Chapter 4. One Person.

The clock ticked, the fridge buzzed, the windows rattled noisily in their frames as the traffic outside roared past, almost non-stop, through every hour of the day and night. Draco heard none of it, he chose to ignore it. Usually in lieu of locking himself in his bedroom with the television or the radio to keep him company. It was a small three and a half room flat in the middle of South Kensington, bathroom, living room, kitchenette and one tiny bedroom, just barely big enough to fit a bed in. It was perfect for Draco, at least here he didn't have the space to feel so lonely. Here, he was meant to be alone. There was no dining table or settee, no huge bath and, thankfully, no double bed. The whole flat had been made for one. One arm chair, one stool, one small compact cupboard that Draco had yet to put anything in and one narrow hallway connecting all three rooms.

England hadn't really changed, though it felt different. He wondered if that was because he was alone or if in those nine months he'd been away, something big had happened that had altered everything. People looked the same, did the same things, but they felt different. He recognised buildings and noted that they hadn't been changed since he'd last seen them, but they, too, felt different now. Not any better, nor worse, just… different.

His usual daily routine consisted of waking up at around two o'clock in the afternoon, getting washed and dressed and sitting alone in his room watching soaps or listening to radio chat shows. He hadn't forgotten how to smile, but it was rare that he ever did and on those few exceptional occasions, he thanked his inanimate, electrical friends for reminding him he still had a soul.

You have a beautiful smile.

Do I?

Yes. It sort of… makes your whole face light up. Makes you look happy.

I am happy.

Draco woke up earlier than usual on Saturday morning and made his way, drowsy and yawning, to the small kitchenette in the right hand living room corner. The light from the fridge made him wince and draw a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth before his eyes slowly adjusted. There was no food. He sighed. That meant he'd have to go out again and he'd avoided doing that for nearly two weeks, living off whatever scraps he could find left in the back of the cupboards. He stood and kicked the fridge door closed with the back of his foot before leaning against the counter, resting on his elbows and looking out of the window on the far wall. Funny… the view from his bedroom in Paris had been beautiful, fine old architecture, the winding river and even Notre Dame in the distance, but the view here, shabby, grey offices, old transit vans and a post box covered in pigeon droppings, was more comforting than anything he'd ever felt in France.

Pushing himself away from the counter, he stretched his arms above his head, displaying just how malnourished he really was with the way his ribs jutted out under his flesh, and made his way to the bathroom to wash. It had been a problem at first that the flat never seemed to have any hot water, and a bit of a shock when he'd first tried to take a shower, but now he hardly noticed. He still ran both taps, as if running both, even though they were cold, would make a difference and washed as he normally would. Not washing had never been a factor in his life, he'd had that drilled into him from a young age 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness", and he made sure that he never missed a single wash.

He'd only taken one pair of clothes with him and one change of underwear, but because the washing machine he'd been provided with always left his clothes covered in soapy bubbles, he'd taken to washing them by hand. Thankfully the clothes were freshly washed so he didn't have to worry about going out in public smelling of week old sweat and dirt.

He finished washing and watched until the sink was totally empty before making his way into the bedroom and getting dressed. They weren't even clothes he felt overly comfortable in and most nights he took to wearing only his underwear around the house. He dressed and decided that if he was going to go out, then he would make a day of it, buy himself a new wardrobe, more suited to the London climate and fashion, all the food he needed to last him a month and whatever else caught his eye while he was shopping.

Pocketing his wallet, stuffed full of ten and twenty pound notes, he left the house and waited on the corner for a taxi.

Thankfully, the West End was still exactly as he had remembered it. People rushing past, in a hurry to get nowhere, others elbowing him to one side as if he were invisible. He didn't think anything could change about the way of things here and even though he was being pushed about and almost trodden on by complete strangers, he was relieved. He had come back to something and it was just how he had left it, unchanged and totally willing to let him back in.

His first stop was at Starbucks for breakfast and he flirted idly with the guy who took his order before sitting at a table with his coffee and jam croissant and flicking through a newspaper that the previous customer had left behind.

