Philadelphia By Clay Rating: NC-17 for lots of cursing and eventual sexual situations Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Other, Draco/Other, Mention of Ron/Hermione Summary: Eight years have passed since the end of the war and Harry is trying to live out his life in anonymity. His happy little bubble is popped, however, when Hermione begs his help in tracking down Draco Malfoy, who really does not want to be found. Chapter One: Eventuality Words spilled from his pen, blue ink filling the space between blue lines in a spiral bound notebook. The wire binding had slipped from its predetermined track to stick out at an odd angle, scraping slight grooves into the polished laminate table. Small, scratchy letters appeared one after another without hesitation for nearly a quarter of an hour, and then… nothing. Harry sighed and let the pen slip from his grasp to clatter onto the tabletop. It rolled a few inches and bumped into the brown cardboard cup of cooling overpriced coffee. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before running them through his hair with a groan. The clock on the café wall read 6:15. The February sun cast a pale orange glow over the city, falling in weak strands through the window. “Another?” Harry blinked and then gave the waiter a vague smile. “What?” The waiter just laughed, “Damn, Harry, you’re out of it today.” He shook his head, gesturing to the long-forgotten drink. “Did you want more coffee?” “Oh, Steve, hi, erm… no, that’s okay.” Harry’s gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. “I should get going now anyway.” Steve nodded. “Then you’re coming?” “Yeah,” Harry grinned, stretching. His back cracked, muscles aching from remaining in one position for so long. “Dinner at Gino’s tonight, right?” Steve nodded again and flopped down into the vacant armchair next to Harry. “Aren’t you sick of Italian?” he muttered, smiling, as he turned Harry’s notebook to skim the half-filled page. “I can’t remember the last time we went somewhere else… we should do something different.” Harry shrugged. “It’s good enough food—hey Don’t look at that ” He made a grab for the notebook, but Steve skinned it across the table and out of reach. “A basilisk?” He raised an eyebrow appreciatively. “Where do you come up with this stuff?” Harry groaned, made another pass, and then successfully tugged the book from his friend’s grasp. Steve made a small noise of protest, but Harry barely heard him, his eyes falling on the last unfinished sentence. The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was “Experience,” he said. There was half a second’s pause and then Steve let out a peal of laughter, slapping Harry lightly on the back. Harry smiled and then began to chuckle himself. To a muggle, it really would sound quite absurd. Hermione had thought it a wonderful idea when Harry had half-heartedly brought up that he was possibly sort of maybe considering writing an autobiography. She had deemed it an ideal way for the world to see Harry as he saw himself, though Harry found it more therapeutic than anything. And while every word was true, even Harry had to admit that his life seemed ludicrous at times. Rewriting the ordeal with the basilisk reminded him how every day had seemed like a dream, how every morning he had feared waking up in a spider-filled cupboard, a scared and delusional eleven year old boy. Even now, fifteen years after his initial introduction to the wizarding world, the old fears still had a way of finding him. “Seriously, though,” Steve was saying, and Harry forced himself out of his reverie to meet his friend’s gaze. “I really enjoyed your first book. Do you think this one will be finished soon?” “Honestly?” Harry shrugged. “I’m almost finished, but... ” How to put it? Reliving childhood memories was emotionally draining even if ultimately rewarding. Still, the battles fought during his school years were hard, and there was no way to explain that to a muggle. Finally, Harry sighed and said, “There’s still editing and then going through the publisher, and... it might take a while.” Eyes shining mischievously, Steve snaked his hand across the table. “All the more reason to let your best friend see it now...” Harry just stuck out his tongue and shoved the notebook into his worn shoulder bag, tossing the pen in after. “Shouldn’t you be working?” “Nah,” Steve smiled, “I was done at six. Now get your pretty ass out of that seat and go get changed.” Steve stood, offering a hand up. “We’re going to be late as it is.” The Philadelphia sunset was a pale mauve, marred by light pollution and smog. Harry’s eyes traced the skyline as he and Steve walked side by side down South Street, his mind on the clear black night sky surrounding Hogwarts, but even that memory led to more unpleasant thoughts, to images of fire, fallen comrades, and blood red eyes. He shivered and pulled his brown suede jacket tight around himself. Steve shook his head. “Really, I can’t wait for you to be finished this book. Writing always makes you melancholy.” “Does it?” Harry wondered aloud. They stopped in front of a used guitar shop. A small alcove to their right contained the door leading to Harry’s apartment above. “Yeah,” Steve grinned, “or maybe you just need to get laid.” Harry chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready for another relationship just yet. I’m still not quite over Alex.