A Very Public Affair

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: Have you heard the latest? Don't tell anyone but … Exposed: Pureblood in baby battle! Suddenly, Harry was the latest Prophet gossip: the boy who'd had an affair with Draco Malfoy, the notorious pureblood…

Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini

Categories: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe (AU)

Status: Un-betaed

Chapter Three: Part One

The car that paused at the road junction was big and sleek, silver-grey in colour beneath the streetlights. It made a statement that was easy to read: whoever drove a car like this had to be successful, rich, a winner. Huddled in a shop doorway and shivering with cold, Harry-hopeless, completely broke, a loser-raised tired lids to glance at it, deeply envying the mobile cocoon of warmth and luxury on this freezing winter's night.

The lights changed to green and the car drove on, but turned into the courtyard of a building just a few yards down the street on the opposite side. Watching, Harry saw the car pull up at the entrance and a man get out. He seemed in a great hurry, almost running through the doorway. He didn't even bother to shut the car door properly. Such casual disregard held Harry's attention. He waited for the man to come out again, his eyes fixed on the car, his while mind consumed with the thought of the warmth inside it.

Slowly he dragged himself to his feet and as if drawn by an invisible but powerful magnet crossed the road towards the building. Once out of the shelter of the doorway the icy blast of the wind caught him, made him gasp at its fierceness and brought tears that ran like icicles down his cheeks. Reaching the other side, Harry peered through the ornate iron railings that surrounded the block. The man still hadn't come out and the car door was definitely open a couple of inches. He glanced round to see if anyone was watching, but it was almost one in the morning and the street was empty. Even the London traffic had ceased, everyone eager to get home on such a cold night.

For a moment he hesitated, but a gust of freezing wind chilled him to the marrow and sent him hurrying through the entrance, up to the car. A moment later his numb fingers had found the latch of the rear door and he slipped inside, pulling that and the driver's door closed behind him. Immediately the cold of the wind was gone, making him give a sob of heartfelt relief. The inside of the car was very dark, but the back seat was deep and padded. Harry felt something fabric under his hand and found it was a rug, large and thick and beautifully soft. With a sigh of sheer bliss he lay back on the seat, curled into it and pulled the rug completely over himself.

The car must be new; he could smell the richness of the leather upholstery, catch the unmistakable hessian and wool smell of new carpet. But most of all he felt the warmth that still lingered. It was so long since he'd been warm. The winter had been so severe and he'd been cold for so long that it was almost impossible to remember what it had been like to be warm all the time, for it to be commonplace that he hadn't even thought about it.

Harry's thoughts drifted, his tired brain unable to concentrate, and he fell asleep.

* * *

It was twenty minutes before Draco Malfoy came out to the car. He had changed from the dress robes he'd been wearing when the owl came and now had on jeans and a sweater, clothes more comfortable for the long drive north. He put his suitcase in the boot and threw his camel overcoat in the back, his movements brisk, compelled by the urgency in the voice of his godfather's neighbour. Flu, she's said, but his Severus hadn't let her owl him. Now pneumonia had set in and he wasn't getting better, was not responding to treatment. He was worried, she was worried but now her own family had gone down with the flu virus, giving her no time to spare for her neighbour, and he refused to go into St. Mungo's let alone a muggle hospital.

He would, Draco thought. Such obstinacy was typical of his godfather. It was what made him insist, when he'd retired from Hogwarts, on going to live in Spinner's End so that he could devote his life to the study and research of Potions.

The grimness in Draco's lean face softened as he thought of Severus. They didn't see each other often. They were both men of independent spirit-his godfather because that was the way he wanted to be, and Draco because that was the way he'd been brought up-but the bond between them still went deep. Draco's parents were dead, had died many years ago, and his godfather had shown no inclination to ever marry, rather out of love or the need for companionship, he'd chosen to raise his godson as his own. He was a man who could be perfectly content in his own company, and he had managed very contently until this illness had struck him down.

The unexpectedness of the neighbour's emergency call had been a shock, especially coming as it had been when he'd been at a nightclub after an evening spent at the opera. Reaching the motorway that ringed London, Draco had put his foot down and headed north.

