Astor retreated into his and Scorpius' bedroom after receiving assurance from Draco that he and Potter would keep the noise down.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know - "

Astor had waved off Potter's croaked apology with a sneer.

"First time is a freebie, Potter. Now get with the programme." With that, Astor shut the door behind him with a soft thud and Draco could hear the murmuring of several silencing charms.

Potter's eyes were red shot and glistening as he continued, gazing at Draco, almost imploringly, "There's so much I didn't know."

"That much seems apparent," Draco replied, settling himself into a neighboring recliner with crossed arms. He could feel a massive headache brewing behind his temples. Beads of sweat, new since his post show shower, collecting along his hairline. A vague chest discomfort that relayed the frantic beating of his heart. He wondered what his pulse was his. His blood pressure.

None of his business. If he stroked out, as his physician warned Draco when counseling on anxiety and excess caffeine intake, then it may be a mercy at this point.

"This isn't how I envisioned it," Potter moaned. His dark head collapsed onto the back of the settee, redirecting those green eyes at the ceiling, as if some answers were to be found etched among the impressive frescos of the hotel's decor.

"You envisioned it?" Draco couldn't refrain from asking. He leaned forward towards Potter, then caught himself and drew himself upright. He clenched his fists hard enough to feel his nails indent his palms.

"Well," Potter sat upright and rubbed at his eyes. "How could I not have? You disappeared, Draco. It was like another death. In a way. Without a body." He frowned at Draco. "Without telling me anything - you left."

"I did tell you," Draco replied.

Potter balked at that. "I would have definitely recalled a conversation around abandoning the Wizarding World to embark on a career as a DJ," Potter snottily countered. "How the hell have you lived among Muggles this long? Where did you learn to play music like that?"

It said something, Potter's oblivion to Draco's musical capabilities.

Mother, in a formulated if not mildly cruel manner to instill some culture into her wild child, had always insisted on Draco learning an instrument. After several hours of tear-soaked sessions (none of them Draco's - all his instructors) with the violin and harp, Draco had acquired some finesse with the piano. After traipsing in, mudstained and exhausted from having spent hours out on their Quidditch pitch, Mother would always shepherd Draco to the music room with a manicured finger and a quiet, "Please, Draco. Now."

At first it was torturous, plodding along with scales under the eye of instructors who seemed to find fault with everything - his posture, his attitude, and of course his childish clumsy fingers. After months and years of admittedly coerced practice, something clicked. And Draco began to enjoy himself. He took to the Wizarding classics surprisingly well, his instructors told Narcissa. He may not be hopeless.

Under the pleased eye of Mother, Draco continued his lessons even after attending Hogwarts, with a magical keyboard that could shrink into his trunk for storage when idle. Draco found himself enjoying it, some remnant of his mother's influence piercing the existence that otherwise was fueled by Father's approval. His fellow Slytherins initially took the piss but Draco put a stop to that with a few icy glares and well aimed hexes. And then they even took pleasure in Draco's playing, especially when he was able to cobble together some chords and lyrics that delightfully mocked their Professors and, of course, Potter.

Things change, Draco reflected, yet stay the same.

Music took a backseat once he became ensnared in the Dark Lord and the deathly machinations during his sixth year. He hardly had the time or really the heart to play. And after the war, there was additional drama with the reparations and the reactionary abuse to anyone even remotely related to the Death Eaters. The culling of evil, Draco had heard it referred to.

After, he transmuted his sorrow and rage into cathartic epic ballads. Only after. When Draco was alone in the Muggle World. After.

Words that had been bubbling under his tongue spilling forth onto tear soaked pages. No longer parchment but the cheapest notepads he could purchase at the corner store. Messy chords and messier words that he somehow shaped into his initial songs that spoke of his deepest shame, regrets, and short sighted loves. Even musings from childhood, thought to be if not resolved then at least resolutely buried, poked their way through his haze of grief into the melodies.

How could Potter know? When Draco apparently had needed enough time and possibly adequate distance to finally void his feelings into something approaching palatable. When he could remember that he did play, and could play decently, he was in the Muggle world and it was one of the only skills that could be applied.

