XVII.

It seemed surreal, simply unimaginable, unfathomable. The restaurant seemed to fall quiet as they entered, something heavy settling between Harry and Draco and the rest of the patrons. The silence, very slowly, crumbled and gave way to something far more chilling: murmuring.

The crowd was unified, muttering, shifting, whispering. They looked at Harry and Draco from the corners of their eyes, judgement seeping from them into the air, lingering like a strong perfume.

"Shit," Harry managed, under his breath. He'd forgotten the article. He'd just wanted some neutral ground, something that would let him talk to Draco in a way that was not professional—as in his office—and not overly personal—as… in his office.

Merlin, it was all jumbled.

The hiss of conversation slowly faded back into something that seemed more relaxed, not outwardly directed at him, and Harry felt Draco nudge him into motion. It was a moment that Harry literally felt jump through him, that brush of a hand against the small of his back, the whispered "your turn, Potter," that reminded him where he was.

Harry slammed his hand in front of the hostess who waited, shrewd eyes taking in every nuance of their interaction. It felt like torture, to Harry, because he had no idea what she might be thinking.

"I need a table," he said. "For two."

She looked at him for a few seconds, time dragging on, viscous, and then she glared at Draco.

"Are you together?"

Harry exploded. "Just because we're out for dinner does not mean we're together. Don't believe everything you read in the paper!" His voice soared, echoing in the small, dark room. "The gossiping is a personal attack on my person. I am far more than a figure for you to analyze. None of you know who I am, at least not truly." He swallowed against the bitterness that rose in his throat. "Why are we here? Draco, let's go."

And then, through the haze of anger that had spurred him to yell so rudely, Harry turned on his heel, grabbing Draco by the elbow, and all but dragged him out.

Sounding like he was enjoying himself far too much, Draco had the nerve to interject, just as they were slipping through the doors and back into the calmer, quieter outside.

"But yes, we were going to sit together. He's just a little bit tense."

The door slammed shut behind them. Harry sat on the curb, staring down at the dirty road, the cracked asphalt, and the trails of dust that ran along its length. He wanted to snap his wand and move to Canada or something.

"That was unexpected," Draco said neutrally.

"Don't start." Harry answered. "You are not qualified to analyze me."

"More than they were, and you let them."

"Let them? If I let the press abuse me, then you let Voldemort exploit you."

Draco sat down heavily beside him, smoothing his robes beneath him. "That was unfair, Potter."

"Life is unfair."

"It is if you act like a toddler," Draco said, but wisely fell silent after that observation.

Harry did not have the same common sense. "I'm not a toddler."

It was almost an offence that Draco didn't laugh. He did, however, say, "Enough sitting here. I'm beginning to feel bad for myself."

"I'm sorry. It's been a long week."

"I know, Potter." There was only the sound of their breathing for a second. "How would you like to go to a muggle restaurant?"

Harry could not turn his head fast enough. Draco rolled his eyes so quickly that Harry almost didn't catch it. They exchanged small smiles.

"Muggles aren't so bad, you know, Potter. Don't be a bigot."

They ended up in a part of London that Harry had never visited, not so shockingly. However, the way with which Draco manoeuvred himself—knowing the nearest apparition point so they could side-along, knowing to transfigure their clothes into something lighter that they could carry, the list went on—was really transformative. Harry had to remind himself a few times that Draco, at least where they were right then, was not his patient. Hermione's reprimands rang in his mind, but he did not pay them any attention, falling into step behind Draco.

"Imitation ethic food is to be taken very seriously, Potter," Draco chided as they looked over their menus.

Harry only knew that they were somewhere that smelled spicy. His mouth practically watered, his hunger making itself known with no room for doubt.

"Of course. This is of upmost authenticity—haven't you seen the pizza they also offer?"

Draco laughed quietly and Harry beamed, warmth bubbling inside of him at having elicited that response.

"We're either going to agree on what to eat or disagree completely," Draco said, ever the conversationalist. "Which do you reckon it's going to be?"

"I think it depends on how soon you start digging into my private life." Harry took a sip of his water. "I hope you know you're outmatched."

"We'll see," Malfoy sipped his water as well, looking over the rim at Harry with wide, wicked eyes.

They both ended up ordering everything at once, Harry looking for spice and adventure. In for a knut, in for a galleon and all of that. He wanted to make the most of the unusual experience. For moments, he could swear that he was just having a strangely elaborate dream?

Draco went for a safer route, though Harry noticed that he seemed well-versed, practiced. He knew what to say when the waitress asked him, and Harry watched his comfortable exchange with interest.

He only noticed he was staring when Draco asked, "Do I have something on my face?"

"No," Harry said quickly. "I was just… wondering… if… oh, Draco, look. Those men over there are wizards, too!"