* * *

Having the coat thrown over his head had startled Harry out of his sleep. He'd woken in fright, thinking that he was being attacked. But then the car had started to move and he'd remembered where he was. For a moment he was petrified that he'd been seen, but then realized that he couldn't have been or the driver would have thrown him out. Harry hazily thought that he ought to let the driver know he was there, or heaven knew where he'd end up. But the car was so warm, and the heavy overcoat had made him cosier still. He thought about it, and while he was still thinking fell deeply asleep again.

The big car ate up the miles, its engine the soft purr of a well-bred cat. Draco turned on the radio to a classical music channel but kept it low. The programme was interrupted from time to time by traffic bulletins, which spoke of freezing temperatures and the threat of snow as he went further north. Two hours out of London he pulled off the motorway into a service area, where he filled the car up with petrol then went into the café where he bought a flask of coffee and a couple of rolls.

Harry didn't wake then, but he did when Draco stopped again sometime later and took a drink from the flask. It was the aroma of the coffee that got to him, filtering through the covers and making his insides ache with hunger. Gently, very slowly he pulled the cover from around his face. The smell of the coffee was immediately stronger, making his throat tighten with thirst. He thought he'd die for a cup, for just a mouthful, a taste. Then he'd heard him unwrap a roll and smelt the ham that filled it, had to push his hand in his mouth and bite on it to stop himself crying out, the hunger in his belly a physical pain.

It was relief when the car started off again and there was just the sound of music and the smell of the leather seats. He saw white wisps hitting the windows and knew that it was snowing. With a great shiver, Harry pulled the car rug close again. Fleetingly he wondered about the driver. He could see it was a man, but that was about all. His head was mostly hidden by the head-rest, and all he could see of him was a wide pair of shoulders and the top of his light head faintly outlined by the lights on the dashboard. Impossible to tell any more of him, but he had the impression that he was young. Was that good or bad? And how would he react when he found him, when they arrived at wherever he was heading?

Harry found he didn't much care-about any of it. Things could hardly get worse for him than they were already, so what was the point worrying? At least at the moment he was warm and comfortable, and he decided just to be thankful for that and to hell with the rest. So he slept again as the car continued on through the night-more slowly now in the bad conditions.

It was almost seven in the morning and the sky had lightened, but Draco still needed his headlights; the snow was becoming much heavier as the wipers incessantly cleared it from the windscreen. He had left the main road behind and the snow was worse on these minor roads, piling into drifts so that he had to use all his concentration. Coming to a crossroads, Draco slowed to peer at the signpost but was unable to read it. Pulling into the side, he looked at the map but realised it was no good; he would have to go and clear the damn sign.

Opening the door of the car, he felt the cold hit him. He stretched his shoulders, easing his aching back muscles, then opened the rear door and reached in for his overcoat. He pulled it out. Beneath it the rumpled car rug moved! Draco stared, then reached in and yanked it away to reveal the figure lying in the seat.

"What the heck? How the hell did you get in there?" And, grabbing hold of the enveloping anorak, he dragged the person out of the car.

Coming to with a shock, Harry almost fell as he pulled him roughly out into the road. His legs had gone stiff from being curled up for so long and he could hardly stand, making him stumble and catch hold of him to steady himself. Immediately Draco pushed him away and then gave him a violent shake, his face full of anger and distaste.

"Who are you? When did you get into the car?" Harry didn't answer and he gave another rough shake. The hood of the anorak fell off and his hair, long and dark, tumbled about his head. "Good grief!"

For a moment they stood in the road, the snow swirling about then as they stared at each other. Harry looked at him in nervous alarm decided not to dispute, saw that Draco was tall and that he's been right in thinking him young-he looked to be in his early twenties, his hair a pale, white blonde. His eyes gray and cold, full of startled anger, and he said again, "Who are you? How did you get in the car?"

A snowflake settled on his lashes and Harry lifted his hand to wipe it away, then shivered and said, "Please-I'm cold."

Draco hesitated then gave a curse and strode over to clear the sign. Taking this as an acceptance of him being there, Harry quickly got back in the car. He joined him a minute later, closing the door to keep out the cold, then looked at him over the back of his seat. "Where did you get in-at the petrol station?"

