WARNING: this chapter, again, contains references to and depictions of eating disorders and eating disorder behaviour. Sorry it it's triggering, but please avoid or read carefully if you find this sort of content discomforting.

Chapter 13

What was it about Draco that could provoke anger from Harry?

The first time they'd met, he'd rubbed Harry the wrong way. A prejudiced, spoilt prat, he wasn't the sort of person that Harry would ever want for a friend, even as friendless as he was. When they'd met on the train a month later, the impression hadn't been any better; between Draco's blatant arrogance and entitlement and Ron's equally blatant aversion to 'Malfoy', it hadn't been difficult to view Draco in a less than favourable light.

Throughout school, Draco was a git. Harry likely had been a bit too, but that understanding didn't dampen that they hadn't been friends. Far from it, even, and Harry recalled enough of his adolescence clearly enough to know that the very sight of Draco – sneering, scowling, smirking at him, or even blank-faced and distracted – could spark a flame of his anger.

Harry's anger had died. Years ago, as though killed when Voldemort had shot him, whatever had driven Harry towards rage, towards spitting fury or the kind of aggression that demanded an outlet in violence, was simply gone. Harry wasn't so much sad to see it go as a little baffled; there wasn't a yawning emptiness in its wake but rather everything seemed to settle. To soothe.

"You've gotten boring," Ron always joked, always with a friendly jostle on the shoulder to take the sting and the sobering truth out of his words.

"You're a whole heap calmer than you used to be," Ginny said when in a fit of reminiscence. "It's almost weird when I actually sit and think about it."

"It's certainly not a bad thing," Hermione told him, and she did so repeatedly. "There's nothing bad about maturing into being capable of managing your anger, Harry."

Harry knew that. He appreciated Hermione's sentiment, too. But he also knew that she wasn't quite right. Harry hadn't tamed his anger – it simply wasn't there anymore. Not unless Draco sparked it.

Harry wasn't angry at Draco. He hadn't been for years. And yet something about him seemed to trigger the rebirth of what felt very like it. It had almost surprised Harry, almost left him shocked the first time he'd spoken with Draco and something cold, something fierce and hard, swept through him.

"I wonder if you'd be so lenient if such a thing happened to another child," Draco had said when he'd spoken of Harry's past weeks before.

Harry didn't think he had a bad upbringing. Or, more correctly, it hadn't been good, but there were many others who had it far worse. He had a roof over his head, and food, and he could go to school. He was mostly left to his own devices so long as he did his chores and followed the rules laid down in the household to the exclusion of Dudley. And if sometimes Vernon raised his voice to shout at him, or Dudley and his friends teased him and chased him, or he was similarly chased by Aunt Marge's dogs, he could live with that. Had lived with it. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. Not nearly.

But the thought of another kid struggling through it and not being able to duck out into another world as Harry had been given the chance to?

That chill, sweeping through him and freezing the pit in his belly, was unlike any anger Harry had really felt before. It wasn't of the kind he was still distantly familiar with. It was… it was…

Draco's fault. Because Draco was the one that provoked it.

That same flush of chilling not-quite anger cascaded through Harry when he'd seen Draco being beaten to a pulp. When he'd caught sight of the witch and wizard tearing him bloody not with their wands but with their fists, like primal beasts thirsting for the scent and the taste of blood. Harry hadn't used an aggressive or even defensive spell for a long time, but magic rose at his beck and call instantly and leapt forth.

It was all Draco's fault. Again. And Harry would act just as he had – again – in a heartbeat. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not that he would, but his decisiveness? That was unshakeable.

Walking down the street cluttered with workers hastening home for the day, Harry eyed Draco sidelong. Bruises were blossoming on his face, Harry's charms enough to only dampen the severity rather than erase them entirely. The one on his cheekbone had even broken the skin, leaving a smear of bloody flesh just below his eye.

Draco's nose wasn't broken, but the memory of blood dribbling across his lips wouldn't leave Harry alone. That, and that Draco even then was touching it tentatively as though palpating for further injuries. He caught Harry watching him and dropped his hand.

"Merlin, Harry, if you keep staring at me like that then I'll think the bastards made an even worse mess of me face than it feels like." He smiled slightly, a little smirk, and only the slightest wince suggested it hurt to do so.