It was a wild guess based on intuition, nothing more, and the comment was forgotten the moment he looked back to Draco, who raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Then I hope they have a spell to fix your abysmal poker face," he mocked.

"What?" Harry said, not convincing even himself in the innocent act. "Er…" he scrambled for a topic. "Have you been following the quidditch season?"

"Potter, it's the middle of the summer."

Harry coughed. "Right. How about last year?"

"It wasn't really accessible to me, considering I was in France."

"Do they have their own quiddtich league?"

"Potter, the fact that we are not on the continent does not excuse that horrifically narrow knowledge of the wizard world."

"Remember that I didn't grow up like you did. But if you didn't follow quidditch, what did you do?"

Draco thought for a moment, resting his cheek on a palm and leaning an elbow against the table. It had the effect of bringing them a little closer, setting some warning signal off in Harry's head.

"I saw all the attractions for a while."

"The Eiffel Tower?"

"Ten points for basic geography."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know the muggle side of Paris."

"I didn't much interact with any other side. I did, however, catch up on some reading. I was woefully behind on my perusal of muggle classics."

That the interest even existed was a surprise to Harry. "What have you been reading?"

"Camus, but I don't expect you to be cultured enough to have heard of him. I rather sympathized, for some time. I was lucky to read it when I was younger. My governess had a taste for existentialism."

These were all words Harry hadn't known Draco had the capacity to process. He could do little more than blink in response.

"Now," Draco continued, ignoring Harry's crisis, "I read it in French. L'Étranger. Rather fitting, don't you think? Can be translated as 'The Outsider' or 'The Stranger'."

And wasn't Draco both? Harry considered it for a moment. Outsider to the muggle world but suddenly a stranger to the wizarding world. Or perhaps the opposite, but they were not one and the same.

He didn't push it. "What else have you read?"

Their food arrived as Draco considered it.

"Some Shakespeare, but nothing revolutionary."

"Do you understand the context of the stories?"

"As though you would!"

Harry thought he had a point there.

Draco continued. "It's interesting how similar muggle and wizarding history are. They're… different sides of the same coin."

Point for Harry. So Malfoy was the bookish type. Harry was intrigued.

Professionally, of course.

"Did you follow quidditch?" Draco asked after a longer silence, both of them beginning to eat. Harry's mouth burned red-hot and he knew better than to drink any water in attempt to quell the fire on his lips.

"I did for some time, but not as much as I did when I was younger. I can never go to the games."

"Too popular, are you?" Draco asked. He raised his glass of water with a corner of his lips, smirking. "Here's to our Saviour."

Harry scowled. "That's enough."

He couldn't help staring as Draco took a tiny sip of water and immediately returned to his food, thin fingers holding the fork and knife with great precision.

"You really are sensitive about that, aren't you? Hmm. How is it now that everyone knows…" Draco's eyes darted around at the people around them. "you know what?"

Harry fixed him with the coldest glare he could muster, but softened as Draco's casual tone sank in. If Draco Malfoy could sit across a table with him at a muggle restaurant and ask about his homosexuality like it was nothing, Harry could treat it as such as well. Or at least he could try.

"I've not really thought about it. Hermione and Ron don't seem to be too shocked or disappointed. I have to see about the Weasleys. As long as I'm left mostly out of the papers, I'll be all right."

"You have to understand how enormous this story is, though," Draco said. "You are an icon, now."

"I haven't officially confirmed anything," Harry felt nervousness settle over him, causing the spice to burn more than usual on its way down.

"You're rather private," Draco said. At Harry's look, he continued, "It's simply surprising after imagining for so long that you loved the spotlight."

"I wish, if I had to be so famous, that I could be famous for actually doing something."

"You killed Voldemort."

"It's not like I didn't die, too. I just, er, happened to come back."

"What the bleeding fuck does that mean?" Draco dropped every facade of decorum for outright shock, voice rising. "You died?"

Harry, belatedly, realized what he'd said. "Yes, well, I died in the forest, but I chose to keep living."

"Of course you did. That's who you are. The Boy Who Lived."

"It could have been anyone." Harry said.

"I think it had to be you."

"Then why does everyone ignore me, now?"

"Wait, aren't you arguing that you didn't want attention?"

"You don't understand." Harry poked at his chicken, petulant. "I don't want killing Voldemort to be the action that defines me. I'm not proud of everything I had to do. I regret a lot. I survived, yes, but I've done so much after that. None of that matters, though, when you're first on the list of most eligible bachelors in four different magazines."

Point for Draco. Harry hadn't even known most of what he'd said before he'd said it. No one had ever asked him in that way, led him to the truth.

He poked more vigorously with his fork, taking his frustration out on the food.

"Now you've done a great thing. You've given a lot of gay witches and wizards someone to look up to. I think that's very important."

Was it Harry, or was there some wistfulness to that tone?