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Steve groaned, “It’s been nearly a year, and need I remind you again that it was you who broke up with him? Besides,” he added, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, “who said anything about a relationship?” They parted soon after with reminders of seeing each other at the restaurant. Steve took off at a trot, weaving through the growing night crowd to his own apartment a few blocks away. The time on the VCR read 6:41 when Harry entered his living room. After removing his wand from an inside pocket, he tossed his jacket onto the small pile on the chair by the door, his bag following a moment later. The room was small and very beige. It was beyond Harry’s interest to do much decorating, and so the room looked very much the way it had almost six years ago, when Harry had first made the move to muggle America. A small bookcase fit against the wall to the left of the entrance, holding mostly texts from his short time at a local muggle community college. A desk and outdated computer sat in the opposite corner, and in between lay a mismatch of furniture all chosen for comfort rather than style. The small red light blinked lazily from the face of the answering machine, indicating Harry had waiting messages. He pressed a button and let the messages play as he crossed into his bedroom to scour his closet for something his friends would find suitable for the evening. A stern woman’s voice with a slight Scottish accent floated over him, “This is a message from your editor, Harry, dear. We were wondering–“ He blocked out the rest of the message, making a mental note to get back to her the next day, while losing his faded jeans and thick grey sweater. The garments were flung into the corner, missing the clothes hamper by a few feet. “Harry, it’s Scott. Remember: Gino’s at seven. Don’t be late,” A muffled voice sounded in the background, and Harry recognized it as Scott’s lover, Ben. ”All right,” Scott came back with a laugh, ”Don’t be later than usual. See you there.” Harry groaned in frustration. Where the Hell was his blue button-down? He searched for a few moments more before remembering he had worn it the day before. ”Harry?” Harry paused, a black and burgundy patterned shirt half off its hanger. ”It’s Hermione.” Harry fought the urge to mutter “No shit.” As if he didn’t recognize the voice of the girl he’d known over half his life. He sighed, tugging the shirt completely off its hanger before beginning the search for pants. “How are you?” Harry just shook his head, pulling on loose black slacks. ”We’re fine. Ron and I, I mean. We’ve set a date. Have we told you yet?” “About five times,” Harry chuckled. He got to his knees and peered under the bed for his good black shoes. One lay on its side about a foot from the wall. The other was nowhere to be seen. “I hate to tell you this, but... well....” “Aha ” Harry grinned, spotting the other shoe poking out from under his discarded sweater. He carried them into the living room and flopped onto the couch as the message played. ”This isn’t just a courtesy call, Harry.” Harry sighed, lacing up his left shoe. Hermione rarely called to just talk; with her it seemed it was always business. If she wasn’t telling him about Death Eaters still at large while dropping not-so-subtle hints about how the wizarding world still need him, then she was out right begging him to come “home.” But to be honest, he had never really considered England home. Hogwarts had been his first real home, and even though he missed both Ron and Hermione fiercely, there was little chance he would be returning to Europe any time soon. He’d made new friends, new family here in America. He was home, and he was happy in his relative anonymity, at least for the moment. ”I don’t quite know how to... you see... something’s happened.” “Please get to the point,” Harry said to the empty room. He crossed back to the front door and began to sift through the pile of coats for one a bit nicer than the one he had worn earlier in the day. ”It’s... er... Lucius Malfoy has been seen.” Black wool slipped from Harry’s fingers. Harry swung to face the answering machine, leveling it with an accusing glare. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. “What?” Hermione’s next words came out in a rush, high pitched and slightly hysterical. ”I know what you’re thinking, Harry. Lucius is dead. We all know that. We watched Malfoy kill him. I wouldn’t believe it myself except that it was Ron who saw him. And... and... I don’t know if I can convince you, but it’s true, Harry. We need to talk.” She let out a shuddering breath. ”I’m sure that you want nothing to do with this and I wouldn’t ask except...” She paused as Harry stood stock still, eyes still trained on the offending machine. ”Ron believes that Malfoy – Draco, that is – is in danger. He was last seen in America. New York City, actually, though I’m sure he’s fled if he realizes he’s been recognized. Just... I know it’s only Malfoy, but he did help us in the war, and – oh, just call me. I don’t care how late it is. I’m sending you all the information we have through international owl post. It should reach you sometime tomorrow morning your time. Read it. Please?” The message ended there. Dinner began as a quiet affair despite the abundance of people at their table. Aside from Harry, Steve, Scott, and Ben, were Mary and Karen, a lesbian couple the friends had met at school. The conversation remained conservative, a discussion of little more than work and books. Harry drifted in and out of the conversation, mind on Hermione’s message, and more specifically, on Draco. There was a name he hadn’t heard in years. He’d barely even thought of Draco Malfoy other than to touch on their interaction in first and second year in his books. It was easy not to think of him, though, what with Draco effectively dropping off the face of the earth mere months after the last battle. With both Lucius and Narcissa dead, Malfoy had sold his property to the government for a significantly smaller sum than what it must have been worth. He had withdrawn every last galleon from Gringotts, settled all debts and disappeared. In the time after that, before Harry had left England, he had happened across an article or two in the tabloids musing over Malfoy’s whereabouts, but most were too ludicrous for Harry to bother reading beyond the headline. A particularly amusing one from the Quibbler concerning the mating rituals of Lethifolds came to mind. “Hey, he does smile ” Harry blinked. Mary was smirking at him from across the table. He felt his cheeks burn, finding all eyes on him. “So, Gloomy,” Steve spoke up, popping a bit of cannoli in his mouth – Harry looked down at his own desert, not remembering ordering it – and giving Harry a wink, “what’s on your mind?” “Nothing,” Harry shrugged, picking up his fork. But Steve shook his head. “Dude, you’ve barely spoken all evening. Give us something.” “Maybe it’s personal,” Ben pointed out. “Even better,” Steve leered. Harry gave a chuckle and shook his head. “Really, it’s nothing. Just Draco.” “Draco? What’s that?” Karen asked. “Who,” Harry corrected and Steve nearly squealed. At the circle of blank stares, Steve motioned frantically to Harry. “Don’t you get it? It’s story time A bit of Harry Potter’s mysterious past.” Scott rolled his eyes. “Oh shut up Steve.” “Mysterious past?” Karen questioned, looking from Steve to Scott and back again. Finally, and with an apologetic glance thrown Harry’s way, Ben replied, “It’s just that we’ve known Harry for years and we still don’t know much about what his life was like before he came to America.” “Just that he went to a boarding school with a bunch of sexy British boys.” Steve leaned forward, resting his chin in his palms and giving Harry his full attention. “So, do go on, Mr. Potter.” “Well,” Harry began, thinking that some input from his friends might not be so bad, but Scott cut him off with a snort. “Ignore him, Harry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” “No, really, it’s okay,” Harry assured him. He turned once again to Steve. “I just heard that Draco was – Draco Malfoy was someone I knew in school – well, he’s apparently living in America now and it just got me thinking about him.” “Which one was Draco?” Mary piped up. All at the table save Karen and Scott had read Harry’s first book and it was common knowledge amongst the group that the characters were based on actual people. Harry hesitated a moment before replying, “Angel.” “Angel?” Steve’s eyes widened and a smile slowly crept across his face. Damn it. Harry ducked his head, feeling another blush coming on. “And Angel is...?” Karen prompted. “Angel Moreau,” Steve grinned maniacally, “is this horrid little snot that Harry hated in school. At least in the first year.” He spun back to Harry, pointing an accusing finger. “I knew it ” He laughed, “I knew you had a thing for him ” Harry sighed. “Honestly, I didn’t.” Steve wasn’t buying it. “You don’t name a character Angel if he’s all bad.” “Which he wasn’t,” Harry pointed out, daring to meet Steve’s eyes. “Is he cute?” Ben smiled shyly. “Er–“ Harry blinked, blushing