Harry didn't reply. They'd been walking for barely ten minutes, yet in just that short a time Draco had made an about face in his attitude. The defeated, crumpled person he'd been, on his knees in the alley and all but cringing as he'd taken the blows without resistance, was gone to be replaced with the calm aloofness that Draco usually adopted. The mussed hair, the wrenched jacket, the sagging disregard for posture, was all erased with careful swipes of hands through hair and fingers tugging lapels.

And that moment – that single moment of stupefaction when Harry had told him that he knew, that he'd noticed, and that he was more than familiar with the way people looked at him – was gone to be replaced by something almost confident yet not quite as arrogant as he used to be.

Those changes weren't unexpected. Harry had seen posturing before. He'd seen what could only be called peacocking in clubs, in studios, and for the benefit of other models as much as for himself. Draco wasn't quite doing the same, but the façade he thrust forward like a placating offering of consolation, as though struggling to distract and posture and present? It wasn't far from it.

"Where are we going?" Harry finally asked instead of addressing Draco's words.

Draco sniffed, briefly touched his nose once more, then abandoned his prodding. "Did you have a preference?"

Harry shook his head, stepping around a pair of businessmen in deep conversation that would have otherwise ploughed through him.

"Would you be averse to eating in a Muggle district?" Draco skirted around a woman talking on a phone himself with the same natural, practiced step Harry had seen in the hallways of Syren countless times. "I'm not necessarily disinclined towards Wizarding areas, but they're somewhat disinclined towards me."

"Somewhat disinclined?" Harry echoed, smiling faintly. It took more than a small struggle.

Draco smirked. "You might have heard; we have something of a rocky past. A tumultuous relationship. A bad family history and old water under the bridge." He waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder as though it really was nothing.

The change from barely minutes before was drastic, but Harry understood. He understood it almost too well, and not because Draco mimicked other potential suitors who were more dazed by the Hero Aura than anything that was particularly innate to Harry himself. He understood it because much of the time, when a situation was turned on its head and he found himself out of sorts, it was so much simpler, so much more comfortable, to let things resort to casual conversation, easy banter, and what could only be termed deliberate derision for any awkwardness or discomfort he might feel. It helped to clamber through it and stagger out the other side.

Draco was doing the same, so Harry let him. He even resigned himself to assisting him on his way.

"What, you?" Harry feigned surprise. "I would never have picked it."

"Well, I am an upstanding member of society, after all," Draco said, smirk widening and pulling just slightly on the cut on his lip. "The hatred can easily be mistaken for adoration."

"Of course. It's a thin line between the two of them."

"Remarkably thin."

"You might even say that one entails the other."

"Or begets the other." Draco snorted as though at a private joke. He eyed Harry sidelong as they paused at a crossing. "Did you have a preference?"

Harry felt his smile die into thoughtfulness. Did he have a preference? For a restaurant? Not really. Eating – or, more specifically, eating out – wasn't really a pleasure Harry partook in much anymore. There was always the concern for what was going into his mouth, how it would fit into his dietary plan, whether he could afford to include it. That aspect of life as a model was one he hadn't really considered prior to falling into modelling, but it was one that, liked or not, had become as much a part of his daily routine as a minimum of seven hours sleep, or his visit to the gym.

"We have the shoot tomorrow," Harry said absently. Then he almost winced. It sounds like I'm saying –

"Nothing too heavy, then?" Draco nodded, entirely unfazed. "There's a little Vietnamese joint just around the corner that's fairly reputable if you've a mind. You didn't have anything for lunch today, so that shouldn't be too bad, should it?"

Harry stared at him, could only blink in a bout of surprise, and was hastened from his slightly slowed step once more as the sea of pedestrians around him rushed forth at the changing of the lights and carried him with them. Of course, he thought, a little incredulously. If anyone who wasn't a model themselves would understand this kind of thing it would be someone like Draco.

His habits weren't necessarily healthy, Harry knew. They were essential, but they probably wouldn't be sustainable in the long run. He was constantly adapting his diet and exercise regime to fit around his work hours and just how far he could push himself. In all likelihood his habits would change in due course as his career demanded of him. It was something that Hermione didn't understand, however, something that wasn't even worthy of consideration when she clicked her tongue over the contents of his pantry, or when she took it upon herself to stuff leftovers from the Burrow into his fridge that he wouldn't eat.

Draco knew. Harry wasn't sure quite how he felt about it, but he knew what was necessary. It was… comforting? Comfortable?

