Harry fucking hated rain. And calling this weather rain would be putting it nicely. It was more like a fucking downpour of every wet weather substance there was. And Harry was having none of it today.

He was absolutely tired of the Ministry sending him the most hopeless Aurors of each new bunch. Just because he was Harry Potter didn't mean he could work miracles. Sure, he had survived the killing curse... twice. But that didn't mean he was some sort of supernatural being that could magically make these idiots Aurors. And the turn around rate? He only had four weeks. Because that was possible with these people that supposedly passed all their tests and whatnot. They may as well have been squibs, and Harry was fucking sick of it.

He was dying to get out of the rain, smashing about in the puddles was doing nothing for him today. If he was honest, he did quite like the sound it made, but it just wasn't having the same affect after his failure of a class. Honestly, who put these people through? Who told them they could be Aurors? He had doubted himself at some points in the training, and he had defeated the damn Dark Lord. These people... These people couldn't cast a decent Expelliarmus. And to make it even better, he truly could not decide who was the worst. Normally, in every bunch, there were one or two that were just really awful. Awful enough that even the other nitwits laughed at them. There was none of that here.

Today, though, he thought it may have been the young one, Harriet. She was a transfer from the US Aurors and had to go through training again, since they did things so differently across the pond. They also apparently passed everyone, because there was no way her brain stored anything except for her favourite colours of nail varnish. And she fucking loved him, too. Always pointing out that they had the same name and that they both had black hair and that they were almost twins and hahahahahahaha! She finished more sentences with giggles than actual words. She's apparently a very famous actor in the US, some Broadway performer who left a show about tap dancing newspaper boys to be an Auror. But the only thing Harry could think of was what he was doing at 17- fighting a war that saved the world- and what she was doing- failing to cast first year spells because somehow every word reminded her of a song.

As Harry continued stomping through the puddles, unfulfilled, he decided that today it was a tie between Harriet and Cheryl. Cheryl was the complete opposite of Harriet... she was about twice as old as Harry, and she looked at him in such a way that he often had to check if he had clothes on. She was definitely fit, but, if Harry was honest with himself, he hadn't played on her team in quite a few years. It didn't help that he blushed easily, either, because whenever she would rake her eyes over him and see the blush that took over his whole body, she would smirk. She definitely knew how un-comfortable she made him, and she seemed to enjoy it. The only thing that she had over Harriet, and the rest of the group, is that she's actually pretty decent with spells and charms. It's her unprofessional behaviour and her case strategy that need work. Okay, mostly her behaviour.

Harry was so busy ranting in his head that he hadn't realised where his puddle-sloshing had taken him. He was standing on a corner in Muggle London, just a few blocks away from Malfoy's pub. He hadn't been in for a few days, not since his first day with the new group. He'd been trying to stay away, feeling like too much of a grown up to resort back to his old Malfoy-stalking tactics. Only this time, he'd used someone else's skin instead of the invisibility cloak... and he honestly wasn't sure which was worse. Merlin.

There he was, standing on the corner and staring in the direction of the pub. He wanted to go in. He wanted to go in badly, and he cursed himself for not bringing along Polyjuice to work that day. But truly, the last thing he needed was the Ministry to do a random security check that day and find the 'Great Harry Potter' toting around a vial of Polyjuice and some poor bloke's hair. The good news was that he was wearing Muggle clothes... he liked them best under his Auror robes, they were most comfortable. Wizard robes and clothing were still a little foreign to Harry. Too many unnecessary buttons and zippers and doo-dads. But could he really stroll into the pub, as himself? Would Malfoy hex him? He took a step closer, the temptation to witness Malfoy's reaction too great. He wondered, though, could he be himself? Would Malfoy recognise his personality as Taylor's? He took a step back, tugging at his sopping hair, torn. He lifted a hand to scrub at his face, drying it, and when his hand landed back at his side, he had decided.

His first few steps were hesitant, but the momentum soon followed. He cast a wandless drying charm on himself and pulled up the collar on his jacket for the last few blocks. Now it would appear that he had taken just a short walk to get to the pub... no need to look like a drowned rat. Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, realising that he was sort of primping for Draco Malfoy. Annoyed, he shoved his hands in his pockets, splashing in puddles for the last block. He reached the pub faster than he wanted to, gave his hair a quick shake, and pushed open the door, scowling. He was already second-guessing his decision to stop in as himself. He took off his jacket as he walked towards the bar, noticing that the woman with the dark hair was there again. He almost gave her a wave before remembering that she wouldn't have a clue in the slightest who he was. He selected a seat close to the woman, dropping his jacket in between them as he pulled up a stool. There was no one behind the counter. What if he wasn't in today? After Harry finally got the momentary bravery to come in as himself... he sighed, scrubbing at his face again. It didn't matter. It didn't, because no matter who was working, Harry really needed a drink. If it was Malfoy, he would probably need two.