"There you go again, demanding answers," Draco sneered, elbowing his way out of the morass of memory back into the present moment. "When I don't think you have the leverage you think you do, Potter. No. This is my territory. You have come to my hotel, my festival, my world now. I had a monumentally busy evening, as I take it you've witnessed, and all I can stomach right now is a chat, not an interrogation."

"A chat," Potter repeated quietly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Draco announced. "That you have no concept of foreplay, Potter." He delighted at Potter's wince, even if Draco was just feeling bitchy and not providing a truthful evaluation of Potter's sexual performance, now or ever. "And if we're going to do this, now, here, we will do it on my terms."

"Which are?"

"Combustia doesn't seem like your typical vibe, Potter. Why are you here?"

Potter laughed. "You're right," he acknowledged, with a rueful shake of his head. "It isn't, not really. But it's fun, I suppose. I'm here with some friends. I didn't expect - this." He waved his arms, referring to Draco and also presumably to the whole crazy situation.

Draco managed to restrain himself from teasing more out about the how's and the why's of Harry Potter agreeing to attend a Muggle music festival by redirecting to another pressing matter. "How did you find me in this hotel?"

Potter blinked. "It's amazing what some discrete Confundus and the cloak allows me to get away with. You're also registered under your name. Not quite flying under the radar, are you, Draco?"

Draco felt himself color. He had become reckless, even his team had pointed it out, but he had told himself that his real name was odd enough - and more importantly, not utilized by his stage persona and thus unknown by any nosy fans - to use when checking into hotels. And it wasn't as if anyone was looking for him. Draco had stopped looking over his shoulder, fearfully and hopefully, many years ago.

"So, you just happen to be attending my music festival, coincidentally, to what - sate some long repressed urge to rage to electronic dance music?" Draco snorted. "This is all so completely bizarre."

Potter widened his eyes, as if to say "You're telling me."

"And you somehow, in your classic act-now, think-later Potter fashion," Draco continued. "Decided to storm my hotel after very apparently engaging in some not classic Potter fashions." He flicked his gaze to the glow stick, still beaming faintly, around Potter's neck. Potter groaned and clawed at it, yanking it and chucking it in the vague direction of the waste bin.

"My friends just told me to lean in to it," Potter whined. A distinct blush was gracing his stubbled cheeks.

"Oh you're leaning, Potter," Draco offered a dark, bordering on lascivious, smile. "You're positively rolling."

"They were egging me on all day. After trying to convince me to come along with them for ages. I figured, why not?"

"And leaving the Weaselette to fend for herself and abandon your - what, I think Pansy last told me you had three children? While you cavort with the unwashed Muggle masses in a God forsaken field in Western Europe, what are they up to? What must they think?"

The energy, already quite tense and uncomfortable, shifted to something more brittle. Potter narrowed his eyes and growled, "Leave them out of this."

Draco couldn't help but laugh. "Gladly. The last thing I care about is what mess you and your little family has contorted into these days." The lie didn't burn Draco's mouth - much.

"Anyway," Potter said, and Draco was grateful that he seemed to be reigning in his apparent anger. "There I was, unexpectedly enjoying myself, if not going more deaf by the second, when my friends told me I absolutely had to join them near the main stage. For this epic DJ that supposedly was going to blow my mind." He swallowed. "Well. That's putting it lightly."

Draco relaxed back into his chair, feeling like the cat that got the cream. Potter had enjoyed his set. Holy shit. He smothered the pleased grin that threatened to erupt over his face by mildly saying, "Mind blowing, eh? Your words are too kind, Potter. Too kind. But how did you recognize me?"

Potter looked like he may sick up. "I didn't - initially. We were rather far back in the crowd and your mask, well, I don't entirely understand it all but I suppose it does add to the overall…effect."

"Mmm," Draco answered. "Not all of us are content to flaunt our disgusting facial scars to the general public, you know."