Harry, very slyly, tried to ease back into the conversation.

"Thank you, Draco. I'll have to sort it out, make the best of it. Now that it's out, the hard part is done—I still don't know who did it…"

"They shouldn't be hard to find. Are you still being threatened?"

Angry at having lost his opportunity to steer the conversation away from himself, Harry shrugged brusquely. "Yes."

Draco frowned at his half-full plate. "Do you think they might be connected?"

"I think that I'm going to focus on the good things, not the parts that worry me. I've had enough threat of death, you know?"

Draco nodded. "I know. Do you ever worry about falling asleep alone—unless…"

"Unless nothing. I don't have a partner." Harry cleared his throat. "Second, I worry about my family and friends, but not myself. I hope not to have made anyone a target."

Point to Draco, unfortunately enough.

Draco looked at him thoughtfully, fork slipping between his teeth and then back with a distant air.

"Your ability to leave a mark on people is really quite remarkable," he finally said. Harry only barely managing to keep his lips pressed together to avoid spraying Draco with food.

He swallowed. "Sorry?" Immediately, his mind raced: compliment? Reference to the sectumsempra?

"I mean: targets or not, your friends have been with you throughout everything. Even through… what's happened in the press." Draco patted his lips with the napkin, folding it with great care in order to avoid Harry's questioning look.

Luckily, Harry thought back to what he'd wanted to say earlier. "Do you think your friends would react adversely to an admission like mine?"

"I would first have to have friends."

Harry thought he was right about that one. A point for Harry, though his heart sank.

"What about those muggles you were friends with? In France."

Waving his hand in the air in a dismissive motion, Draco looked up to Harry. "No one has ever wanted to know me well enough to get there."

Harry told himself that what Draco had said was not an admission of sexual orientation sympathetic with Harry's, but that impression still stuck with him.

For some reason, the thought of that was simply too exciting. Harry's hand clenched and unclenched below the table and he leaned forward, squeezing the air between them out of the way.

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. "The men I was with, though," he said, leaning back, "they knew me well enough."

Harry froze, mind running furiously. Point for Harry? Point for Draco? It was hard to keep track when his mind was at a standstill, unmoving.

The riotous laughter, impossible to predict, that came forth from Draco pierced straight through Harry. The whole world could hear it, surely, hear how light it was. Harry's mind went completely blank, void of any kind of intelligent thought.

He just wanted to know what it felt like to consistently make Draco laugh, when doing it once made him feel ecstatic. He wanted to feel Draco's happiness, know that all of his guilt and grief was finally put behind him. He wanted to melt the ice around Draco's heart. He wanted it all.

Harry stood suddenly. "Excuse me," he whispered. "I won't be a minute."

When he returned, slightly more composed, Harry tried to focus on his food. The challenge was forgotten because he knew that if he got any more involved in Draco, he would go mad.

Merlin, Draco had always managed to rip common sense away from him.

When the silence seemed to drag on for too long, Harry asked, "Are you living in a new house?"

It seemed to interest Draco, thankfully, and he started on a short story. Malfoy Manor, obviously, was off limits for him, but he'd used some family magic to redecorate the new house in the family style, as he put it.

He described the intricate spells needed to redesign the house's facade, the hours he'd put into recreating one of the family homes, one that Harry wasn't familiar with. He told Harry about buying the house on a whim, moving all of his belongings from France in one trans-EU portkey trip and about his satisfaction with the results.

"It does have a charm to it," Harry murmured.

Caught up in the storytelling as he was, he almost missed the essential detail. Magic.

"How does the magic feel? You seem comfortable, now."

Hands folded on his stomach, leaning back on his chair, Draco gave him a small smile. "Powerful," he said. Then, smile fading, he continued, "After losing control in Azkaban, I've been putting my energy into productive endeavours. It's seemed to help."

Harry nodded. "Good decision. I'm sorry for the things that happened. He said dreadful—"

"Never mind my father. He's always been like that. I was simply—like he said—not in control of myself, as I should have been."

Harry found the opportunity too sweet to miss. "Will you visit your mother?"

Draco shrugged quickly, as though expecting the question. "We'll see," he said.

Right at the tip of his tongue lay the invitation to return to Azkaban, but Harry squashed it before the words could form, reminding himself that Draco would find it strange if Harry was quite so obvious about his obsession. He had to be subtler.

Then, in that moment, it hit him that he was enjoying himself. Mind games aside, his relationship with Draco had been personal from the beginning, but never before had Harry felt content in Draco's company. Normally, they were at each other's throats within seconds or else stuck with a desk between them in Harry's office.

They hadn't even been drinking alcohol.

It was all too much for Harry to realize at once, but the food was sitting in his stomach and the conversation was interesting, if something of a power struggle.

He was enjoying himself.

