Draco gazed down at Potter's stupefied body with muted dismay.

"I had it handled," he told Astor, who was still poised in fighting stance with wand outstretched on the side of the door. He hadn't heard Astor approach so Potter, even with his so-called Auror hyper reflexes, was taken completely unawares.

Astor relaxed at Draco's words and nodded.

"I know that," he said. "I just figured you could use a moment or two to… compose yourself."

Draco could taste some salt on his lip. But while his eyes were burning, he knew they were dry.

"I suppose," Draco said, allowing himself to really drink in Potter's appearance for the first time. Astor considerately levitated Potter's body from where it was sprawled over the threshold onto a nearby settee.

The first time seeing Potter in so many years. Besides the odd Prophet article photo here and there, occasionally foisted before him by Pansy during their biannual gossipy teas. What Draco saw surprised him.

This wasn't the Potter he remembered from after the war, underfed and traumatized.

This wasn't the Potter from the Prophet, upstanding if a little bedraggled appearing as always. Arm in the arm with the pregnant Weaselette in dress robes at a gala while campaigning for Minister.

When Pansy had told Draco Potter had married himself into the Weasley clan and knocked her up briskly, if not suspiciously, Draco had nodded and darkly murmured into his tea cup, "That seems suitable. And predictable."

A few years later, Pansy confided that Potter had had a catastrophically public meltdown and divorced the Weaselette, denouncing the Ministry and all his former responsibilities. This time Draco had paused and declared this, "Less predictable." And he had gently told Pansy to refrain from updating him on Potter's whereabouts.

"I never consented to this ceaseless and pointless subscription to Potter's comings and goings, Parkinson. If you're going to keep shoving idiotic tidbits about his life down my gullet every time we convene then perhaps we should cease."

"Quit the dramatics, Draco," Pansy had replied, snapping the Prophet back and returning it to her sizable designer bag. "I figured you would be curious. And intrigued that Potter has retreated from our world like some sort of mad man. And can't you relate?"

Potter may appear somewhat mad, if Draco did not do what he did for a living. His hair, always a tragedy, was even more overgrown and wild. He was wearing a rather form fitting Muggle T-shirt stained, if Draco's olfactory senses were to be trusted, with beer and a fruity smelling liquor. His jeans were distressed, though if this was fashionably intended or not was up for debate. His wrist was encircled by a neon green paper bracelet and his neck - Merlin - a fucking glow band. The outfit overall, coupled with his knowledge of Potter, positively screamed I AM GOING THROUGH SOMETHING.

"Looks like Potter's midlife crisis continues on our doorstep," Astor wryly commented, nudging a slippered toe against Potter's foot in a leather sandal. Harry Potter. In sandals. In his hotel room. Draco was beyond bemused. "I heard things, of course, but attending Combustia is not something I predicted."

And hearing Astor's summation of the scene brought it home to Draco. Potter hadn't been searching these years for Draco, no. He hadn't hunted Draco down in search of answers, closure, whatever the fuck. This wasn't an Auror. This wasn't a jaded ex-lover with an axe to grind.

Potter stumbled onto Draco. This was all an accident. He was attending the festival as a fan.

Harry Potter was attending a music festival - the festival Draco was headlining - as a fan and willing participant.

The thought made Draco's head swell while his heart ached.

"Are you alright?" Astor asked Draco, after a moment of silence stretched between them.

"No," Draco said confidently. "No, I am decidedly not."

"Do you want me to call someone? Get him out of here?"

"Call who? For what? If you were eavesdropping, as I am sure you were, I had just invited him in."

Astor tutted. "At least you're admitting you're not alright. This situation is beyond fucked. Even without your wand, that git deserved a punch to the mouth well before a warm greeting into your - our - hotel room. Thank God Scorpius didn't hear anything."

"Scorpius!" Draco pinched his nose. "Thank Christ for your muffling charms, Astor. Tonight, of all nights, this tosser has to remind me he exists."

"You mean you've forgot? Draco, love, I am well familiar with your discography."

Draco shot Astor the two finger salute.

"Just wake him up. This needs to be settled."

"With our son sleeping next door? You really want to engage in this, Draco? Now? With you in this state? With Potter in his state?" Astor nudged Potter again and pushed a green eye open that winked dilated and red shot back at them. "No one wearing a glow stick necklace can even pretend to be sober."

Draco sighed and held Astor's questioning gaze. Astor raised his wand in acquiescence after a sigh of his own. "Fine. Ennervate."

Potter shot up from his recline with a gasped shout. "God, my head!"

"Welcome back, Potter," Astor chuckled darkly. "Keep it down or your balls are next."

"What - ?" Potter stared at Astor in confusion, massaging the back of his head and neck. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Your worst nightmare, if you breathe incorrectly, or too loudly, in either my or my family's vicinity." Astor pocketed his wand and yawned. "I should have been in bed long ago and I get cranky when sleep deprived."

"Astoria?" Potter gaped, taking in the length of Astor stood before him. "Astoria Greengrass?"

Draco winced as Astor impressively weathered the flinging of his dead name with a wan: "You can leave off the last two syllables, thanks."