WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of violence. If you find these kinds of descriptions triggering, please be wary and consider the second half of this chapter with caution.

Chapter 12

Draco stared down at the letter untouched on the table before him. He no longer saw the words; they'd blurred together into a smudge of slanted ink after nearly ten minutes of his staring. Yet even without being able to discern the individual words, the blow they'd struck still resounded.

For perhaps the first time, Draco wished it had been a Howler. At least that way he wouldn't have to look at the letter anymore where it sat in all of its eloquence and succinctness after picking him apart. This one… This one was different.

His shots. The flaws that he'd seen himself. The moments in his early career that he looked back upon with exasperation that he hadn't seen the incorrectness of his formulation, his edits, his amateur use of colour that even at the time hadn't looked quite right. The savage words had hyper-focused upon the details, and the intelligence behind the words stung in a way that the abuse screamed by other letters hadn't.

All the same, the writer had still clearly written to attack. That much was apparent. They'd simply done it a little bit smarter than Draco was used to.

His work wasn't good enough. He didn't deserve his position. He didn't deserve to have landed such an opportunity as photographing the 'god's gift that is Harry Potter', and there were countless others who could have, would have, done far better. Draco knew that, but he didn't need full-page examples of specific reasons why those photographers were a better choice than he was. Why they would have been better and the proof that they were.

That was it. That was the worst part. The letter writer made sense. Just as it made sense when it had flatly and cruelly torn him apart for his past actions as a Death Eater. The writer had done their research, and it was almost eerie.

Raising his tea to his lips, Draco paused before taking a sip. His breakfast sat heavily in his stomach, a sodden lump that didn't quite smother the sickly bubble of nausea that hissed and sizzled in his gut. Lowering his cup, Draco picked up his wand instead and pressed the tip to the edge of the letter. He paused for a moment, the spell on his lips, and hated himself just a little for the thought that crossed through his mind.

Erasing the evidence doesn't erase that truth of the words.

Draco swallowed. It didn't. It wouldn't change anything. And yet…

"Incendio."

His wand spat a candle's worth of flame at the letter, and it immediately smoked, crackled, and curled upon itself in a fit of burning. Draco didn't watch it. Rising from his seat, he crossed to the kitchen and, as he had been doing for nearly a whole week, he rinsed and scrubbed his cup, his plate, and his cutlery manually. It had become something of a habit, and Draco would be a fool to overlook the reason for his doing so.

Just because he did it doesn't mean that I have an obligation to use my hands instead of magic, Draco thought, even as he dipped his fingers into the soapy water and scrubbed his plate clean. He knew he didn't have to, but in just a week, things had changed. And in spite of what had caused it and the circumstances of how Harry had happened upon sleeping in his flat and his own bed the week before, Draco couldn't help but cling to the memory. Even something as trivial as watching as Harry wordlessly cleaned his own barely touched breakfast bowl before scooping Draco's out from before him and doing the same.

He'd smiled. Just slightly, barely perceptibly, but it was the most natural smile Draco had seen from him. Ever. A little quiet, a little sad, maybe a little thankful, and utterly real. Draco had never wanted to capture a moment with his camera more than then.

In the face of the letter and the truths it rightly accused him of, that memory, rising in his mind like a static image – not a moving one but a Muggle one – gave Draco a lifeline to cling onto. It had in each instance that vengeful, hateful thoughts had manifested in Draco's mind for the past week – about Ipetsky, about the hatred flung upon him for his photography, about the glares and scowls and muttered curses shot his way as he passed down a hallway at Syren or even in his visits back to Dimitri and Building Eight. It helped him breathe.

I'm done for, Draco thought to himself with a small smile of his own as he stacked his plate atop the drainer and flicked suds off his fingers. I don't know how I fell so hard or even when, but I'm definitely done for.

Strangely enough, Draco found he didn't really mind.

The trip to work was dull and uneventful. The rocking of the bus was lulling, but the packed bodies, the smell of those bodies, the noise of chatter and the contagion of yawns and early morning grumbles, removed any calming effects it might have had. Draco climbed off the bus as it huffed and heaved, strode the short distance towards Syren, and paused just before entering the building. He stared up at its sleek façade, and for a moment was struck.