Harry was not playing a role. He was not being scrutinized. Draco was safe. It was futile to try and remind himself that Draco was potentially dangerous, especially with how good he looked without his robes on, just a simple shirt on and a satiated smile dancing on his lips.

He was staring again.

Feeling his throat go dry, Harry took a sip of water only to find that his hands were shaking. He was grinning.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked, causing Harry to wonder how long he'd been stuck in his revelations.

"Yes," Harry said, a touch breathlessly. "I'm brilliant."

Draco rolled his eyes. The good-natured mood seemed to grow tenser and tenser, like a string being tightened, and as they ate their dinner, the conversation dwindled. Something about his posture seemed to give way at one point, and Harry felt his chest constrict.

"What happened, Draco?" he finally asked.

The blond looked straight at him, eyes lifeless. "I'm sure you've remembered what your plans are after the dinner. Worry not! We're finished here."

Draco stood, removing the napkin from his lap and depositing it on the table gracefully. Harry, on the other hand, stood so suddenly that the chair went crashing to the floor. He ignored it in favour of running after Draco, who was walking to the door.

"Don't make a scene," Draco hissed when Harry caught him by the wrist and pulled, forcing him to turn back. But Harry wasn't paying any attention to the people around them. In that moment, the single most important thing in the world was keeping Draco with him.

"What happened?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Your self-imposed torture ended, Potter. I took enough of your time."

Sarcasm dripped from his words. Harry was dizzy.

"I don't understand." Draco twisted from his grip, moving to the door again. Harry all but ran after him, knocking an arm into a woman who was watching the scene and managing a hasty apology. "Draco!"

The door opened and Draco stood for a moment, silent, looking over his shoulder. Harry saw the scene behind him a split second before Draco did, the light from the street outlining Draco's figure.

The street performer—juggling fire—dropped his batons when Harry tackled Draco onto the street, diving at him and making them both roll along the pavement.

"Potter, get off me!" Draco shouted into his ear. Harry kept his grip tight, tangled in some fabric. He pushed them over, over, over, rolling into the crowd, but somehow they couldn't seem to stop.

Harry pressed himself against Draco, pinning him to the ground, about to tell him what he was going to see—because that was of vital, immediate importance—when Draco shifted his weight and caused Harry to go tumbling again. Draco was pulled down with him, shouts leaving both of them with twin anger and desperation.

The food he'd just eaten rose in Harry's throat, but he had to warn Draco.

"Fire!" he shouted, trying to explain.

Pain exploded along his cheekbone. A punch. Blindly, he swung back, connecting with something that wasn't as hard as cheek. Draco grabbed him around the wrist before he knew what was happening, twisting until pain splintered through him.

"Don't taunt me!" Draco shouted. "You have no right!"

"I wasn't!"

"I don't want pity, Potter." Draco was seething, grip tight around Harry's wrist.

Harry tried to catch his breath, but it was impossible with Draco so close to him. He needed to do something—to hit him back, to explain it to him, or to… to… shut him up somehow.

"There was a…" Harry groaned as Draco pushed his weight against Harry's chest. "A man. A juggler. Fire."

The pressure suddenly removed itself and Harry could breathe, but then he couldn't because Draco was pulling him up, slamming him into a wall, and pressing the tip of his wand against Harry's chest. The wand was not visible to the muggle public, which had congregated to form a nice group around them.

"Say it one more time and you will regret it."

"I was protecting you," Harry said, strength left in him yet. A wand wasn't heavy like a body, though the risk it carried was far greater. Still, Harry thought he knew Draco. He wouldn't be able to hex him—not seriously. The gamble was still dangerous.

"I didn't want you to be triggered."

Harry realized how out of line he had been with a heavy certainty. Where had all of his training gone?

One didn't simply tackle a patient.

Words, words, words. They were the most important tool.

Harry couldn't believe himself.

Silence stretched on.

Draco's face went through a few changes, twisting. "I don't need your protection. I don't want your pity. I don't need anything from you, or have you forgotten? I'm not a pet project, Harry, you cannot treat me like a child. Even the Saviour can't save everyone. You will not be my hero. I promise that you won't have to see any more of me. It was all a mistake."

The wand was lowered, Draco's face drawing tantalizingly closer and then he turned away and disappeared around the next corner.

Harry didn't follow him. Harry didn't dare remind him of the two remaining sessions.

Without further comment to the crowd, Harry returned to the restaurant, paid, and then took a long walk through the winding streets, taking random left and right turns until he was sufficiently lost—physically and in thought.

He expected to feel hurt. He expected disappointment, failure, but when it refused to hit him, Harry realized that it was something bigger than Draco thought. It wasn't some hero complex, not some latent wish to be friends with Draco, not pity.

It was not obligation.

It was desire that boiled inside of him. It was madness.