The next shop that caught his attention was a men's clothing store and he made his way across the road and stepped inside. He was grateful for the cool blast of air the AC above the entrance provided and he stood there for a while, cooling down nicely from the heat outside before making his way through the different shirts on display. Of course, Draco favoured the more expensive items and was drawn almost instantly to the back of the store where a few designer labels had caught his eye. He'd seen a few of these names in Paris where he'd learnt how to live as a Muggle and blend in naturally. It was there that he'd discovered his liking for labels and as he thought on it now, he'd made a mistake in not bringing more things with him when he'd left. But he'd left in desperation and nothing but the need to get away from that crushing, murdering, soul destroying lifestyle had come with him.

England hadn't healed all his wounds, and he hadn't expected it to, but it felt better here, because in London he was meant to be alone. In Paris he was a social creature, whether he liked it or not. It was what was expected of him and being around other people made him feel, even more acutely, the pain of what he was missing by not having the one person he really wanted by his side. But he didn't have to worry about that here, because his one person armchair, his one person cupboard, his one person stool and his one person bed told him he was alone, and for some reason that was much easier to accept.

He took nearly eleven shirts with him to the changing room and six pairs of trousers and none of the items were returned. He paid happily for his new clothes, bagged them up and made his way again down the busy high street.

"That'll be sixty four pounds and twenty pence please."

Draco finished stuffing all his groceries into bags and handed the cashier seventy pounds. He took the opportunity while she was working out his change to finish packing and put a few of the grocery bags in with his clothes. He knew he'd probably overdone it a bit, and the amount of bags he had to carry now was quite ridiculous, but he'd rather do it all in one go than have to make a habit of it.

"Here you go, sir. That's five pounds and eighty pence change," she said politely, then almost did a double take as she looked up into Draco's face. "Hey… wait a minute… Don't I know you?"

Draco raised an eyebrow nonchalantly and picked up his bags. "I shouldn't think so," he said as he started to turn.

"No, I do…" The girl then lowered her voice and leaned forward so as to make sure nobody heard her but Draco. "You went to Hogwarts, didn't you?" she whispered and Draco's eyes widened briefly before he shook his head and plastered and look of boredom across his face.

"I'm afraid you have me mistaken for somebody else," he informed her and once again made to leave.

"No, I don't. It's you… Malfoy. You left the country, didn't you? I followed that story… you and The-Boy-Who-Lived and everything. I didn't think you were a bad bloke, though. I always said that was media hype," she said with a grin. "I was in the year above you, Ravenclaw. My name's Emily." She beamed, almost proudly and gave a small excited chuckle. "I was really good in Charms."

Draco sneered. "Yes well, a lot of good it did you!" he practically hissed and turned before she could get another word in. His good day had been brought crashing down around his ears and now he didn't really feel the need to continue shopping, but had instead, the desire to go home and curl up in his single bed and watch TV.

He made his way down to the end of Oxford Street and hailed a taxi, throwing all his bags inside before getting in and closing the door.

"Where can I take you, mate?" The driver asked, looking over his shoulder in Draco's general direction. The blond did up his seat belt and kicked a bag out of the way in frustration.

"Addison Road."

.o0o.

He had barely managed to close the door behind him when the bag he'd put all his fruit into split, sending apples, bananas, oranges and pears rolling across the floor and under various different objects. Draco screamed, threw all his bags down and set about picking up all the spilt fruit. His day had been going fine until the check out girl had opened her huge, fat lipped mouth! Talking to him about something she had no real idea about and opening up old wounds that had slowly been healing. Draco cursed her very existence and reached for an orange that had rolled under the armchair before throwing all the fruit into a bowl and slamming it down on the counter.

He screamed again and kicked the cupboard door before swearing loudly and hopping around angrily on one foot, while his toes throbbed in pain. THIS was the very reason he didn't go out! The trip had got off to too good a start to have anything good come of it and he'd known something like that would happen! He knew it because every time he found himself enjoying something in the past, every time he'd ever been happy, something always had come along to balls it all up for him!

He turned to face the counter again and buried his face in his hands, elbows on the worktop, fingers grasping at his hair. Life just didn't want him to heal. It wanted him to suffer because apparently, according to life and the fucking wizarding media, he'd done something to deserve it. This would be something he'd carry around with him until he died and there really was no point running from it. Here he was, in his one person flat, with his one person armchair, his one person cupboard, his one person stool and his one person bed, and he was still lonely.