Two more days. Including that day, he had only two more obligatory days within Syren's walls. Or at least for this interview set. Should any more follow it might be a different story, but for this one…

Draco wasn't sure how he felt about that. Relieved, he supposed; Syren was bigger than Building Eight, and it had less routes to escape the more prevalent hatred that seemed to emanate from the walls. But by the same token, finishing meant ending what little time he had with Harry. Draco didn't want that. He didn't want it at all. He simply didn't know how to avoid the inevitable.

It's not like I can tell him, he told himself just as he had countless times before. It's not like, after what I've seen and what I understand of him, I can tell him that I want him. Lowering his gaze, Draco tucked his chin and started up the steps into the foyer. A heavy weight sat with him just as it had for days, making his feet just a little heavier than they should have been; he couldn't tell Harry, because in such a short time, Draco had come to understood how Harry would respond. He knew Harry would take it as an obligation, that he'd accept Draco because acceptance of duty for someone else, regardless of what that duty was, was what he did.

Draco didn't want that. He didn't want it so badly it hurt.

A cluster of bodies stood like sentinels before the elevator, and Draco silently joined their midst. No one spoke. Someone sniffed, another yawned, a woman absently swung her briefcase with a little pat-pat-pat against her leg. They filed like water seeping through a delta when the elevator pinged open, and Draco duly followed.

Only to pause before stepping aboard. A woman with a flat expression, her eyes heavily hooded but her stare sharp, pinned him and froze him in place. She was vaguely familiar, he thought, and he'd likely seen her before about the building, but never spoken to him. She hadn't approached him – yet.

The woman at her side stared at Draco with a scowl rapidly growing upon her face. The man alongside her glanced at her sidelong before eyeing Draco with thinly veiled contempt. In all likelihood, Draco was assuming the degree of their hatred for him – he was fairly sure that first woman was a Muggle, anyway – but he abruptly decided he'd had enough. Not today. He couldn't face it today.

Turning from the elevator, he took himself instead to the narrow doorway leading to the fire escape and, closing the door behind him with a hollow boom, started up the industrial steps with sluggish efficiency.

It was barely morning and it was already a long day.

It wasn't cold that morning, not in the least, but Draco felt himself chilled by the lingering effects of the letter. By the weight of the finality of the interviews, too, and even by the lonely emptiness of the concrete stairwell as he wound back and forth up the flights.

It wasn't looking to be a good day so far, and a part of Draco, the immature part of him that still clung to the entitled and admittedly spoilt child he'd once been, urged him to say to hell with it. To just go home. To leave the world for the day to sort itself out, because he couldn't face it. Draco knew he wouldn't, but the thought was unerringly tempting.

He'd reached the tenth floor landing and paused to readjust the bag slung over his shoulder when his phone rang. Closing his eyes briefly – not today. Could you all just leave me the fuck alone? – Draco heaved a sigh that echoed throughout the emptiness surrounding him and drew it from his pocket.

"Hello?" he asked of an unknown number.

"Draco Malfoy?" a clipped, female voice replied. "Yes, hello. I'm calling on behalf of Madame Clementine. How are you?"

Draco blinked. The rapid-fire French struck him unexpectedly, but it wasn't what made him pause. Madame Clementine – or Clementine Holm, as she was legally known – was a Swiss designer and creative director by turns that was known for her incredibly humble attitude that bellied her prestige. Draco had never met her, but he'd heard enough of her that he was rendered momentarily speechless, distracted from his bout of melancholy.

"Yes,' he finally managed. "Yes, I'm well. And yourself?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Have you a moment? If you've the time, I wish to discuss an offer that Madame wishes to pose to you…"

The woman on the other end of the line continued, and though Draco listened, heard, and couldn't help but be slightly stunned for just what was being presented, another part of him hung in breathless, torn suspension.

A job.

A job, and likely in Switzerland as Madame Clementine preferred to host her photo shoots.

A job that would take him away from London, from England, and from the hatred and the glaring and the letters that chased him every day.

A job that would, ultimately, take him away from Harry.

In such a short time, Draco have come to realise just how much he didn't want that. After what had happened with Ipetsky, what he'd seen, what had followed, the way the photoshoot the next day had felt so distinctly different… How could Draco not think otherwise?

"… if you'd care to, Mr. Malfoy," the voice said, prim and efficient as she had the entire conversation. "Your thoughts?"