harder. Steve giggled. Mary raised an eyebrow. “If memory serves me, he was described as pale and pointy.” “Well... yes....” “Pale and pointy and apparently very hot,” Scott smirked. Harry shook his head, exasperated. “I honestly never thought about him that way.” “Right,” Steve said, “Those were your closeted and in-denial years, right?” “Er...” “Oh, leave him alone.” Harry gave Ben a grateful smile. “Right,” Scott said, pulling out his wallet, “I think it’s time to call it a night. Some of us work for a living.” Steve stuck out his tongue at him, but a moment later was all smiles. “Tomorrow night, then?” “I can’t,” Ben frowned. “I have a paper to write.” Ben was the youngest and still in his last year of college. Steve groaned and looked to Scott, “Which means you’re out, too?” Scott shrugged. “Clubs bore me lately.” “Oh, come on ” Steve slumped in his seat looking to the remaining members of the party. “Friday night We have to go out Anyone?” The girls politely declined, being more the type to stay in with a good movie, and Steve looked desperately to Harry. “You are coming. You have to. We have to get you laid, remember?” Harry smiled good-naturedly, “Yeah, I’ll come.” “Yay ” Steve gave a little clap and then paused, frowning. “Oh, but Alex will probably be there.” Harry nodded. “That’s all right.” Something occurred to him for the first time that evening. “Where is Alex, anyway?” Steve opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it, screwing his face up as if he were searching for the right words. “He’s on a date,” Ben said. “Oh,” Harry nodded slowly, though the fact didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. As much as he cared for Alex, and as nice as their relationship had been, the fact was that it was no more than that: nice. It had lacked the intensity the rest of Harry’s life contained, ultimately leaving him unsatisfied. A sprig of jealousy sprouted in Harry’s stomach, but he had to wonder if it was they were speaking of Alex or if it was simply because Harry, himself, was still alone. “Great,” Harry smiled, and it wasn’t a complete lie. “I look forward to meeting him.” He was flying through the air faster and faster. The snitch was inches from his grasp, less than an inch. Suddenly a silver and green blur rushed up beside him. A hand, pale and slender, grazed his and Harry looked into the storm grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. Malfoy sneered, straight white teeth gleaming in the sunlight. Harry leaned forward, desperate to pass him and reach the snitch first, but the faster he tried to go, the more he slowed. Exasperated, Harry looked to his broom only to find that it was no longer a broom. It was a chimney brush. Startled, Harry pulled to a stop, but the brush refused to cooperate. It swerved wildly, picking up speed and slowing down in random bursts. He found himself heading toward the spectator stands and slammed his eyes shut, throwing his arms up defensively, but just before impact the brush slowed and simply tapped the wood. Confused, the brush pulled back an inch and then started forward again. Over and over again the broom attempted to fly through the stands until all Harry could hear was the insistent tap tap tap of metal on wood. He peered up, looking for help from a teacher, a classmate, anyone, but the midday sun blinded him, and the world disappeared behind a bright white light. Harry blinked the sun out of his eyes and sat up in bed as the dream began to fade. He scrubbed a hand over his face and then paused. Tap. Tap. Tap. Startled, Harry looked to the window where a disgruntled tawny brown owl continued to hit the glass. Once let in, the owl perched on Harry’s bureau, dropping a thick package. It watched him a moment and Harry stared back, confused. Yellow eyes blinked slowly. “Oh, right,” Harry muttered. It had been years since he had left Hedwig to the Weasleys and proper owl etiquette eluded him. “Er... I don’t have much to eat, but let me see what I can find.” The owl hooted haughtily and shifted into a more comfortable position, apparently content to wait as long as necessary for its reward. A few minutes later Harry had scrounged up a sack of owl treats that was at least two years old, but the owl took them nevertheless and left shortly after. The package lay on his bureau and Harry stared at it for two full minutes before running his hands through his hair. All things considered, this was not the way he would have like to start his day. Ten minutes later, Harry was seated at his kitchen table, a large cup of coffee warm between his hands and the as-of-yet unopened package lying before him. He took a fortifying sip of coffee and ripped open the thick brown covering. Inside was a simple manilla folder stuffed thick with various papers. Some were hand written on yellowed parchment, some typed, others photocopied. Harry flipped through them, pulling out the ones that seemed of interest. Of these were a report of recent Death Eater activity including a list of those still at large, a coroner’s report on Lucius Malfoy’s death, Lucius’ last will and testament, any plausible sightings of Draco Malfoy and finally a copy of the ministry’s report on Ron’s encounter. The coroner’s report was rather dull. The coroner, a Ms. Kelly Thornton deemed the cause of death to be fatal trauma to the heart. Harry had the sudden insane urge to laugh. ‘Fatal trauma to the heart’ was an awfully euphemistic was of saying ‘stabbed in the heart by your only child with your own wand.’ The will proved to be more interesting. Lucius had asked to be cremated, and for the ashes to be scattered over the North Sea, making any examination on the corpse impossible. Harry doubted that was a coincidence. Even more interesting, however, was the fact that Draco had been completely written out of the will – something the ministry had obviously overlooked in light of Draco’s hero status come the end of the war. The fortune had instead been willed to Lucius’ second cousin, Victoria Malfoy. Harry skimmed through the pile of papers, taking time to review the list of known Death Eaters, but could find no mention of her. He’d have to remember to ask Hermione. Taking another large gulp of coffee, Harry picked up the list of Draco sightings, skipping to the bottom and the most current sightings. Harry found that a girl on Holiday in New York City had spotted Malfoy and had conversed with him shortly. The city, however, listed no citizens by his name nor any wizards fitting his description. Two months later, Draco had been spotted at a club in West Deptford, New Jersey, though it appeared as if there had been no actual interaction between Draco and the wizard who had seen him. The wizard did not know Draco, only of him, but was insistent, claiming to have recognized Draco from his pictures in the newspaper. Harry was skeptical about that last one, though it would place Draco very near. It was dated only three weeks ago. The last report, Ron’s story, sat untouched for some time as Harry made his way through one cup of coffee and then stood and poured himself another. Suddenly restless, Harry began to pace the kitchen. His eyes darted to the report and then away. He hadn’t heard from Ron in over a month. It would be strange to read about him in what amounted to a police report, as if they were strangers. Harry dumped the dregs of his coffee into the sink, scooped up the last paper, and left the apartment after throwing on a jacket. Wind tracked a well known circuit down the city streets between tall buildings, tossing Harry’s hair into his eyes as he turned off South Street and kept walking. He traveled somewhat busy streets for an undetermined amount of time, letting his feet take him where they may. After six years he had no fear of becoming lost in the large city, nor whomever he may meet along the way. Every morning he tucked his wand into an inside pocket of a coat, buried it beneath pens and notebooks in his bag or strapped it to his thigh in a holster of sorts, though he rarely found reason to use magic these days. Without thinking, Harry steered into a small gated park. A few children played nearby, parents and guardians looking muted beneath the shade of large oak trees. The wood of the bench was freezing through his jeans. Harry tugged out the paper, already creased and crinkled from its stay in his jacket pocket. Harry searched his other pocket before coming up with a crumpled and half full pack of cigarettes. He hesitated a moment, knowing he hadn’t smoked in months, wanting to believe he had gotten past this particular vice before slipping one from its package and sliding it between his lips. The smoke filled his lungs and mind with a familiar headiness as he began to read. Time passed, one cigarette followed another, and Harry read and reread the short report. He paid no mind to the sun’s travel west of the come and go of park patrons. The report was dry, dull despite the intensity of the situation it detailed. Ron had been wandering through a muggle bit of London late at night doing errands after work. As he passed and alley he had paused, overhearing one bit of a whispered conversation. “He’s found Draco.” Ron had stopped, half hidden behind a dumpster. Laughter and then more words filtered over to him. “Perfect. Kill him.” “But what about–“ “The other is no longer a priority.” More words had apparently been spoken, but they eluded Ron as in that moment he had dared to peer into the alley. Lucius Malfoy stood, half in shadow, speaking to an unrecognized woman. At this point he had fled, running a few blocks before regaining his wits enough to apparate to the apartment he and Hermione shared. And that was all. The report, in