He must've made a noise, because the woman looked over at him, her head cocked in concern.

"S-sorry..."

"Don't be, love!"

She didn't sound the same as she had the other day. Actually, Harry couldn't quite remember what she'd sounded like at all. She must have spoken in front of him before. Had he really been so concentrated on Malfoy and his tattoos that he had tuned her out? He didn't like that possibility.

"I don't mean to be nosy, but I've not seen you in here before, and I'm in here nearly every day. Are you a friend of Draco's? You do look like his type."

Harry heard a crash from the room behind the bar, and then:

"Carol! Don't be trying to set me up while I'm doing you a favour, you bloody bint!"

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it, the whole thing was just so preposterous. Malfoy working in a pub, doing someone a favour, yelling at customers.

"Never you mind, Draco, dear! He is just your type! Dark hair, even if it is a tad messy... and bright eyes!"

Harry swallowed, and it felt like tacks. How could he not have known? Malfoy is gay...? And suddenly, it all made sense, his memories of Malfoy playing in front of him like some bizarre film. The only girl that had ever paid any attention to him in school was Pansy, and they'd known each other since birth; one of those creepy pureblood arranged friendships that everyone hoped turned into marriage. And now that he thought about it, he did recall seeing an article or two in the Daily Prophet over the years, linking him to various men. Saying horrible things, actually, that he was disgracing the Malfoy name, that it was a good thing his father wasn't alive to see this. At the time Harry was just relieved that the news wasn't on him for a change. Of course, it never lasted very long. But Merlin, did it make sense. Malfoy is gay.

No sooner than Harry could finish his thought did he hear footsteps coming from the back room. They seemed to get louder with every step, and Harry felt like his heart had started to beat in time. Step-thud, step-thud, step-slam. And Harry definitely had not given a single butterfly permission to throw a party in his stomach, and he'd definitely not given them permission to slam dance at said party. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to keep a drink down. Step-thud, step-thud.

"Christ, Carol, this box is heavy! You best appreciate this. And it's also in your best interest to be telling the truth about this man out here. I know how you love to blow things out of proportion."

Harry watched as Malfoy but the box down on the bar, right in between Carol and himself. Merlin, it was strange to be this close to him in his own skin. It was so strange, and Harry couldn't pin why it was so different, but it was. Perhaps it was more of a risk? Whatever it was, it fascinated him. He watched as Malfoy slid Carol a 40 of Guinness, barely hearing the insult he slid along with it over his heart beating in his ears.

"And now I can focus on... you."

He watched Malfoy turn, and it was like it was in slow motion. He had this smile on his face, a real smile, and his eyes were all bright and weird, and Godric, he was smouldering at Harry. And then it was gone as soon as it had appeared, the smile warped into a smirk that was still so familiar, despite its five year absence from Harry's life. The brightness gone from those grey eyes and replaced with their usual storm.

"I told you, Draco. Just your type."

Harry saw Carol take a sip out of her beer, an I-Told-You-So expression taking over her features, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"His name's- actually, dear you never did tell me your name. Someone rudely interrupted us, didn't they? She glared at Malfoy, teasing him with her eyes. But he wasn't looking.

Harry tore his eyes from Malfoy's, smiling politely at Carol.

"I'm-"

"His name is Harry."

He almost spat the words, his voice so cold that Harry nearly shivered.

"Goodness, Draco, you are quite the interrupter today. You two know each other? So I was right, then, about him being your type? Oh my, you don't look pleased to see him... He broke your heart, yeah? Cause he is most certainly your-"

"Carol, if you say that he is my type one more time I will bludgeon you to death with that beer."

Carol visibly flinched, and Harry was willing to bet that she had never heard Draco make such a real threat before. What he'd witnessed of their relationship the few times he'd been in, it had seemed like playful banter. She recovered quickly though, and set about breaking the ice. Harry began to admire her bravery, because even though this was a challenge he'd faced a thousand times over the years, he was about to bolt.

"So, how do you two know each other then?"

The question was directed at Draco, who was still staring daggers at Harry. Desperate to not fuck this up, Harry jumped in.

"We went to school together."

"Oh, the mysterious boarding school in Scotland! Did you like it as much as Draco did?"

Harry smiled, genuinely pleased that, after everything, Draco found positive words for the school that Harry loved so much.

"I would say even more than he did, actually."

Draco snorted. "Jesus, Potter, is it always a competition with you?"

Harry smiled, because this was somehow better than what he'd expected. It felt almost natural that the first thing Malfoy said to him was a sort of insult. And it would be so easy to fall back into the pattern of hating Malfoy, and tossing insults back and forth... but he was so interested in what he'd uncovered already. Draco was willing to talk to Taylor, but Harry got Malfoy. Two sides of the same man, and now all Harry wanted was to find out which was the real Draco Malfoy. Tragic, really.

"Honestly, I just never knew that you actually liked school. Quite the surprise."