Draco swallowed. He licked his lips. Readjusting his phone against his ear, he took a deep breath and began the trudging climb up the remaining steps. "It seems like a wonderful opportunity. If Madame Clementine wishes to discuss this further, then I would be honoured to arrange a call or meeting to..."

"It's so strange hearing of your early days, given who you are and what you've become. Some of your stories certainly makes the life of a model seem less glamorous."

"Oh, it's glamourous enough, I suppose. Just not as much as most people think."

"I'll say. There go any plans I might have had."

"Did you have plans? Being a journalist seems to suit you so well, Pansy. You've got a knack for it, you know. I sure as hell wouldn't be able to do what you do."

"I… Thank you. I think."

"You're welcome."

"Ahem. Yes. Well. Back on track. Since you've climbed into such a prominent position – over the years, is there any standout moments? Anything truly wonderful or, alternatively, utterly horrifying that you'd care to share?"

"Utterly horrifying? Who'd want to hear about that?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd be surprised."

"You know, probably not, actually."

"No?"

"People have asked me some pretty interesting questions in interviews before."

"Ah, yes, of course. I almost have to remind myself sometimes that you'd made something of a name for yourself even before you grew into the accomplished model that you are."

"Funnily enough, I think a lot of people would be fairly horrified to hear you say that."

"That doesn't surprise me. But back to my question: any moments?"

"Any really good moments…"

"Or appalling. Either-or."

"I'm sensing you're hoping more for the bad than the good."

"What can I say? I live to give the people what they want."

"I'm sure. Look, honestly, I've been really lucky. I know there's a lot of bad stories that go around, but I've had a pretty easy run of it. My agent is fantastic, my stylist is phenomenal, and I'd consider both of them my friends as much as they are my colleagues, you know?"

"That certainly is lucky."

"Yeah. I mean, there's always long days, and sometimes you don't quite click with a photographer, but –"

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Ever not clicked with a photographer?"

"Oh. Well, not really. Some I just find I get along with some a little better than others."

"Care to name names?"

"The good or the not so good?"

"The good or the bad."

"You mean 'not so good'."

"Which is essentially the same thing."

"Not really."

"We're getting off track. Can you remember your first?"

"My first photographer? God, that's a while back. I can't really remember the absolute first – I remember the day, but the details were all a bit of a blur. Probably the first big photographer I worked with was Samuel Ipetsky, though."

"Ipetsky. Yes, of course. I remember seeing the product of that shoot. It was in Monochrome, wasn't it? You had a double spread."

"Yeah. You really do have a good memory."

"How did you find working with Ipetsky?"

"Fine. I mean, he was pretty professional, but friendly. He's really good at what he does."

"Professional?"

"Yes."

"Is he really?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"… nothing. Nothing at all. Now, any other stand outs?"

"There's plenty of standouts, but I'd be here all day if I told you them all."

"Then at the moment? Which stands foremost in your mind?"

"To be honest? Draco Malfoy."

"Ha. Of course. And why is that?"

"Because he'd incredibly good at what he does. He doesn't demand but makes suggestions, and he'd very accommodating of any discomfort I might feel, which is something you don't see a lot of, unfortunately."

"Is he really?"

"And he's amicable. A good person to talk to."

"Really?"

"And that's to say nothing of his work. Even in his earlier pieces, some of the shots that didn't make it into the more prominent magazines or exhibitions – I know so little about photography itself, despite being a model, that I'd do him a disservice to try and describe it, but he's got some really beautiful work."

"How interesting…"

"What? What is?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Now, moving on – where can you see yourself headed in the future, Harry? You've made a name for yourself and not just in the industry. Some might say you've got free rein to go wherever you choose."

"Where… do I want to go?"

"Yes. With your career. With life. With anything."

"I… I don't really know."

"You don't know?"

"I guess I haven't thought about it."

"Then where would you like to go? Any photographers you'd like to work with in particular? Any magazines jump out to you, or far off fashion hubs of the world you'd like to visit? A particular organisation you'd ideally like to be the posterchild for, perhaps?"

"Not particularly. I just…"

"Yes?"

"I don't really care. I'll go wherever. Wherever I'm asked to go or I'm needed, I suppose."

"… That's…"

"What?"