Will we be together forever?

Of course we will, love.

He spent that night curled up in his blankets, in the dark, watching the TV and making his way through a big melted, gooey tub of chocolate chip ice cream. The bluish light from the screen flickered and changed, causing long, dark shadows to dance sporadically across the back wall. He had just four channels on this television but he never really cared about what he was watching because, for him, it was all just another distraction. Like the Seine had been for him in Paris, so the TV was for him now. Something to keep his mind occupied and away from... other thoughts. At least for a while.

He picked up the remote and flicked back and forth between the four channels for a while, seeing images and hearing sounds, but not processing any of it. He sighed and stopped after a few minutes and put the remote back down before returning to his ice cream. He'd been sitting with it in his hand for so long now that his fingers had gone numb and the ice cream had been reduced to nothing more than a tub of flavoured sludge.

But he ate. He ate until he'd finished and placed the tub on the side before turning off the TV and settling down to sleep. It was dark in his room, his one person room, and after nearly five whole minutes he didn't even know if his eyes were still open. A truck trundled noisily past the window, briefly illuminating the room with it's headlights before it passed, plunging Draco back into his familiar inky blue darkness.

He slept.

.o0o.

It wasn't long after that that the wizarding media was once again on his back. He didn't know for sure how they had found out, but he had a pretty good idea who'd tipped them off and he made a vow to hex her into oblivion if he ever had to misfortune to see her chubby face again. They would take pictures of him through his window, follow him down the street, arousing the Muggle public's attention and picking up stragglers who had no idea who he was or why he had a huge crowd of paparazzi following him everywhere he went. They asked questions, made note of his regular haunts and waited, sometimes for days, outside his house just get another picture of the famous wizarding heart-breaker.

He hated it, he was sick of it and on the few occasions he found himself near the Leaky Cauldron, he made sure to take as many different back streets and short cuts as he could to avoid passing too closely to it. Of course, this didn't always work. London was buzzing with witches and wizards, more so than he'd ever remembered and they all seemed to recognise him. Some would simply nod as they walked past, some would giggle and laugh, others would gasp and talk in hushed voices amongst themselves and a few times Draco was actually stopped and told off.

He took this as conformation by whatever powers that be that he was the martyr and that he'd have to carry his cross with him for as long as he could before he just gave up and collapsed under it's weight. Every day this cross got a little heavier.

It was the events of a particular Tuesday morning, however, that finally drove him to it.

"Draco, how do you feel now about past accusations that you were always destined to follow in your father's footsteps?"

"You were in Paris for nearly a whole year, what sort of lifestyle did you lead over there?"

"After being part of the wizarding world for so many years, how have you adjusted to living as a Muggle?"

"What do you have to say to your fans?"

"What's your favourite colour?"

Draco ignored them, they were the same questions he got every day and they kept asking. He didn't like the attention but he couldn't get rid of it so sometimes he played up to it, walking tall and smiling tiredly at Muggle passers by who thought him some high profile celebrity. Of course, once he was away from Muggle eyes, he'd make a dash for the nearest dark alleyway and stay hidden until they'd all given up looking, then he'd make his way quickly home and lock himself away in his room. He wasn't happy, but he'd learnt to live with it. Until…

"Draco, are you aware that your cowardice broke Harry Potter's heart?"

Draco turned. "What…?" he said calmly, but with an edge to his voice that very few people caught.

"You take off without a trace, when Harry was at his most vulnerable and then you show up nine months later as if nothing happened." The reporter chuckled, as if he found something about his questions amusing. "I mean, that's pretty yellow."

For a while there was silence, no one moved, even the photographers had ceased their infernal clicking. Stillness, then Draco spoke. "How dare you accuse me of being a coward?" he said coldly, keeping his voice low. "You have no idea what Harry and I went through, how we suffered." He stepped forward and instantly the cameras were clicking and flashing all over again. "Alright. You want your interview? Here it is."