Malfoy blinked. He was clearly taken aback by Harry's civility. Which was completely fair, since he was pretty sure that he had never displayed it to Malfoy. At least, not that Malfoy was aware of. Harry instantly flashed back to all the meetings he'd had with the Wizengamot, the secret testimonies he'd given for the Malfoy family. He'd saved two out of three Malfoys, and that was enough for him. And as far as he knew, Draco had no idea.

"So are you drinking, or are you just here to annoy me?"

"Drinking. It's been a shit day."

"Right. Well, what'll it be, Saviour?"

"I don't know. Surprise me."

"How did I know you'd be difficult?"

"I'm not being difficult, I just don't know what I want to drink."

"It's not a hard choice, Potter."

"You're the bartender, isn't it your job to-"

"Boys!"

Carol's voice cut through the banter, sending Harry right back to his school days, a voice that was part Hermione and part McGonagall lecturing him in a very similar way. He looked from Carol to Malfoy, the absurdity of the whole thing making him want to giggle uncomfortably, but knowing Malfoy would somehow make it into something offensive if he did. He settled for a happy sigh instead, a shy smile taking over. Merlin, he felt weird.

"Right, just some scotch, then."

"On the rocks, or-"

"Draco, don't make this more complicated than it already is."

"Right. Right."

The tension was palpable. Harry wondered what Carol must be thinking right now. Just from the few times they'd met, he definitely got the sense that she was a bit of a gossip, but in the endearing sort of way.

"You called me Draco."

Harry stilled. Fuck, he had called him Draco. His few days as Taylor had landed him on that name. That was the name he'd introduced himself as, and it had just stuck. But that was Draco, and this was Malfoy. Fuck, Harry was so confused. He knew Draco... Malfoy, whomever, was a Gemini, and they're supposed to be two-faced, or two-sided, or what-the-fuck-ever. Not that he was well versed in astrology, it was a little too Trelawney for him, but he'd picked up a few things. It's Hermione's guilty pleasure. Which still amuses Harry to this day, since Divination is about the only thing that 'Mione is pants at.

"Er, yeah, that's uh... that's your name, so...?"

And then, a most miraculous thing happened. Draco laughed. A real laugh, not the bitter, cruel laugh he'd heard before. And years from now, when Harry would look back on this moment, it would be the moment he realised that he was well and truly fucked. Because he had made Draco Malfoy laugh, and the second it was over, he just wanted to do it again. And then maybe another time after that.

"I do know that, thank you. You've just never used my given name before."

"Well... I've never... Haven't seen you since..."

Harry accepted his drink from Draco gratefully, sipping it immediately, a welcome burn sliding down his throat as he drained a third of the glass easily. He chanced a glance at his bartender, whose eyes were maybe starting to sparkle again, one perfect eyebrow arched.

"Easy there, Potter, it's not that bad."

Harry had to agree. In fact, he couldn't quite remember why he had felt so desperate for a drink on his way over. Surely it wasn't that bad. Not as bad as the goddamn butterflies in his stomach popping champagne bottles, the corks slamming into the sides of his stomach; his heart the speaker of the party, the bass booming. As he sat there, he couldn't help but wonder where the fuck he would go from here. Five years had gone by, a war was behind them, he had used Draco's given name, Draco worked in a Muggle pub, he had made him laugh, and he was gay. Carol had pretty much spelled it out, and apparently he was just Draco's type. This information was not good news. It wasn't, not at all. It made Harry feel sick to his stomach, dizzy, nauseous, feverish. Angry even, like he was going to do something completely reckless, cast a spell on Carol just because he could, exposing wizards to Muggles. That was definitely his reaction. For sure.

Harry raised the glass to his lips, draining the rest of the scotch in one go. He snuck a glance at Draco over the glass' rim, watched his long fingers scratch mindlessly at his wrist. He wanted to ask about his tattoos, as himself, and see what his reaction would be. He wanted to ask why he got a job, and why this job. Wanted to know where he lived, did he still talk to any of his school friends, how was his mother, what was his drink of choice? He had a million and one questions and not a clue how to begin.

He sighed inwardly, watching the Draco's adam's apple bob as he had a sip of water. His eyes traveled down his throat, and nope, he definitely didn't want to graze it with his teeth, not at all. And whatever that tattoo was on his clavicle, peeking out of his shirt, taunting him, that definitely wasn't attractive, and he definitely did not want to trace the ink with his tongue. Not. At. All.

"Potter. You're staring."

And he was, he totally was, and he was blushing too, he could feel himself flush. Cheryl would be so pleased. Harry wondered if she would make Draco blush, too. But he didn't imagine how the blond would look all flushed, and he definitely didn't wonder if the blush would stain just his cheeks, or if it would spread across his clavicle, and whatever those tattoos were, and maybe even farther down.

Godric, he was so, so fucked.

He hoped.

~xxx~X~xxx~