"Nothing, Harry. Nothing at all."

"You're free."

Draco slowed in step, turning towards where Pansy strode towards him, her high shoes clacking on the marble floor of the largely empty foyer. Even after a whole day interviewing she appeared composed, freshly groomed as though she'd just stepped out of the bathroom after gussying up. Most likely she actually had, knowing Pansy as Draco did.

"Not quite," he said, hitching his bag up on his shoulder just a little higher. "I'm still coming in tomorrow, too."

"Of course," Pansy said with a nod. "The photoshoot. How do you feel about that?"

"About?"

"The final shoot. With Harry."

Draco didn't let Pansy's words get to him. He was rather good at denying them access after a lifelong friendship, and they slid off of him without leaving a stain. "What about it?"

Pansy regarded him flatly. Then she sighed loudly enough that, despite the clatter of footsteps of the few departing workers that passed them and the click and whisper of the doors opening and closing, it actually echoed slightly throughout the room.

"You know, Draco," she said, "I feel I would be remiss as a friend if I didn't say –"

"Don't."

Pansy scowled. She folded her arms across her chest with a huff. "You don't have to be so oblivious with me. I'm not ignorant of the situation. I can see well enough how you feel."

"Can you really?" Draco replied dryly.

"You like him."

"Very astute of you."

"I mean really like him. More than you ever did Daphne, and you were with her for nearly a whole year. So, what makes him different?"

Draco didn't reply immediately. It struck him a little, Pansy's words, and surprisingly, because they weren't supposed to. But her suggestion?

Daphne was the only person he'd ever dated. Draco knew that whispers and speculations had existed in his school days, most prominently with reference to Pansy herself, but it had only ever been Daphne. Then even that had ended when things became just a little too awkward for the both of them.

"I think it's probably better if we break if off," Daphne had told him matter-of-factly, just as she always spoke of the fundamentals of their relationship. Always clinical, she was. "It's a little strange dating you when it feels like my little sister has a bigger crush on you than I ever did."

That had been awkward on a whole new level, but Draco hadn't even had the chance to reply before Daphne had continued.

"And besides, you don't like me. Not really. Let's face it, Draco, even the sex has become a bit lack-lustre these days."

And it ended. Just like that, it was over. Then the war had come, the war had gone, and the aftermath of that war had been one trial after another. Draco hadn't the time or the energy to pursue any kind of long-term romantic involvement. No inclination, either. Not until Harry.

Pansy was probably right. She often was about such things, and even more so when those things were based predominantly upon observation. Pansy had an eye like a hawk.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Shaken from his thoughts, Draco watched but barely saw a pair of woman stalk past him, caught in the throes of avid but muted conversation. He shook his head. "No. Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Pansy."

"Draco."

Draco sighed through his teeth. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, gathering himself before he returned his attention to her. "I'm sure he's had his fair share of suitors approaching him for every reason and with every request under the sun. I don't want to be just another one of them."

Pansy eyed him, lips pursing. "Even if you truly care for him? Which, I'll admit, took me a little by surprise when I realised just how much you did, but I can't say I'm shocked given you've always –"

"Pansy."

She redirected instantly without missing a beat. "He likes you," she said. "You heard it today. He does."

Draco stared at her.

"He wouldn't have said it in front of a camera, let alone before you directly, if he didn't mean it. Surely."

Draco blinked.

"Are you really going to let this opportunity slide?"

It wasn't a question to Draco. Of course he would. He had to, and it wasn't only because Harry was Harry Potter and Draco was himself. It wasn't because Harry was the Boy Who Lived and Draco had been a Death Eater. It wasn't because they were model and photographer either, or because Draco had been offered a job overseas only that morning that he knew he should take. It was because…

"I don't want to force him if he doesn't really want it himself," Draco murmured, gaze lowering to the swirls of the marble floor. "I don't want to be just another obligation to him. Not like everyone and everything else."

Pansy was silent. She stayed silent for such a long moment that Draco eventually glanced up towards her. She was watching him unblinkingly, her lips slightly downturned, and seemingly oblivious to the home-goers that skirted around them intermittently. Draco knew she noticed, but she didn't spare them an inkling of her attention.

"You've really changed," Pansy said slowly. Shaking her head slightly, she took a half step towards him. "Of course you have, and not just in this, but Draco – I never expected this of you."