"Since when do you keep tabs on what I have for lunch," Harry asked, raising his eyebrow in mocking suspicion. "No, that's not creepy at all."

Draco's lips quivered. "I'm a photographer. It's my job to be observational."

"I'm pretty sure it's your job to take pictures, actually."

"Exactly. To take pictures of what I observe."

"Which is why you take random pictures of me?"

"What?"

Harry gestured vaguely to the bag slung over Draco's shoulder, recognisable in shape as much as for the fact that he'd noticed Draco carried it with him everywhere. He'd been dragging it forth and snapping informal pictures of Harry for weeks.

"Why do you do that, by the way?" he asked. "You must have heaps by now, and they're surely not particularly appealing. Most of them I'm not even properly posing for."

Draco's eyebrows shot up his forehead as his hand dropped protectively to the top of the bag. "Are you questioning my skills, Harry? My shots are all next to perfect."

"Next to?"

"Well, I'm not that arrogant. I'll admit an inability to achieve the impossible in some occasions."

Harry hummed to himself as he drew his gaze down the street clogged with cars and buses and taxis rendered immobilised by the thick traffic. "I don't know, Draco. I've seen my fair share of photographer's work too and you'd have to be pretty close."

"You…"

Harry glanced back towards him to find Draco was slowing in step. He stared at Harry, his face fallen into unexpected blankness, but that stare held a weight and a thousand questions that Harry couldn't even begin to interpret.

"I what?" he asked.

Draco stopped entirely in place, seemingly unaware of the grumbles and frowns his stillness provoked from the pedestrians passing by him. He stared at Harry, a touch of something pained making a brief appearance upon his feature, before he visibly swallowing. "You said something like that today. In the interview."

Harry tipped his head and frowned for a moment before recalling. "About how I liked them?"

Draco nodded.

"And? What of it? I do."

"Do you?"

Harry blinked. "What does that mean?"

Draco licked his lips, flinching slightly when he caught the cut. "I know what you're doing," he said, and though his voice was low, Harry could still make it out through the bustle of the crowd and the humming of the traffic. "In your interviews – you're making it all a statement more about your beliefs and morals than about your past."

Harry smiled faintly. "I guess you really are observational."

"It's not particularly subtle of you."

"I didn't really mean it to be. Better to be obvious with these kinds of things than to give leeway for misinterpretation."

Draco regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. "I guess you would know."

Harry shrugged. "I've had a lot of practice."

"That you have."

"But," Harry raised a hand, pointing deliberately towards Draco's camera bag, "just because I'm making a statement doesn't mean I'm not speaking the truly about something, too. I like your work, Draco." He smiled again. "That one of the birds? They were just pigeons, weren't they, but the light made them look like doves? I admit I was looking more at the birds than the model."

"You were meant to be," Draco murmured, face fallen once more into blankness. Funnily enough, Harry thought that such blankness might actually be Draco at his most expressive.

Smiling more to himself than to Draco, Harry nodded and turned back down the street. "Yeah," he murmured. "I liked it." He set off in the direction Draco had led them and Draco followed wordlessly in step.

Cuu Long was a small, dainty little restaurant, outfitted to the nines in culture-typical décor. At the hour it was, with evening barely fallen and on a Monday at that, it was next to empty. That suited Harry fine, and he was certain Draco felt the same.

The waiter directed them to a single table that, even in the centre of the room, seemed somehow private for the predominance of dark woods and red lantern-borne lighting encompassing it. The clean, sharp smell of spices permeated the air, and despite the sharp contrast to Harry's usual dining experience, he thought it rather suited Draco.

"How'd you find this place?" Harry asked.

Draco paused in the act of shrugging out of his jacket. "Pansy," he said simply.

"Pansy? Really?"

"She's less elitist in her choice of restaurants than she once was. I believe she did an editorial on the hidden gems of London's culinary world in her early years."

"I can see that even less. I wouldn't have thought she'd have put her hand up for something like that. It doesn't seem her style so much."

"It wasn't," Draco said with a return of his small smirk. "Which is what makes it even funnier."

Harry smiled. "Should you really be poking fun at your friend's misery?"

"It's Pansy. Of course I should. Besides, can you honestly claim you don't do the same?"

"True enough."

His anger wasn't quite gone, Harry knew. As Draco settled himself in the seat across from him, as they spoke of idle superficialities and casual mentions of what wasn't truly important, Harry watched him and couldn't help but see the damage that had been inflicted. It was muffled slightly by the darkness, but not masked completely.