"It's not disgusting," Potter said immediately. Draco wasn't sure if he was referring to Draco's or to his own. "I really didn't recognize you. I didn't. At first, when you got up there, it was just another show. Another bonkers show with a loudmouth DJ and louder music. But then - " Potter looked up from where he had been studying the carpet to lock his gaze with Draco's own. Draco was taken back by the intensity. And - was that pain?

"Your eyes," Potter finished simply.

Draco paused, considering Potter's words carefully.

The mask he wore as part of his persona only revealed his eyes, yes. Could Potter be referring to that? That somehow, in the crowd of people, Potter recognized Draco's eyes when they scanned the crowd? When they were cast upon the larger than life screens behind him as the music blared? Had Potter muscled his way through the crowd to the front, to catch a glimpse of what he suspected?

Or was Potter referring to the opening song, one of Draco's oldest, that over the years had been refined and remixed into one of his most beloved hits?

The song that Draco had initially scrawled out clumsily in a dingy Muggle flat, weeks after their break, feeling desperate and disappointed by the lack of Owls scratching at his window. When Draco had retreated from everything - almost everyone - and had only his bitterness and loneliness and longing for lost things to guide him through the night.

Potter fumbled with his pocket and Draco would be half worried he was reaching for his wand if he didn't suddenly feel a queer dispassion come down over him. Let Potter hex him. Let him.

Nothing could be more uncomfortable or painful than this moment.

Let it burn.

Instead, Potter wielded his mobile phone - with a battered case and a cracked screen, Draco was amused to notice - and started fumbling with it. After a few seconds a tinny recording that was unmistakably Draco's song Your Eyes started to play. The sound was marred by what was obviously a shaking hand and the surrounding crowd's cheers, but it was his song.

In the shadow of the night, I wander all alone

A heart once filled with hope, now aching to the bone

Under cold city lights, I roam the streets unknown

In search of solace, a place to call my own

The initial verses, accompanied by stark piano, warbled out and surrounded them both.

Is this what it's like to feel like to die of embarrassment?

In the early days, Draco worked at a piano bar. While he was unfamiliar with Muggle songs he was still competent at reading music. The staff hired him after being floored by Draco's musical prowess.

Or they were struck by the desperation and the good deal, as Draco had forfeited any regular salary unless the tips and the managers' appraisal demonstrated his worth. Maybe also a tinge of pity when they saw Draco's flummoxed look at being asked for his National Insurance number or being confronted with things like credit cards and soft drinks.

Regardless. Draco was permitted work and there he would crank out the classics - he was told they were classics, anyway - as Muggles sipped martinis and chatted around him. This was no place for Goblin Waltzes. It was rather dull at times but somewhat fulfilling, to have people watch him without fear and hatred in their eyes.

After closing, as the staff cleaned up around him, he would get the chance to plod out some tunes of his own. He was too piss poor to afford a flat with a private toilet, let alone a personal piano. And over the weeks he struck up a friendship with the bartender, who listened to his songs and offered some feedback.

"They're rather depressing," John had summarized. "But beautiful. We should go out sometime. Catch some shows."

And thus had begun Draco's first Muggle friendship and earnest entree into the world of Muggle music, nestled under the wing of the flamboyantly homosexual and musically omnivorous John Canterwheel. Some shows were good, some were excellent, some were kind of shitty. And one day, John brought him to a different kind of club, where things felt different. A type of sound that felt familiar yet exotic at the same time.

"What is this?" Draco had wondered, having to shout over the din, feeling wild-eyed and as if his nerves were struck by something golden and potent. He could feel the bass pulsating down to the muscles of his toes. John had laughed at Draco's thunderstruck expression and answered, "House."

"I've never been to a house like this," Draco replied with conviction, feeling sweat drenched and happier than he had in a long while.

After that first night, Draco crawled the clubs like some sort of vampire, desperate to catch that same euphoric feeling, awash in a cataclysm of raging notes and pulsating light. It soothed some primal part of him he hadn't known existed. He found himself eventually craving to recreate the sounds himself, somehow.