essence, told Harry nothing more than he has already known. It simply brought up questions best left for Ministry officials to mull over. There was a reason Harry had left England. He had done his part, murdered Voldemort. The ongoing cleanup was of little consequence to him. Now to be dragged back by suck disturbing events left him feeling ill. He dug out the pack of cigarettes again, only to find it empty. “I thought you quit.” Startled, Harry gave a jerk, the thin paper still clutched in his hands tearing as his grip unconciously tightened. Alex watched him, shadows falling over his dark, wavy hair, obscuring the clear grey eyes smiling at him from a face with high cheek bones and a strong jaw. One hand brought a cigarette to his own lips and the other offered Harry one. With a sick bit of realization, Harry found that he had walked all the way to Alex’s apartment. He glanced at the newly painted blue door across the way. This park, this bench had been the site of their first kiss. Alex tilted his head to one side, still smiling his soft unassuming smile as Harry gratefully plucked a cigarette from the pack, nodding his thanks with a slight chuckle. “So did I.” Harry took a pull and felt lightheaded. Alex’s Winstons were much stronger than Harry’s usual brand. “So,” Alex nudged Harry aside to take the seat next to him, “What are you reading that has you so caught up?” “What?” Harry blinked and then crushed the paper into a tight ball before shoving it deep into one pocket. “Nothing. Just a bit of unwelcome past.” “I’m sorry,” Alex frowned and tossed the butt of his still smoking cigarette into the dirt, crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe. A mother gave the two a disgruntled look and ushered her children further away. “What to talk about it?” Harry shook his head, smiling slightly around his cigarette. “Not particularly.” His eyes traveled the length of Alex’s body. Alex always dressed well. He had to, what with his occupation as an accountant at some firm Harry had never bothered to remember the name of. Today was no different. A long, dark wool coat in threads of black and grey fit the contours of his body, grey slacks and polished ebony shoes showing beneath. “You look well.” Alex laughed. “You don’t.” Harry wasn’t surprised. He had thrown on some dirty clothes and forwent any attempts to tame his hair in his rush to escape the apartment. The laughter died, and Alex suddenly looked thoughtful. “No, that’s a lie. You always look good.” Harry blushed, turned away and stubbed his cigarette out on the iron arm of the bench. “I hear you’re seeing someone.” “He felt Alex’s sigh in the rough wool scraping against his thigh. “Yes.” Silence stretched for an awkward moment before Harry turned back, a forced smile on his lips. “That’s great. I’d like to meet him.” But the words somehow didn’t ring as true as they had the night before. Alex was nodding. “Coming tonight?” Harry nodded. “Then you will.” “Is he nice?” Alex laughed again and the tension faded a little. “I wouldn’t quite say that.” He watched Harry out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “You and Steve will have a field day pointing out his flaws. He’s certainly not hard on the eyes, though.” Harry smiled, far more genuine this time as the conversation turned to friends and work. Alex and Harry, while still friends, had seen less and less of each other in the subsequent months since their breakup and never one on one. It was nice. The sun had fallen beyond the horizon and street lamps touched the night with their greenish yellow glow before the two parted with a hug. Harry found his nose against the warm column of Alex’s neck, awash in the faded scent of his aftershave. With a final squeeze they pulled apart, and Harry made the long trek back to his apartment, forgetting completely his life before Philadelphia. The light was still blinking on his machine again when Harry entered the apartment, but he chose to ignore it. He hadn’t bothered to get in contact with his editor or Hermione and had no desire to ruin the night with what either had to say. Showered and shaved some time later, Harry once again stood before his closet considering each garment without touching them. He felt the urge to look nice tonight. More than nice. Gorgeous. A small part of him questioned the line of thought, but that was quickly shoved aside as he dove deep into the closet past faded t-shirts and conservative Oxfords back into the corner behind long forgotten Weasley sweaters and the black robes of his youth. With a small cry caught between apprehension and triumph, Harry slipped a single shirt from its hanger. Like molten gold, the shimmering material slid into the light, draping over his hand as if begging to be worn. Without pausing to consider, Harry slipped it over his head. The satin clung to him like a second