a princess' style?"

"Devastating attractiveness?" More self-deprecation, if brightened somewhat by his smile. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I think the world just finds it difficult to have the image of an idol or hero or whatever without also having them as suitably handsome. Let's face it, we all know that's most of the reason I managed to get into modeling anyway."

Draco pressed his lips together firmly. He's still an idiot, at least, he thought, almost comforted by the thought even if the circumstances disconcerted him slightly. Such obliviousness rubbed him the wrong way. There's nothing wrong with recognising your own attractiveness. It's more foolish to overlook it entirely. I'd never be caught thinking ill of myself; I only have to look in the mirror, after all.

"Regardless," he said, setting the thought aside for later consideration and infuriation. "Even outside of that, you've changed. It's… unexpected, to say the least." Which is was. What had happened to the glaring they'd shared that had been all but a competition? What of the scathing verbal strikes, the physical blows, the challenges to duels? And beyond that, even; Harry had been a spitting ball of agitated anger for most of the latter years of their acquaintance, and Draco didn't think it was only because they'd been rivals. The Dark Lord had surely had a hand in it, but for whatever reason, he was loud, he was obnoxious, and he was a violation of every kind of upstanding protocol that Draco had always lived by.

And he'd been just as obsessed with Draco as Draco had been with him. There was no denying that fact. So what had happened?

"You too," Harry said, breaking into his thoughts with another sidelong stare.

"Me too what?" Draco asked.

"You've changed too. In the past, you wouldn't have been able to even be in the same room as me without snapping at me."

"Me?" Draco snorted. "Don't deny that you were the primary instigator."

Harry shook his head. "No, I distinctly remember the instigation coming from you."

"Not hardly."

"Yeah. Mostly."

"Are you attempting to pick a fight to prove it?"

"No," Harry said simply, and Draco's retaliation died, because Harry wasn't. He really wasn't. "I'm just telling it how I saw it. And I see you as having changed to." He shrugged again. "I guess we've both matured a little."

Matured. Matured was one way of looking at it. Making a complete personality about-turn was another. Did Harry truly not realise it? Or was he deliberately hiding himself and his character for reasons unknown?

Draco wasn't sure, but the thought triggered another than had been itching at him for the past hours. A naggingly persistent thought that had grown more and more intense throughout Pansy's interview with the sense of wrongness.

"Does maturity also entail omitting certain truths?" he asked.

Harry blinked at him curiously, confusion touching his brow with the hint of a frown. Then it cleared slightly. Had Draco not been watching so intently, he might have missed the moment entirely.

Nonetheless, when Harry turned to face him front on, hip resting absently against the counter, he feigned ignorance with a cock of his head. "What are you referring about?"

Draco sniffed. There was no delicate way to go about making a demand for such truths, not with someone who deliberately lied. Even if there was, Draco had learnt to abandon courteous attempts. He wasn't quite the upstanding pureblood he'd once been, the pureblood he couldn't be when the world considered him so much less.

"The interview," he clarified. "You didn't tell the truth as you said you would."

For an extended moment, Draco thought that Harry might deny him. That he might continue to cling to his supposed ignorance and deny any such falsehoods on his part. But after that moment, broken only by the distant, indecipherable tune playing overhead and adding an almost soothing ambiance to the bathroom scene, Harry's lips drew to the side and he hitched a shoulder in a shrug.

"I didn't lie," he said.

"But you didn't tell the whole truth."

"What makes you think that?" Harry asked, genuine curiosity replacing the frown once more.

What had it been? When Draco thought about it, he couldn't pinpoint one thing precisely. Harry's attitude? No, for he was erratic enough – or at least different enough to the person Draco had known – that it would be difficult to tell. It wasn't his apparent ease in the situation either, for he was likely telling the when he said he'd experienced many such interviews before and no longer felt nervous. He'd likely been the centrepiece of too many pictures, and headlines, and stories that held little to no actual credibility, that it didn't bother him anymore. Draco could believe that. Familiarity bred resignation, after all. He was standing testimony to that fact himself.

No, what really drove Draco's speculation was his own memory. His own recollections. His own experience when he'd first met Harry, and that meeting hadn't been at Hogwarts. It hadn't even been on the train in that mortifying encounter that retrospect had Draco cringing at time and time again.

It was before that, in Diagon Alley, when Draco had been in Madam Malkin's being fitted for his robe. The frustratingly necessary fitting had been interrupted by a boy in oversized, patchy clothes, alone and peering into the shop with wide eyes and a mixture of fascination and wariness. That Harry had been nervous. He'd been tentative, if brave enough to step forward, even alone as he was. He'd been skinny and pale, and had breathed of the independence that Draco had only been able to recognise because he'd seen just such an attitude in his friend Blaise.

It was neglect. It was abandonment. Blaise had it, had been utterly self-sufficient in the face of his mother's careless pursuit of her own endeavours, but he'd at least had the provisions to presentably support himself. House elves were a part and parcel of pureblood households. Harry had the same feeling as Blaise, but he wore the signs of that neglect in his clothing, his emaciation, and in the way he all but jumped when Malkin addressed him.

The younger Draco had been dismissive. He'd been derisive, and arrogant, and condescending towards the boy who hadn't even enough money to dress himself properly, the boy who it became increasingly apparent knew next to nothing about the Wizarding world like some ignorant Muggle. Now, though – now Draco knew better, and the shame that accompanied his retrospection was almost crippling.

Draco couldn't shun anyone for their struggles. Not anymore. Not when he'd been forced to struggle himself for the past years with little enough to show for it.

Draco didn't reply to Harry's question. Instead, he posed one of his own. "What's the real truth?"