Harry nodded, not seeing any point in telling him he'd been there all the way from London.

"Damn! I haven't got time to take you all the way back there. Where do you live?" He didn't speak and he said exasperatedly, "Haven't you got a tongue in your hear? Where do you live?"

"I-I don't live anywhere."

His eyebrows rose, then he frowned. "I suppose you've run away from home." Again Harry didn't speak and he thumped his clenched fist against the seat in annoyance. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

Terrified that he might kick him out into the snow, Harry sat very still, his green eyes, large with apprehension, fixed on his face.

As if reading his thoughts, Draco said, "I ought to throw you out. I would too, if it wasn't so damn cold." Making up his mind, he turned away and put on his seat belt, started the car and began to drive again. "Don't think that I'm letting you get away with this. As soon as I possibly can I'm going to hand you over to the police and let them deal with you."

With a great inner sigh of relief Harry settled back in the seat, but stayed sitting up, just pulling the rug around him again. Looking out the windows, he could see no houses anywhere, just expanses of open fields and sometimes a few trees, their branches already white with snow. The man, he could see, was giving all his attention to his driving. Once the car skidded and it looked as if they were headed for a ditch, but he quickly straightened it, then gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw a farmhouse and turned up the lane that ran along the side of it. The lane was short-about half a mile-then they came to another house, a smaller one, built of grey stone and with a copse of fir trees to the side. There was another car parked outside.

"Stay here," the driver ordered, and didn't even glance at Harry as he hurried to the house.

The door was unlocked, Draco pushed it open and seeing the landing light was on, ran upstairs. "Mrs. Edwards?"

She was in his godfather's room, and turned with a look of relief. "Thank goodness you've come. The Healer's been and he's left some potions." Already she was reaching for her coat.

Glancing at the bed, Draco saw his godfather was sleeping. They went out on the landing before he said, "How is he?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry to say-he's bad. Here, I've written down the Healers details. He'll be able to tell you more than I can, although you might have trouble getting him; everyone around here seems to be down with this flu."

"You'll be wanting to get back to your family. How are they?"

"Oh, they're young and strong; they'll recover." She stopped short and flushed a little. And Draco, seeing it, suddenly realised with a sick feeling of shock what she was afraid to tell him.

"Is he so ill?" he said faintly, hoping against hope that she would deny it. But she gave a brief nod and went ahead of him down the stairs. "I'll drive you home," he said mechanically, his brain trying to come to terms with it but refusing to accept such terrible news.

"No, I have the car." Mrs. Edwards looked out of the window. "It's a good job you got here when you did; the lane soon gets blocked with snow and the weathers to dangerous to apparate."

She left him, and Draco went back to his godfather's room. He sat by the bed and took hold of his godfather's limp hand. For the first time he realised how aged the man looked. He wasn't an old man, but Draco had never realised it before. His skin was pallid and his breathing laboured, and unnatural. Draco sat beside him, his thoughts full of regret and sadness, and it was a long time before he remembered the boy in the car.

Harry saw the woman hurry out of the house and the car drive away. He waited for the man to come back, peering through the ever-thickening snow. Now that the engine was off the car began to get cold again. And he was hungry, so hungry. Still the man didn't come back. At last, driven by hunger and by the warmth and shelter that the house promised, Harry got out of the car, gasping as the wind cut into him and the snow covered his shoes. Hurrying to the door, he went to knock, then hesitated and tried the knob. The door opened and he went quickly inside, afraid of making the man angry again but too cold and hungry not to risk it.

Closing the door, he looked apprehensively round, expecting any moment to have someone come up and demand to know what he was doing there. But the sitting room, the walls covered with books, was empty. Fleetingly Harry noticed the only furniture in the room was a threadbare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. But then he saw an open door from which came the smell of something cooking-a rich savoury smell that had him through the door and into the kitchen in two seconds flat.