There was clicking, flashing and scribbling galore as Draco stepped up to the man who'd posed the questions. "It was hard for Harry and I during the war. We had to hide what we had from everyone because we were so afraid of having it torn apart before it had been given any sort of chance. It wasn't really love back then, more of a need, a comfort, but it was something we wanted to hold on to."

He took a breath and continued. "I didn't fight, I couldn't fight and Harry insisted that I stay as far away from the battle as I could. I didn't want to, but I did as Harry said because I cared for him. I wanted to make sure I was alive for him when he came back, because I knew he would. And when it was over, and he didn't come back to me straight away, I was terrified, I was physically sick and it was then that I realised I was in love with him."

The flashing was almost blinding him now as he spoke but he simply squinted against them and went on, raising his voice now so that people in the street were giving him and his crowd odd looks.

"We settled down, we got a nice house and we were happy. The media knew now, of course, but at the time we didn't care, because we had each other and we knew... or rather, we thought that nothing could ever come between us. Those first few months were the happiest I've ever been in my life. We joked, we smiled, we shared our dreams and hopes and aspirations, we played, we talked, we cried, we made love in the most unusual and fun places."

At this all the reporters pens scratched, almost in unison, rapidly across pads of paper as they nodded and urged Draco to go on.

"And then you lot came in and ruined it all. First it was the scandal about how shocked the wizarding world should be that two male wizards were in a gay relationship. Nobody would have batted an eyelid if you hadn't told them they should. Then came the accusations. I'm not good enough for Harry, I'm going to hurt Harry, I'm as evil and twisted as my Death Eater father and I don't deserve the love and attention of the Wizarding Worlds National Treasure! Our relationship had been fine until you came along and decided to wreck it. It all fell apart because of you and your stupid ideas, and biased opinions and your desire for 'the scoop of the century.' Well let me tell you now, I didn't leave because I wanted to hurt Harry. I left because you lot drove me out. You as good as handed me my coat and showed me the door. I had no other choice but to go because you would have destroyed me if I'd stayed. You know you would have, and you would have happily watched it happen. And you know what? Harry didn't even try to stop me."

He waited for a while, to let the full extent of what he had just said sink in. "Harry let me walk out of that door and get in that taxi. He let me catch that plane and not once did he ever ask me to stay, not once did he beg me not to go. I didn't want to leave him but I had no choice, you all saw to that and you have the fucking nerve to stand here today and tell me I'm a coward? You have the sheer audacity to accuse me of hurting Harry, when it was always your fault?"

There was a stunned silence and the reporter stepped back into the crowd as they all looked at their shoes, at the sky… anywhere to avoid looking at Draco. The blond sighed and sniffed indignantly. "I'd like you all to go away now," he said simply and he was surprised when they actually did. In little more than a few minutes they were gone and he was left, standing in the middle of South Kensington, with nothing but the breeze for company.

He made his way back home only to pick up his wallet, then headed out to the street where he hailed a taxi.

It wasn't until they'd been driving for nearly an hour that Draco realised that there was a chance Harry might still be there. For a moment be considered telling the cabby to turn round and take him back home, cost be damned, but he held his tongue and within five minutes, he was climbing out of the taxi at the end of the road and handing over the fare. It was obvious he wasn't in London anymore, everything was so completely different. The greys and faded browns of the city had been replaced with brilliant shades of green and peach. The busy city high streets had turned into small winding pathways and the sound of angry, roaring traffic had vanished and the only thing to break the silence now was the sound of birds singing to each other as they flew through the trees.

It was exactly the same as he'd remembered it, but, as with everything else, it felt like something new and totally alien.

He took a deep breath and made his way down the road, taking in the distantly familiar sights and smells, walking with a purpose but not knowing where he was going until he stopped in front of a house that he recognised all too well. For a moment he was overcome with such an intense fear that he wondered if he wouldn't actually be ill. He backed up a few paces and frantically tried to decide whether he should stay or flee before he realised that the house he was standing in front of was empty.

The windows were dark and everything was silent. Even the birds had ceased their chirping now. But it wasn't any of these factors that told Draco the house was deserted, but the dead, hollow feeling he now had in his chest. He'd been terrified for a moment that Harry would still be here but Draco felt no sort of relief now that he knew he wasn't. It was strange, the one thing Draco didn't think he could face seeing again was the very same thing that he most wanted to see.