Draco shrugged with a quirk of his lips rather than his shoulders. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know. We rarely change in the most significant ways because we want to."

"Very true."

"I –" Pansy paused, cutting herself off. Her lips still parted, Draco saw her pick at her teeth with her tongue as though pondering continuation before doing so. "I wish it was otherwise, Draco. For you. I really do. It's a difficult situation you've found yourself in, but," raising a hand, she pressed it against the side of his head in a brief, surprisingly affectionate pat, "I wish you all the best."

Draco could only stare at her as she took a step backwards from him. With a glance over her shoulder towards the elevators, Pansy hummed thoughtfully. "He's still upstairs, you know. Talking to someone, I think. Maybe you could at least go and wish him goodnight? I know you want to."

Then she was off, clicking her way across the foyer and striding through the doors at the end of the room on the tail of a departing man. Draco stared after her for a moment, glanced back towards the elevators, then turned and followed in her footsteps.

Did he want to go back upstairs? Yes. Of course he did.

Did what Harry had said in the interview that day, words that seemed in direct response to those Draco had read in a brutal letter that morning, hit him so hard he almost couldn't contain the riot of emotions tearing through him? Yes. But he wouldn't act on it.

Draco might want many things, but he wouldn't demand. He wouldn't force. Once upon a time he might have, maybe, but not anymore. Never. Never anymore. Not with Harry.

His head bowed, Draco strode down the steps of Syren and turned onto the street towards the bus stop. He didn't want to, not really, but such a performance for the sake of the Syren's Muggles employees was still a necessary part of the contract he had to fulfil. Only for one more day, but even so. Lost in his thoughts as he was, Draco didn't even realise he was being followed until his shoulder was grabbed and he was hauled into a side alley that was barely more than a crevasse between office buildings.

The man who'd grabbed him – Draco didn't recognise him. He didn't recognise the other man over his shoulder either, planted in the mouth of the alleyway, or the woman who stood at the shoulder of the first, growling a tirade of imprecations and accusation the likes of which Draco had heard too many times. About Death Eaters. About undeserving. About how it would be so much better – for everyone around him, even for himself – if he was just erased permanently.

Draco half expected the punch to his gut, but it still hurt. It still bent him double.

The smack to the side of his head was a little less expected, and it hurt even more. Draco's head rung, his ears echoing the blow, and he tottered sideways.

A hook punch to his waist. A snap of a foot to the side of his knee. Another to his jaw that drove his teeth into his tongue. Draco wasn't sure which one of them forced him to his knees, that had him throwing his hands onto the cement before him to prevent falling further, but it didn't matter. He was down, he knew it wouldn't stop until they were even a little satisfied, and he didn't even hate them for it.

The blows – they were horrible. They burned and bruised and broke, but even so. Horrible, yet in a way utterly warranted.

When they stopped, it was sooner than Draco expected. He wavered on his hands and knees, blinking aside the blurriness clouding his vision, the continued ringing in his head, and swallowing convulsively in a struggle to suppress the urge to vomit. His gut roiled. His fingers stung from where a foot had stomped downwards upon them, grinding them into the ground. His chin felt all but out of dislocated, and the warmth dribbling from his nose stood as testament to the knee he'd taken to his face. Draco heard voices, but in his dizziness he could only cling to the ground to keep himself from falling further. Attempting to discern what they said was beyond him.

He did see when the body when flying past him, however. He saw it soar through the air as though kicked by a pegasus.

A squawk of surprise turned into a shout. A voice that sounded almost apologetic preceded a shriek. Feet scuffed the ground, something like a curse – magical, not simply an angry slur– seemed to snap through the air, and Draco only half bothered to strain his ears to hear the sounds of his attackers' continued company. When the tussle subsided, when nothing but the traffic and the hubbub on the footpath met his ears, his heaved a sigh and slumped back onto his heels. His gaze dragged heavily up to the abandoned opening of the alley.

And froze.

Harry wasn't looking at him. He stood, straight and unmoving, at the end of the alley, his wand jutting from the mouth of an overlong sleeve that swallowed his hand as though pointing accusingly towards the ground. Between his glasses, the hood drawn up around his face, and the scarf muffling his neck despite it surely being warm enough to discard both, he was almost entirely Other to the person he'd presented in the interview, the picturesque version of himself that he offered to the world.