"You have the structure," John had told him, when Draco had naively brought it up. "You just need some help."

So John had introduced Draco to some, retrospectively, shady individuals who had access to a music studio. It was in one of the men's mother's garages, but still. It allowed Draco a crash course in things like audio interface, plugins, and also how to operate a computer at all.

"What is his deal?" They had whispered to John, taking in Draco struggle comically with using the mouse to browse the sound library. John had smiled and whispered back, "I think not enough iodine in childhood. But he's alright."

Many - many, many, many - messy and chaotic fumblings eventually yielded some songs, most revamped from his sad solo sessions.

It eventually became listenable. Fuller sound, reverberation. Then it became decent.

Then it became, more or less, what Potter was playing back to him on his shitty little mobile.

In your eyes

I saw a hope

I saw a home

That memory shows

I don't quite deserve anymore

"Alright, enough, stop, stop, STOP - !" Draco jumped up from the chair and snatched the mobile from Potter's sweaty palm. He mashed a button and the sound cut off abruptly.

Potter seemed to be frozen in place, not fighting back at Draco at all, and in fact seemed to be in his own little world.

Draco could feel his blood pumping, seeping under his skin until he was sure his face must be as hot as the sun. Embarrassment. Anger. But also, a determination that Potter would not win this. Draco would not cede the upper hand. This was his work, his art, and damned if they were going to listen to it - if Potter insisted on listening to it - on a shitty device without any of the effects Draco had so carefully crafted and, quite literally, bled over for so many years.

This was his art. His pain. And Potter was here for the show?

Draco would give him a fucking show.

Draco fled to the workstation he had abandoned at the dining table, awakening his laptop and quickly scanning over his files. His hands worked with years of practice to set up some passable audio. He could feel Potter watching him but could not read his expression. He did not care to look too carefully, frightened he would lose his nerve.

With a flourish, Draco pressed a final key and his own track, his own voice, echoed out from his better tuned and very expensive speakers.

He felt feverish and caged. He could sense he was barely in control, a heady mixture of some embarrassment and pride - look what I have made - forcing himself to stand his ground and give it to Potter. Finally give it to Potter, now that it seemed the other man gave a modicum of shit about listening.

I close my eyes, and there you are,

A distant memory, like a faded but painful scar

Too many years. Too many tears. Words that Draco left unsaid that he could courageously belt to a crowd of strangers but never to the man who mattered the most. Until now.

"Do you like it then?" Draco yelled, dialing the volume up slightly and thankful for Astor's habitual Silencio and muffling charms. Not that he was worried about neighbours. He had the penthouse. "Do you find it quite pretty?"

The garden we tended, now so overgrown,

Like my heart, it's a wild place that I disown

My vision shattered, your pieces torn,

In my house a stranger is now born

Someone, when Draco's career had really started taking off about eleven years ago, had advised him never to read reviews. Draco had taken in that advice and promptly discarded it. Which is how he knew the critics had described this song and the album it had appeared on as 'a symphony of dreamy angelic vocals, soaring above the cathartic conviction of a merciless soundscape.'

Draco had quite liked that. He had cut out the article and saved it.

"Do you like it?" Draco asked again, demanding some reaction or response from Potter who was, to Draco's fury, sitting still as a statue. "Is this what you came here for? A private concert?"

Still no answer from Potter, who was apparently listening intently to the music but without any outward emotion.

Maybe the pain will someday subside

I'll find a place where my weary body can reside

Until that day, I'll wander and roam

Until that day, when your eyes will meet my own

The plaintive vocals gave way to a long crescendo, the mournful sound punctuated by now an almost guttural but still rhythmic bit of of the soundwork that Draco was quite proud of, but damned if he would let Potter see it.

"Or do you hate it? Disgusted by it? This is one of many, Potter, I can assure you. Does this make your skin crawl? Are you quite uncomfortable? Was this all just a waste of your time, coming here, seeing me after all this time - "

"Shut up," Potter said finally. He lifted his head and looked Draco head on, and his eyes were shining. "I love it."