It was quite some time before he could move, walking towards the door and placing his hands on the knob. It was stiff as he turned it but it moved and surprisingly the door wasn't locked. He was thankful for this as he'd long ago lost his key and he ached to go inside now, yearned to have another look into his past because he needed something good in his life now. He needed to open the box and reach in to pluck out enough good memories to help with the pain, because pain was the only thing that had followed him when he'd left and he'd had enough of it. That is why he'd come here, not in the hope of finding Harry, but just so that he could be sure his past had been real. He needed something solid to cling to.

The house really was empty. All that remained was the bed, a couple of chairs and the fitted kitchen cupboards. No remnants of Harry, nothing he could pick up and take home, apart from an old painting Draco remembered buying for Harry one Christmas. It was still hanging on the wall, covered in dust and looking very lonely there by itself and Draco couldn't help but lift it off it's hook and clean it. The paint seemed to have faded and the green of the trees had dulled into a murky mustard-like hue, the blues and purples in the sky had turned grey and pink and the two lovers sitting under the apple tree no longer seemed to be smiling. Typical, Draco thought, that everything he found would serve to add to his loneliness instead of making it fade.

He put the painting back and walked slowly through the house, down the two person corridors, into the two person bedroom with the two person bed, then back through into the two person kitchen with the two person dinner table. He found a small calendar in the kitchen, by the window and flicked it back to the beginning. He remembered this calendar, too. It was old now, though. 1998. They'd got it not long after they'd moved in, and it wasn't long after they'd moved in that the media had started to poke around in their private lives.

He sighed as he flicked through it, looking at the different dates that had been marked off. He frowned when he got to October and saw the small note written in the 17th box. 'He's gone.'

Draco was still for a while, then simply shook his head and turned the calendar back to August. It was a year old so the dates were wrong but Draco found the Tuesday nearest to today's date and circled it with a finger. What he wouldn't give for a pen so he could flip back to Harry's last entry and add 'And you didn't follow.'

Harry, I'm leaving.

Silence…

Draco sat in one of the old chairs for a while just staring blankly at the painting on the wall. He used to love that painting, the way the colours and the look in the painted lovers' eyes brought it to life. Now it, like the rest of the house, was dead and empty, void of any semblance of the life it had once been so full of. He started when his watch went off, alerting him to the time. 4:30. Time had escaped him and he wondered if he shouldn't be getting home before it started to get dark. He pushed himself up and gave the room a last look over.

He was aware of a noise outside by the path and smiled as he remembered the old tom cat that used to come to them for scraps. They'd 'adopted' it and named him Chestnut and Draco wondered if maybe the animal had come back. He made his way to the back door and forced it open. The ivy vines had grown across it and the hinges were covered in rust, but he managed to open it enough that he could slide out without getting stuck.

There was no cat when he looked, but he saw the Amaryllis and felt a small pang of…. something in his gut. He'd almost forgotten what they looked like. Beautiful flowers, really. It was a shame the garden was now so bare. The rose bushes were still blooming and the stream still flowing, but the beds had died out and the grass looked as if nobody had been near it for months. He really didn't have the time to stay… but now that he was out here he didn't want to go. He'd loved this garden, and he didn't even have one in London. Although bare and un-managed, the garden didn't feel empty. Not like the house, the house was a shell of something else… the garden was still the same garden.

Finally the lead weight that had been pressing down on his chest was gone and a genuine smile creased his face. He closed his eyes and all the old memories that he thought he'd lost came flooding back. The sunshine against his face, the sound of bird song, the soothing trickle of the stream as it made it's way to the river. All of these things were happy memories and suddenly any thought of Paris, or London or Harry was gone, drowned in a sea of colour, sounds and smells.

It didn't even matter anymore that it was 4:30. It didn't matter that the busses stopped running at five. It didn't matter if he missed the bus back to London, it didn't even matter if he had to spend the night here, sleeping under the stars. Because he was happy. For the first time since he'd left, he was happy.

With a contented sigh he made his way across the garden to the old rose arbour and sat on the bench, facing the stream.

He was home.