The delicious smell came from a large pan that simmered on the range. Broth? Stew? Soup? Hardly able to control the shaking eagerness of his hands, Harry found a bowl and spooned a large helping into it. He was so starved that he had eaten three helpings before he even bothered to look around him. The Kitchen was large, dimly lit, and beautifully warm from a fireplace. Harry noticed the walls, which were in shadow, lined with glass jars, including the wall behind the table. Each jar contained some potion in which there were suspended slimy bits of some animal or plant. He thought he even saw what looked to be a large dead frog suspended in some purple liquid. There was a big cupboard in one corner, of what looked to contain potions ingredients. The Cauldrons stacked in the corner confirmed that is was a Wizard he'd encountered.

He glanced down at the bowl he'd been using and guiltily looked in the pan. It was only a quarter full now. Harry gulped, wondering if he'd eaten most of the food intended for a whole family. He began to wonder, too, where the car driver had got to-but just then heard a door closing somewhere, and then rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Nervously he stood still waiting for his approach.

Draco saw him as he came round the bend in the stairs, and stopped short in surprise. He had hardly taken him in before and was too full of shock over Severus to do so now. All he knew was that the boy was a worry, an inconvenience he definitely didn't want, especially now. Annoyance making his voice harsh, he said, "I told you to wait in the car."

"It was cold."

Draco saw that he was still wearing the anorak, that it was dirty and stained, as were the jeans and the filthy, unwashed long hair that had made him mistake the boy for a girl at first. Draco's nose wrinkled a little in distaste as he came down into the kitchen. "When did you run away?"

It was impossible to deny that he was a run away, but Harry couldn't see why he had to know, so he didn't answer.

Draco sighed. "Have you at least got a name?"

He hesitated, the said, "It's Harry."

He was surprised, but perhaps he'd made it up. Deciding that he had, his face hardened. "Harry what?" he demanded brusquely.

Not liking his tone, Harry's chin came up a little, "Smith," he said shortly.

His eyes went to his face at that, and registered a pair of defiant green eyes. With an angry exclamation he went past him into the kitchen. "You're going to have to say who you are some time, you know. If not me, then to the police." Noticing the bowl on the table he said wryly, "I see you made yourself at home."

"I'm sorry. I was hungry."

He glanced in the pan, then said, "You may as well finish it off."

Harry didn't argue, immediately coming to fill his bowl again, but he managed to say, "Don't you want any? It's very good."

"No. I'll just make myself some coffee." He gave him an assessing look, surprised by the educated tones of his voice. He'd expected him to be from a different background. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," Harry lied.

Draco gave a short laugh. "Do you really expect me to believe that? He had picked up the kettle but turned with it in his hands to look at him. He was, he realised, very thin and pale, and there were dark shadows round his eyes. He looked like a Victorian waif, thrown out into the snow. Roughly he said, "You look about fourteen."

"I'm not!" Harry said indignantly. "I'm twenty-one." He caught his eyebrows rising disbelievingly. "Well-nineteen, anyway." But that was still a lie because he was only just eighteen.

He took his bowl to the table and a few minutes later he came to sit opposite with his mug of coffee. "You," Draco said shortly, "are a damn nuisance. My godfather is upstairs and he's…" He hesitated and found that he was unable to say 'dying,' so said instead, "He's very ill and I can't leave him. So I'll have to phone the nearest police station and ask them to come and collect you." He saw his fingers tighten on the spoon, but he didn't speak or look at him. "Of course," he went on, "it would make things a whole lot easier if you'd tell me who you are so that your parents could come instead. I'm sure they must be terribly worried about you and-"

"I haven't any parents," Harry said shortly.

Draco looked at his set face, wondering if he was lying again. "Well there must be someone who-"

"There isn't."

He became exasperated. "Look, I haven't got time to play games. It's your parents, guardian, or whatever-or the police. Which is it to be?"

Harry raised a strained face to look at him. "The police won't want to know. I'm over-age and I have the right to lead whatever kind of life I want, wherever I want. They can't make me go back."

"Well, at least you've admitted that there is somewhere for you to go back to," Draco pounced. He stood up, fretting to get back to Severus' side. "And you're certainly not staying here."