Harry hated it. He hated that someone would do such a thing. He'd meant what he said to Draco in the alley; vengeance didn't do anyone any good, and ultimately it just wound up with more pain inflicted. Where was the justice in that?

And yet, as they spoke – of Pansy for a time, because it was easy to talk of her, and then of Harry's friends, which Draco was unexpectedly open to listening about – though his anger didn't disappear entirely, it did fade to negligibility. It wasn't important at that moment. Not anymore. A shard of cold ice that would surely swell should Harry see any of Draco's attackers again still nestled indignantly within him, but it was easily overlooked. Easily tucked away.

"Pansy kept me in touch with the world when I was overseas," Draco told Harry as the waiter left them with their orders dutifully jotted down. "She likely told me more than I was permitted to know, actually."

"I don't think anyone really expected otherwise," Harry said. "Does anyone really believe enforced ignorance works in imprisonment?"

"True, but the Ministry does so like to posture, and even more so when it comes to criminals and convicts."

"Which you aren't."

"Anymore."

"Because you were wrongfully convicted."

Draco's lips quirked, and he didn't look at Harry when he murmured a brief, "Thank you."

"I'm actually a bit incapable when it comes to anything outside of using a mobile phone," Harry admitted a little while later as the waiter appeared with a silent delivery of their dishes. "Ron's definitely better than I am."

"Weasley?" Draco asked, eyebrow's snapping upwards.

"I know. It's unexpected."

"Wasn't his father…?"

"Yeah, he's a bit of a loveable nut when it comes to Muggle technology. I guess a part of him wore off on Ron. How did you even know that, by the way?"

Draco shrugged. "I told you, I observe. It lends itself to knowing certain things."

Harry only smiled.

"So realistically, I can manipulate the image to suit my liking when editing, but it's never been to my taste," Draco said nearly half an hour later as he picked at the last few bites of his noodle dish.

"Why's that?" Harry asked, swirling absently at his soup.

"Because the untouched original will always be better."

"I think a lot of photographers would beg to differ."

"Yes, and they're the ones who abuse the use of Photoshop until the image barely even resembles the original anymore." Draco rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Utter idiots. As if they believe that people can't tell."

And later still, in the aftermath of their meal, "I don't typically drink all that much. Definitely not anymore." Peering into the dregs of the rice wine, Harry swirled in hand. Night had fallen completely outside, and a scattering of other dinners spread throughout the room, but it was still quiet. It was still somehow private. And, despite the placid pace of the meal, the conversation about nothing in particular, and the lingering reminder of Draco's assault hanging over him, Harry realised he'd enjoyed himself. Being with Draco was remarkably easy.

"That's sensible of you," Draco said absently, taking a sip of his own wine before reaching for the jug for a refill. "I know a lot of people in the industry are partial to substance abuse."

Harry scrunched his nose. "Yeah, I know. It's never been my style."

"Smart."

"I take it you don't either?"

Draco snorted again and, just as he had each other time that night, instinctively touched his nose as though the gesture had pained him. He otherwise showed no apparent discomfort. "Of course not," he said. "I've had my fair share of disaster already without inducing it myself."

The thought warmed Harry just a little. He smiled down into his cup as he took another sip. Smiling had become something natural, something easy, that evening.

Until it was vanquished entirely barely minutes later.

"What?"

Harry stared across the table at Draco, his cup all but forgotten in his hand. He knew he looked a fool, knew he sat in a wide-eyed stupor that could be perceived as nothing short of objectionable, but he didn't care. All that was important at that moment was the words that Draco uttered so offhandedly.

Frowning, apparently unaware of the effect he'd had upon Harry as he eyed the wine of his cup, Draco muttered something to himself before replying. "I'll most likely take the job. After this shoot finishes up – well, suffice it to say that it will be an uncomfortable city to live in for a time. For me, anyway."

"This job… It's in Switzerland?" Harry asked, his voice just a little hoarse.

Whether Draco was a little tipsy, simply oblivious, or mildly concussed – perhaps he really had been hit harder than Harry had given him credit for – he didn't seem to notice. "Yes. Madame Clementine. You've no doubt heard of her."

"Y-yeah."