Harry cocked his head again. Any hint of a smile faded, and though Draco found himself regretting its loss, he didn't regret asking. The sudden need to know was abruptly fervent. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Draco paused before replying lowly – and truthfully, too, if not the whole truth. "I'm a curious person."

"If you think it's untrue, you must have speculations yourself," Harry said. Draco wondered if he knew he took the slightest step backwards as if cautiously edging away. "Make your own conclusions."

He didn't mean right then. Harry clearly didn't intend for Draco to announce those very conclusions at that moment. So, Draco did. "I think your relatives mistreated you. I think you spoke the truth that they disliked your magic, but I think it went beyond that. I think you were neglected, and that they didn't care for you, and that you're hiding that fact."

Harry blinked. He definitely wasn't smiling anymore. Beneath the smooth lines of the makeup that covered his face, Draco beheld genuine surprise. "What…?"

"I think they probably didn't care for you, even though everyone assumes you must have been in a household that fawned over you," Draco ploughed on brutally, even as he internally winced at his own words. They were too true of his own past opinions. "I think that's the reason you had the same clothes from first to sixth year, and why you were always thinner when you came back to school from the holidays, or why you stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas. I think you had a bloody bad time of it, and either you don't want to admit it to yourself or you don't want to admit it to anyone who asks. Which is it?"

Harry stared at him. The curl of his fringe, perfectly placed as Draco had never thought possible of a younger Harry, covered just a hint of his eye. Surprise had faded into cool blankness. Not anger, but blankness. Not annoyance, or frustration, or hatred for Draco, but simply nothing. His hand rested atop the counter alongside him, fingers drumming so slightly that it was almost imperceptible.

When he spoke, it was in little more than a murmur that didn't so much as half-echo in the hollowness of the tiled bathroom. "More's the question of why you'd care?"

Draco felt his eye twitch. He felt his jaw clench and his arms tremble slightly as they tightened in their fold. Why do I care? Why do I bloody…?

He didn't. Shouldn't. Never had. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter didn't care for one another. Or they weren't supposed to. That was always the way, had always been and always would be. Draco would announce it to the papers himself if he thought it would do any good in solidifying the fact. It might even manage to diffuse some of the rearing hatred being heaped upon him.

Except that Harry had saved Draco from fiendfyre. He'd stood for him in court. He'd given him his wand back, and he hadn't asked for anything in return. And, after that, when Draco had returned to London, he hadn't hated him. He hadn't even seemed to dislike him.

Draco didn't care about Harry and Harry didn't care about him. Or that was how it was supposed to be. Draco didn't let himself wonder why that thought felt like a lie itself.

Instead of answering Harry's question once more, he posed his own. "Why won't you let everyone know?"

Harry blinked. Just blinked. That was all.

"Why don't you tell them you were mistreated? Do you honestly believe you weren't?"

No reply.

"Why don't you blame them for what was done to you? You were only a child. Don't you feel any resentment whatsoever?" Draco clicked his tongue sharply. "Hell, if you did, half of London would rise spitting and screaming to your defence and likely start a manhunt for –"

"That's why," Harry interrupted him.

"What?"

Harry shook his head and, with unexpected derision, rolled his eyes. "I don't care for my relatives, but I don't want a fucking lynch-mob coming after them. Fuck, Draco, I'm not that cruel."

Draco's throat became abruptly dry. "Even after what they did to you?" After what you're not denying they did to you?

Harry shook his head. "No. I don't care anymore. It's in the past."

"Other people would care." Draco's words came out in a grumble. "Others would care, and they'd want recompense."

"Which is exactly why no one's going to know."

Harry spoke so simply, so firmly, as though there was no question in the matter. As though revealing the truth as he was supposed to, as he had but for some distinct omissions that weren't exactly lying but instead stood to boost the half-truths in a better light, wasn't even a possibility on the table. It angered Draco to no end for reasons he couldn't rightly explain.

"You're letting them get away with it," Draco said lowly. "Without any kind of repayment, you're…"

"Sometimes it's better just to let things lie," Harry said just as quietly.

It wasn't right. That wasn't how Harry Potter was supposed to be. He shouldn't lie down and play dead, accepting whatever had and would befall him. It wasn't the person that Draco had known and hated from afar – and maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he couldn't quite hate him anymore, even if his stubbornness was infuriating to no end.

"I wonder if you'd be so lenient if such a thing happened to another child," Draco said before he could help himself.

Harry's stare flattened. Like a hawk glaring at its foe, he stared at Draco unwaveringly, and Draco couldn't look away. If anything, he felt almost spellbound, his breath catching in his throat, and might have even been tempted to retract his words had it persisted any longer for longer than a few seconds.

Except that Harry's phone interrupted them. The jingle it emitted rippled and echoed off the tiled walls, and Draco wasn't the only one of them that flinched just a little. The moment broken, the focus of his gaze shattered, Harry drew his phone from his pocket and glanced briefly at the screen. When he lowered it, he spared Draco a brief glance and a smile. A real smile, not feigned, as though the moment of cold anger so unlike the rage he'd once worn so often hadn't existed at all.

"I've got to take this," he said, stepping around Draco and making for the door. "I'll see you later, Draco. If you're interested, I've heard the coffee's better at the place across the road than down on the ground floor."

Then, with the swing of a door and the momentary influx of murmured voices and thumping footsteps, Harry disappeared into the hallway. The door eased shut behind him, its final click leaving Draco in utter isolation.

Alone with his thoughts, Draco couldn't help but wonder. Why was it, exactly, that he'd suddenly decided to care so much?

A/N: Thank you again to the lovely people still reading this story. And even more so to those who have reviewed! Honestly, you don't even know just how wonderful hearing your thoughts is, so thank you so, so much.