Going out to the car, he brought in his suitcase and overcoat. And his mobile phone, knowing that Severus had never allowed a phone to be installed in the house-that or even a television set. Dumping his case on the floor in the sitting room, Draco went to look over the information the Healer had left for him. The Healer had gone into much greater detail than Mrs. Edwards but in the end the news was just the same: Severus was dying; there was nothing more they could do for him.

…Severus knows; he made me tell him when I wanted him to go into hospital. But he said he wanted to die in his own home… He is not in pain. The medication I've left for him will remedy that. It's just a matter of time. It's hard to say, a few days, perhaps a week. I'll come as often as I can, but I've a flu epidemic on my hands…

For a long moment he sat staring at the wall then roused himself and called the local police. They could do nothing about the boy today, they said when he explained his position. Half their men were down with the flu. They advised him to just send him on his way.

"It's snowing outside," Draco pointed out.

He could almost hear the shrug in the policeman's voice. "Unless you want to bring charges against him for breaking into your car, there's not a lot we can do except try and persuade him to go home. Has he given you his name? We could look on the missing-persons file and see if we can find an address for him."

With inner anger, Draco told them to just come and collect the boy as soon as possible.

Going back to the kitchen, he found Harry washing out the now empty pan. He had taken off the anorak but it was impossible to tell what sort of figure he had, as he seemed to be wearing several layers of sweaters. He turned emerald green eyes to look at him apprehensively. At any other time Draco might have felt some sympathy, if not pity for him. But not now; his thoughts were too full of the days ahead and taking care of Severus.

"You'll have to stay here until tomorrow," he said abruptly. "The police can't come for you until the morning."

Harry relaxed a little, but then thought that maybe his troubles weren't over-he would be alone here with this man. But no, almost at once he realised that he had nothing to fear. He was too preoccupied with his sick godfather to even think of him in that way.

"Come with me and I'll show you can sleep." He followed Draco up the stairs. When they reached the corridor at the top he pointed out his godfather's room. "I'll be with my godfather." He opened another door further down. "I suppose you'd better have this room. You'll have to make the bed up. There's blankets and things in that cupboard on the landing. And the bathroom's over there." He turned to go to his godfather's room, but Harry said quickly, "Please-can I have a bath?"

"Yes, of course." He looked surprised that he'd asked.

"And-and you know my name, but I don't know yours."

He gave a curt laugh. "I know the name you've chosen to tell me, you mean."

Having slept in the car for several hours, and feeling full of good food, warm for the first time in weeks, and knowing he had somewhere to stay for the night, Harry was able to say lightly, "A new life deserves a new name."

His left eyebrow rose and he smirked. "Smith? Surely you could do better than that?"

Harry smiled a little and Draco saw with surprise that there was a trace of beauty in the thin features. Somehow this made him angrier, and he said harshly, "My name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. Look, I maybe stuck with you until tomorrow but I shall expect you to keep out of the way. I haven't got time to worry about you. Understand?"

His face flushed at the obvious rebuff and he said stiffly, "Yes. I'm sorry."

He nodded and went on his way.

Harry must have stayed in the bath for over a couple of hours, washing his hair, absolutely wallowing in the pleasure of soaking in all that lovely hot water.

Since he'd left what Draco had called his 'home'-but which he'd thought of as purgatory-he'd tried to keep himself clean, washing himself in public mens' cloakrooms after he'd had to leave the cheap hotel where he'd stayed until his money had run out. He'd been able to wash and change his clothes then, too, because he'd carried a backpack crammed with his belongings. But to his despair, it had been stolen one night as he'd lain asleep on a park bench and since then had nothing but the clothes he was wearing.

Reluctant to put his beautifully clean body back into them, Harry found a toweling robe hanging on the bathroom door and put that on instead. His hair he toweled dry as soon as possible, but he had nothing to brush it with so it had to stay a dark, tangled mass about his head. Bare footed, he picked up all his clothes and took them downstairs to the kitchen, then thrust the whole lot in the washing machine and switched it on. Checking the cupboards he found it well stocked with food, so, still feeling guilty at having eaten all the stew, he set about cooking a meal.

Upstairs, Severus woke at last. When he saw Draco he reached for his hand. Draco gripped it tightly. They didn't speak; there was no need for words. They both knew why he had come and that this would be their last time together.