"She's a witch, and certainly reputable," Draco explained anyway. "Somehow, despite her influence, she's managed to build a reputation for being a respectable person rather than the entitled, larger than life figures at places like Syren, as it were, so I think it will be…"

Draco continued, but Harry only listened with half an ear. He understood what was being said. He understood what it meant. A part of him also admitted what it meant to Harry specifically, and the weight of that was so much more than he'd expected that a piece of him was shell-shocked. But the greater part…

The greater part couldn't accept it. He couldn't. He didn't want to, because that would be to accept something far bigger and deeper than Harry had considered possible for himself. It would mean that somewhere along the way his concern for Draco had grown into something more. It meant that he cared for him as a friend but also as something beyond that. It meant that, far from the rivalry or even disregard they'd once shared, Draco had become someone important, and Harry hadn't even realised it until then, let alone told Draco about it.

He hadn't much of a care for his work – it was work, and he was good at it, and it was even sometimes enjoyable in a way – but this time had been just a little different. Harry didn't want it to end.

He hadn't much time for the people he worked with, hadn't anything so much as friends outside of those precious few he'd had for years, but Draco had managed to creep his way beyond that wall Harry hadn't even realised he'd built.

Relationships were something he didn't have time for. Love was a fallacy for him because so often it was a guise for what hid underneath. Harry hadn't ever consciously thrust it aside, had never disregarded it as impossible, but in that moment, as he watched Draco across the table, he realised that he might have come close to starting to for the first time –

Except that Draco was leaving.

The ridiculousness of the situation was almost laughable. Harry Potter caring for Draco Malfoy, not just as a friend but as a potential lover? Ludicrous. And, just as ludicrous, Draco Malfoy actually caring for him in return?

Impossible.

Inconceivable.

And yet Harry wanted it. He knew how Draco saw him, had seen that he was interested in the way that others were and that Harry had never quite liked, let alone asked for – but he'd be willing to take it. If it meant Draco would stay. If it meant the companionship that Harry hadn't come across before, the friendship of someone who seemed to truly know, of an outsider in the midst of a community that didn't quite accept him, could linger. Not Ron, not Hermione or Ginny, or Von or Dot or anyone else. No one was quite the same as that.

But Draco was leaving? He was choosing to leave?

Harry hadn't realised his hands were shaking until his cup nearly slipped from his fingers. Catching himself, he swallowed thickly, reached for the jug and filled it once more as he knew he probably shouldn't – he had a shoot tomorrow, he knew he wasn't good with alcohol, and he didn't even like it that much – but he did. Harry drained half of it in one mouthful as Draco continued before dragging his attention back towards him.

"Have you ever been to Switzerland?" he asked as casually as he could manage. Did his voice warble slightly? He hoped it hadn't. He hoped Draco hadn't heard if it had.

Draco shook his head. He shifted in his seat, still frowning in a way that tightened his whole face and bespoke aches of physical pain that hadn't been allowed to surface without the release of the rice wine. "No. I've never particularly even wanted to go –"

Then don't.

"- but it should be an experience. And, as I said, good timing."

It would never be good timing. Harry took another gulp of wine, throat convulsing slightly around the bitterness. "When does it start?"

Draco pressed a finger to the side of his nose again. Was it bothering him? Harry should do something about it. He wanted to, wanted to make it stop hurting, wanted people to stop hurting Draco with a fervour he hadn't even realised he felt yet had acted upon nonetheless. His fingers even twitched with the urge to reach for his wand, but he restrained himself.

"Ideally, I'd leave in about three weeks. A little after the first release is due. Four weeks at the latest."

Harry closed his eyes in a brief, tight squeeze. I don't want – I don't want it to… don't ever want him to… When had he become so important? And why to bloody hell did Harry have to realise just how much only then?

"That's good," he said, opening his eyes and plastering a smile upon his face. He could do that, and believably too, he knew. There were some benefits, some skills learnt, from being a model. He knew it would fool just about everyone. "I think it's definitely a good idea. I know that all of us – you, Pansy, and me – will probably have to keep our heads under cover and out of the firing line for a while."

Draco raised his gaze from his cup slowly. The heaviness in his eyes had grown without Harry's notice, and whether from drunkenness or pain he wasn't sure. If he hurt so much, he should have told me, Harry thought, though he knew Draco wouldn't have. We shouldn't be here. We shouldn't have gone out to a fucking dinner just after… just after he'd been…

"Do you really think that?" Draco asked, regarding him unblinkingly.

