A/N: I thought this would be fun to update since it hasn't been done in a while and I was in the mood for something short and sweet.
NO ROMANCE - HARRY AND DRACO INTERACTION - DRACO POV - mentions subtle hints of suicide, but not much. ENJOY!
How had he been reduced to this? He gave a sick-sounding cough and winced; it was his first cigarette and, thus far, he couldn't see the appeal. Still, he'd needed something, and Merlin knew alcohol was simply out of the question; he could never stand to act so lowly.
Then again, here he was, Draco Malfoy, in the middle of Muggle London, smoking a disgusting cigarette. Clearly, his operational definition of "lowly" had changed over the last few months, but where?
After Potter had, predictably, won the Final Battle, Draco had found that he was unsure of what to do. With his father dead and his mother, quite frankly, insane, he had no one left to give him orders. Saved only by Potter's testimony at the trials, the Slytherin students had been given a second chance, free of their Death Eater parents and their dark ways. Potter, being overly noble, had not used those exact terms, but the intent had been clear.
Still, the other Slytherins had found themselves in a similar position to Draco, but, unlike Draco, they had someone to turn to—Draco, of course. He had been their leader; surely he must know what to do now? But no, he was not too proud to admit that, at that time, he hadn't had the answers.
And, smoking a cigarette here in London, he still didn't.
He had forced himself to finish the school year, passing his NEWTS with not-stunning marks, and disappeared from the Wizarding World without a trace. He had enough money in his trust fund—his parents' vaults had been confiscated by the Ministry, of course—to last him quite a while in the Muggle world, but he hadn't known how to live on his own—in the Wizarding World or here.
But now, two years later, he just didn't want to do it anymore. In the Wizarding World, he was a pariah. The rest of Slytherin had found their places—they had either wizened up or gone back to the Dark ways. They were productive members of society or wasting away in Azkaban, respectively. But Draco Malfoy would forever be remembered as the son of Voldemort's right-hand man. The Malfoy heritage and wealth had always made them unpopular in public.
Add to that the attitude they'd adopted over the last few decades and their affiliation with the Dark Arts and it was not likely that Draco Malfoy would last long without a brick being shot at his head.
And in the Muggle World? No one knew him; it was not a feeling he was accustomed to. Suddenly he was reminded of the question Severus had once asked him before his godfather's death—would you rather be hated or ignored? Draco now knew which he preferred, but he didn't fancy dealing with either.
Maybe that was why he was here, smoking a cigarette on the corner of some no-name street in Muggle London. He knew where his life was headed anyways—why not help it along? He could do it anytime, take a step into the street, trip down the stairs to the Underground…but when push came to shove, he was too much of a coward.
And that was why he was here, smoking a cigarette on the corner of some no-name street in Muggle London. Because he was scared.
He was scared of the spite in the Wizarding World. Scared of the anonymity of the Muggle World. Scared to actually end it. So he complained to himself, knowing he'd never do a damn thing about it.
Of course, when all hope seems lost, when everyone seems to have given up and the last light is flickering at its edge…that's when Harry "Boy-Who-Lived-Twice" Potter has to step in and save the day—or Draco Malfoy—from unspeakable evil and death.
"Really, Malfoy? I imagined you dying in a somewhat…dramatic fashion." Draco forced his eyes from his own shiny black shoes to Potter's, giving the man a classic once-over. He was surprised to note that, despite the lack of style the boy had displayed as a student, he'd grown into an apt dresser. Even his hair seemed under control, though just barely, and the usual glasses were gone.
But the scar—the scar gave him away from being just another guy on the street.
"Funny, I imagined you dying a lot at Hogwarts, some of them dramatic. And what's not dramatic about smoking away the day, wallowing in self-pity, Potter?" He had begun with the closest thing he could get to a witty retort—a lack of social company in the Muggle World had certainly taken its toll on his repertoire—and ended with an empty challenge. Mock me, he mentally dared his childhood rival. Start a fight like we used to… Anything to remind him of better days.
"I guess I imagined a tragic Quidditch accident with hundreds of girls falling to their knees in despair; a classy funeral with hundreds of pictures of you, all proclaiming your awesomeness." He said it in such a deadpan tone, Draco almost laughed. When he remembered who he was talking to, though, he sobered up rather quickly, dropping the cigarette and extinguishing it with his foot.
"I believe tragic Quidditch accidents were always more your style, Potter. I had a little more grace and finesse on a broomstick." He didn't miss the smirk Potter returned, no doubt remembering all the times that, despite Draco's supposed "finesse and grace", he'd never managed to best the Gryffindor in catching the snitch.
"If I had a drink, I would drink to that, Malfoy," he said with a chuckle before the smile dropped. "Look, Malfoy…"
"Save it, Potter." The ex-Gryffindor's eyebrows knitted together and Draco found that he was being interrupted this time.
"No, I get to say something first. You don't owe me anything, but I'm asking you a favor—don't waste what you've got on something as stupid as this." Here, Draco's eyes shot open in shock; Potter actually looked like he was pleading with Draco to hear what he was saying.
"And what have I got, exactly?"
"Freedom. And choices. And it looks like some of the ones you've been making are the wrong ones, but you've still got time to change that." Here, he straightened himself up and took a step back. "I've got to get to work—would you believe I'm a Muggle lawyer now? I defend people that don't have the money to do it themselves; of course, I always make sure they're innocent first…" He gave a classic dopey smile; clearly, growing up had not made him any less of a child on the inside.
"Because I care, Potter," Draco shot back, though secretly he did. How had Potter been living here long enough to become a lawyer, and without him having heard about it? But Potter, Merlin damn him, was very classy despite Draco's rudeness.
"You probably don't, but if you did…" And Draco noticed a flick in Potter's right hand and felt something slip into his pocket beside his hand. "See you around, Malfoy."
And he was gone before Draco could have uttered a response, which he wouldn't have. Somehow, Potter probably knew that.
From his pocket, he withdrew a small white rectangle with Harry J. Potter written across the top in dramatically classy script—his business card. On the back was only a few words, but they made Draco begrudgingly grin; maybe he would see Potter around.
Don't smoke; there are way cooler ways to die.
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