Maybe he might have even been mistaken, might have been overlooked as someone other than Harry Potter, but not to Draco. Draco would recognise that Harry anywhere. If anything, he never wanted to see any other. He never wanted to look away.

Except at that moment. Right then, Draco sorely wished that it wasn't Harry standing before him.

He didn't have time to compose himself. He barely even had the chance to wipe the smear of blood from beneath his nose before Harry was turning towards him.

He paused.

He started towards Draco, heavy boots strangely silent on the cement.

He dropped to his knees before Draco and, wordlessly, raised his wand in askance.

Draco couldn't speak. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to speak before Harry again. Seeing him like this… He knew it wasn't his fault – or at least not that he'd been beaten to a pulp and bloodied mess, even if the reason behind it was justified – but a rising tide of shame and embarrassment welled within him.

"You don't have to," he muttered, absently relieved that his jaw wasn't quite as painful as it could have been. Not broken, then. Not dislocated.

Harry blinked. His lips drew just slightly to the said before he dipped his head just once. "I know." Then he raised his wand and muttered a charm beneath his breath.

It wasn't complex magic. There was nothing in the cleaning, the reknitting of skin, the easing of pain, that was particularly difficult. And yet, if only on the edges of his awareness, Draco was surprised that Harry knew such magic. Maybe he shouldn't be – Harry had been though the war, after all – but he was. He could only stare as Harry peered at him with clinical detachment and worked at Draco's wounds in near silence.

Bruises still blossomed. His skin, reddened and made raw by punches and the scrape of clothing dragged taut, still hurt. And yet with each spell, Draco's notice of his injuries declined. He cared even less. He found himself speaking before he knew what he would say.

"What are you doing here?"

Harry didn't pause in his ministrations. "Healing you," he said simply.

"I meant what are you doing here in the first place."

"I was going home." Harry tipped his head as he regarded Draco's cheek with a slight frown. "I noticed."

I noticed. Just like that. It was so typical of Harry, to notice and immediately step in, that Draco almost laughed. A sound that definitely wasn't a laugh slipped from his lips, and his embarrassment only hitched further.

"You didn't have to step in," he said.

"What kind of a monster would I be if I just walked past?"

"Not a monster," Draco said. "Just doing what everyone else would."

"Then everyone else are monsters."

"No. They're just… hurt. And acting out because of it."

Harry's lips pursed, his frown deepening as he swished his wand before Draco's face. The scummy feeling of drying blood beneath Draco's nose disappeared with it. "You don't get to justify people acting with cruelty in retaliation for a past wrong. An eye for an eye is just a vicious cycle that never has an ending."

"Clearly you've never lost an eye, then," Draco said.

"No," Harry denied him simply. "I have. I've just taken revenge and learnt that it doesn't really help all that much. It's better to just move past it. What better way to spit in the face of your past abusers than to forget them and what they did entirely?"

Draco hurt. He hurt in a plethora of places, and each of those places was throbbing, loudly or quietly, with demands for attention. Yet at Harry's words, as he settled back on his own heels and finally wand lowered his wand, Draco's mind was far elsewhere.

That's what you did? To everyone who hurt you? To your relatives, and to Dumbledore, and the world? To Ipetsky? Draco wanted to ask but he couldn't, and not only because the humiliation of being so broken and downtrodden before Harry hurt in a way far deeper and more prevailing than the bruises on his skin.

"Maybe so," Draco murmured, lowering his gaze. "But that doesn't mean I can blame them."

"Draco –"

"I'd rather you didn't see," he found himself saying, then almost winced at his own words. Swallowing a little painfully, Draco curled his hands into fists on his knees and continued nonetheless. "I'd rather you didn't see. You… you shouldn't see things like this."

"Why?" Harry asked just as quietly. "So I can pretend it doesn't happen?"

"Ideally."

"Is it a problem if I know that it does?"

"For me?" Draco nodded shortly. "Yes."

Harry didn't reply immediately. He didn't shift in place, and even though Draco kept his eyes downcast in the throes of his shame, he knew Harry watched him. He almost longed to glance up, to meet his eyes that had always caught him in the best and worst way possible, to stare in return, for if there was one thing Draco had accepted with utter ease it was that he loved Harry's eyes. Undeniably.