Why did you even ask me to dinner? "Think what?" Harry asked.

"That it's a good thing?"

Why do you look at me like that but never act on it? "Of course. The British Wizarding community isn't exactly the most heart-warming of places to be at the moment. They'll get their knickers in a knot at the slightest provocation."

Draco chuffed a laugh that seemed more pained than amused. He stared at Harry with question in his eyes that Harry couldn't understand, not a hint of judgement in spite of it all. It was almost kind, and Harry hated it. "They will at that," he said. "What do you plan to do?"

Why do you do that? Harry wanted to ask. He wanted to plead, even. Why do you look at me like that after everything? We should hate each other. After what you saw with me and Sammy, you shouldn't even want to look at me. How can you look at me?

Keeping his smile fixed, Harry lowered his gaze to his wine, swirling it idly. "I don't know. I think Dot's planning on turning away most offers for a while. We're expecting outcry about something or other, or hyper-focus – which wouldn't be the first time and is far from pleasant."

"I know."

Yes, you would. Which is why you're choosing to leave. "So I'll probably be doing very little," Harry continued. "I can't complain, really. A break wouldn't be so bad."

"Is that so?" Draco asked quietly. "Then it will be good for you."

Harry nodded. He couldn't look up. He didn't think he'd be able to really look at Draco for the rest of their inexplicably yet somehow pleasant dinner and, abandoning his half-eaten plate, Harry diverted the conversation into safer territory. "So, an overseas trip? Will this be by plane or…?"

It wasn't late when they finished. It wasn't particularly cold when they left. It wasn't crowded on the footpath just outside of the restaurant, and Draco led the way to an Apparition point that wasn't too far away. Yet to Harry, it all felt wrong. Too short. Too easy. Too… final. The first time they'd actually spent time together outside of work solely in one another's company and it would be the last time. Harry knew it would be.

Why? Harry thought, cursing himself as he walked in step alongside Draco, the weight of their conversation and too much wine sloshing nauseatingly through him. Why the fuck didn't I realise before?

"Will you be alright to Apparate home by yourself?" Draco asked as they drew into the quiet seclusion of a building's shadow.

Harry, glancing over his shoulder at the tingling presence of the magical wall they passed through, turned back towards him. For a beat, in the darkness that didn't quite shroud Draco, that only enhanced his paleness and added further sharpness to his angular features, Harry could only stare. He couldn't look away, wanted it just to remain as it was for as long as it could, and he thought he might understand just why some people, why Draco, even, was so enchanted by the art of photography. It captured the moment and froze it in time forever.

"I feel like I should be asking you that," Harry said, reapplying the smile onto his face like a smear of concealer. "You don't look well."

Draco scoffed. "I'm fine."

"That bruise on your cheek says otherwise."

"It stings a little but it's far from the worst I've had."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Draco returned Harry's stare, and with each silent second that passed a smile made its inching way across his battered lips. It was a little loose, a little too easy, and likely more the effect of the wine he'd partaken of than anything else, but Harry clung to the sight of it. It hurt to see, to know that he probably wouldn't see it again, but he grasped it anyway.

"Are you worried about me? Really?"

Harry blinked. Was Draco teasing him? Or was this more of the embarrassment he'd seen earlier? "If you didn't realise that from the moment I caught up to you in the alley, Draco, then –"

"You don't need to worry, Harry," Draco interrupted him. His smile turned into his all-too-familiar smirk. "If anything, you're the one who needs to watch yourself. I've heard the stories about avid fans."

Harry pulled a face. "Wonderful. Thank you for that reminder."

"You're welcome."

"I'm just heading straight home, you know. You're the one –" Harry cut himself off as Draco's smirk widened a little. "You're drunk."

"Unlikely," Draco said, not very convincingly.

"No, you definitely are."

"Maybe only a little. It helps."

Harry frowned. "Helps? Helps with…?" Then, with understanding, "should we go to a hospital? If you're that badly hurt then –"

"That wasn't exactly what I was talking about," Draco interrupted him again. "But no. Thank you anyway, but no. It's fine."

He didn't say anything more after that. All he did was stare, that mixed stare that Harry could only ever discern pieces of but was even less discernible for the night's darkness that shadowed it. Harry didn't want to leave Draco in the midst of that darkness, not when he was drunk, and hurting, and could potentially even injure himself on his way home. But to assist him? Draco had been embarrassed enough when Harry had stepped in at the moment he'd definitely needed it. He didn't think that forcing assistance upon him would be taken favourably.

Sighing to himself, Harry took half a step backwards. "Alright, then," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Draco nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Maybe you could send me a text when you get home? Just so I know you actually made it there?"

Draco didn't quite chuckle, but the sound he uttered, barely more than a huffed sigh, was very like it. "You really are worried about me. Who would have ever thought that was possible?"

Who indeed? Harry thought. Something so improbable… With a sharp glance sideways, Harry turned away from him. The discomforting roiling in his belly had tightened sickeningly, and he thought that if he stayed any longer he might very well empty the contents of his stomach at the Apparition point.

"Alright, then," he muttered. "Goodnight." Then he turned, hand slipping to his wand in his pocket, and Apparated away.

He barely made it through his front door. Barely into his dark, pristinely clean kitchen to stagger to the sink. His belly lurched, and with a strangled retch, Harry heaved down the drain, clutching the counter as each mouthful, each dribble of wine and soup and pain of the evening, was brought back up again. He'd drunk too much, he realised, had even known it at the time, and he kicked himself for it even as he knew it wasn't the real cause for his nausea.

Von always says I'm a light-weight, after all. I guess he's right. And on the tail of that thought, it's been a while since I've brought anything up. I forgot how bad it feels.

Even so, with the weight of Draco's words, with the epiphany of sorts Harry had been struck with, of the shoot the next day that would be their last…

There was something very liberating about sticking his hands down his throat to bring up what he'd eaten. Something controlling, and stabilising, and just a little relieving. Hermione had told him it was terribly wrong to do so, incredibly unhealthy, and Harry couldn't agree more. But just this once…

The taste was acrid to override the bitterness of the wine as he vomited into the sink, disgorging what little still remained. Acrid, and then salty, and it was only then that Harry even realised that he was crying. Foolishly, pointlessly crying. How long had it been since he'd cried? And even more importantly:

Why do I care? He squeezed his eyes closed as he hung over the sink, head bowed and fighting the foolish tears. Why do I have to care now?

"You look like shit."

"Thank you," Harry said without even turning to where Von had appeared at his side. He knew he did. He'd hardly slept the previous night, and the heaviness that had settled upon him lingered. If anything, it felt weightier than ever. "You've got your work cut out for you today."

For once, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel guilty for the added job his carelessness had lumped onto Von. He couldn't conjure the willpower to do much besides stand in the doorway of the studio and watch Draco as he set up ridiculously early, working with the efficiency and self-reliance of one who was regularly without a crew yet somehow managed just as well as any other photographer with a whole team at their beck and call.

He was focused, and Harry couldn't help but admire the intentness of his slight upon his camera as he positioned it on its tripod. The lowering of his thin, pale eyebrows, the severe line of his mouth, the way his jaw tightened and seemed just a little sharper as he clenched it in the throes of his attentiveness. The way his fingers, long and thin, danced over the camera, plucking and clicking and tweaking. The way every movement was fluid and deliberate, each sideways shuffling step and each momentary drop into a crouch, and how he always somehow managed to keep his posture perfect and proud. In spite of it all and how beaten he'd been in every way, Draco could still be proud. With his bruises hidden by what was more likely a charm than makeup, there was nothing about Draco that suggested he'd been even been beaten at all.

He should have been the one standing before the camera. Or he should be even just once. Harry was unexpectedly saddened that, despite his presence and what he could do and be, the Wizarding world would never allow someone like Draco stand in the limelight for appreciation and recognition. Even behind the camera he was all but openly shunned, and sometimes it wasn't even hidden.

It wasn't fair. No wonder he was leaving for Switzerland.

"Are you alright? We should probably get started, but if you needed another moment…"

Taking a second more to stare across the room, Harry drew a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes briefly, drew a smile onto his face and nodded up at Von with his watchful, frowning concern. "Yeah. We probably should. Sorry, let's go."

Turning from the studio, Harry left Draco to it. It wasn't without struggling reluctance, but nonetheless, he didn't glance back.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been leaving such lovely reviews on this fic! A particular shout-out to you wonderful few that I've seen time and again: delia cerrano, geekymom, Shadow and Moonlight, and ookami-metsuki. And to the lovely guest (you know you you are, but I don't know your name!) who's been leaving such frequent and lovely reviews. You guys give me the motivation to write!