But he didn't. Not until Harry spoke. "Is it because you find me attractive?"

Draco snapped his chin up so fast he nearly hurt himself. His mouth flopped open, jaw protesting the motion, but he barely noticed. Harry had… he'd just… "What?"

Harry glanced briefly to the side, then over his shoulder. He seemed to slump in place, hands plucking absently at his wand. "I know people are like that. They want to appear a certain way in front of something they find appealing. It's happened before, if you'll believe it. They don't… People don't want to be seen at their lowest when they're trying to appear their most attractive themselves."

Draco swallowed convulsively. Harry had known? For how long?

"I don't care," Harry said, and for a second Draco thought he replied to his thoughts. That he 'didn't care' about what he'd realised of Draco. But then he continued with, "About seeing any of it, I mean. I'd rather… I'd rather know, it that's alright with you. If it doesn't bother you too much, I'd rather help."

The weight of his words meant something. Something big, an explanation that Draco had assumed but never directly heard of him. But in that instant, Draco barely registered the meaning behind those words. He was more focused on –

"You knew?" he said, voice hoarse. "You knew that I…?"

Harry shrugged, his own eyes lowered this time to stare at where his fingers fiddled. "I've seen it before. A lot. Most models do, you know, even if it's not entirely warranted. I think the idea of a model is as appealing as the actual product itself."

Product? Appeal? How can he even think that?

"It's probably got very little to do with how I look or act, or who I am as a person. It's… I'm an idea, you know? Both as a model and as Harry Potter."

You're not. You're not just an – an idea, or a – a –

"After seeing it enough times, you sort of get used to it." Harry's tone became a little rueful. "It becomes almost easy to pick up on sometimes. A lot of people only want one thing. Not all of them, but the way even those people stare? It's the same."

Not me, Draco thought, and he wanted to grab Harry by his chin and drag his face up to look him directly, to declare loudly and proudly and unwaveringly that it wasn't the same for him. That he knew Harry was attractive, but he'd known that for years. That he wasn't just a model, or the Saviour, but a person, and it was that person beneath it all that Draco found himself caring for so much more deeply than he'd let himself consider. Beneath the makeup and the charms that weren't love potions or spells as some models and actors used but something else – beneath all of that, Draco cared for him.

Because you see me too, Draco realised, the snippet of Harry's interview from that day, what he'd said of Draco likely without even knowing the weight of his own words, rising to the forefront of his mind once more. You see me, and I see you and – and it's not the same. I don't just want –

"I don't mind, Draco," Harry said, still speaking to his knees. "You can think what you want. You can want what you want. But please don't let that get in the way of me helping you when I can. I can't do much, but in this instance…" He paused, squeezed his wand briefly, before releasing it. His eyes flickered up just briefly, peering at Draco through the layers of his long fringe and his glasses that Harry's makeup artist Von would likely have been horrified to see all but masked his face. "Tell me what I can do."

There wasn't anything. Nothing, really, or nothing more than he'd already done. For Draco, Harry had spoken for him at his trial. In his interviews. To his attackers, both physical and verbal. He'd planted himself between Draco and the world repeatedly, and Draco was only realising just how often he'd done just that.

What more could he do? Nothing. Harry could do nothing more, should have done less, even, but –

"You can come to dinner with me."

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again, a rapid flutter of confusion. "What?"

Draco still hurt. He still shrunk before his humiliation, and he was all too aware that the bruise on his cheek was likely darkening hideously. But he asked anyway. "Only if you want to. If you really want to. Just to dinner and nothing else. Will you?" A pause, and then, "Please?"

Harry's face was settled into a façade of blank confusion. He stared at Draco as though he couldn't understand what he was saying – which wasn't entirely unreasonable. Draco himself could hardly believe what he'd asked.

But incrementally, slowly, Harry's expression softened just a little. Something almost like a smile touched one corner of his lips and he nodded. "Sure, Draco. I'd like that."

Why Draco had asked, he didn't know. In his state, it likely wasn't the wisest of suggestions. But he'd asked, and a tight fist clenched around his chest almost painfully at the agreement in Harry's words. Agreement, not just compliance. That distinction was one that Draco hadn't ever realised he needed.