skin, cuffs tight around his wrists, sleeves loose and billowing. He had owned the shirt from months, bought on a whim at a thrift store with Steve and then immediately stored away. It was one of those buys that left you wondering if you had been in your right mind at the time – far too flashy for Harry’s taste. Now, watching the play of light and dark in the folds, Harry saw what Steve had seen so long ago. The fit of the shirt accented his slim waist and broad shoulders, the golden sheen gave his skin a healthy glow and brought out how very dark his hair was. He rarely wore something so bold. Wouldn’t Alex be surprised? It was a moment before Harry registered that thought. He shook his head in disgust and very nearly threw the shirt back into the closet, but in the end decided to keep it. He and Alex were over and done with. It had been Harry’s decision and he would deal with the consequences, but there was no reason not to look good while doing so. He left the shirt untucked, topping the outfit off with loose black slacks and slim boots. Just as he was putting the finishing touches on his hair, opting to make the wildness look deliberate rather than continue with the futility of flattening it, the door bell rang. He met Steve downstairs, a light jacket hanging over his shoulders. “Hot damn,” Steve whistled appreciatively and stepped forward to undo another button on Harry’s shirt, nodding his approval. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it, baby.” Steve was no exception tonight. He wore a simple t-shirt that looked two sizes too small, riding up at every movement to show a hint of toned stomach. As they made their way down the now crowded streets, Steve began to laugh. Harry only lifted an eyebrow in response. “Well look at you ” Steve exclaimed, gesturing emphatically. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make someone jealous ” “Maybe I’m trying to get laid,” Harry said with a smile. Steve shook his head. “Uh huh. Sure.” At the entrance to the club, Harry suddenly stopped, laying one hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve turned to him patiently. “I ran into Alex today.” Steve blinked rapidly, his smile faltering. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “I...” He considered it a moment. “Yes. I... I just wanted to tell you.” “Hey,” Steve slung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, “Whatever you say, but if you want to get out of here, just say the word and it’s done.” Harry gave a firm nod. “Good. Now let’s have fun.” A thick fog of smoke wafted from the bar, hanging low over the ceiling. Colored lights reflected off it, tinting the crowds in violet and orange. “God, I love this place ” Steve shouted over the thrum of the speakers as a half naked man sauntered past, rich mahogany skin tinted purple in the half light. “Look at that ass,” He breathed. Harry chuckled. “You’re drooling.” Steve smirked. “Damn straight I am.” Harry shrugged. “So, go ask him to dance.” Steve nodded vigorously, took a step and then stopped. “No, I can’t. I’m here for you, remember?” Harry just rolled his eyes, giving Steve a light shove. “Go. I’ll be fine.” “You sure?” “Yes,” Harry emphasized with another push. “Look, I’m going to get thoroughly pissed right now. Just go.” With a grateful smile, Steve turned and disappeared into the crowd, but the moment he had gone, Harry felt suddenly lost. In every direction people were laughing, dancing in twos and threes, and Harry felt very much alone. He pushed his way through the crowd, the warmth of bodies simply making him colder. Once at the bar, he ordered a double shot of Vodka, downed it in one gulp and ordered another. “Harry?” The glass halted halfway to his lips. “Alex...” A strong hand grazed his sleeve, fingers trailing over the back of his hand. “Nice shirt.” Harry turned ever so slightly, eyes darting to the left and right, ascertaining that Alex was alone before making the slow ascent up his torso, black vest buttoned tight over a shirt of the deepest red, up to meet warm, half lidded eyes. Alex took a step forward so that gold satin brushed black leather. His fingers traveled back up Harry’s sleeve and around the open collar, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “I know I said you always look good, but tonight you look really, really good. Is this new?” He asked, rubbing small circles in the material. Harry shut his eyes, turned away to down his drink. “Where’s...?” “Damon?” Alex supplied. “Damon.” Harry nodded, not quite liking the sound of the name. Alex shrugged. “He’s around. You’re here.” Eyes still closed, Harry let out a shuddering breath and moved far enough away that Alex’s scent of pine trees in summer no longer permeated every breath. “I thought you said I was going to meet him.” “Hey,” Alex said, and then repeated himself until Harry would meet his eyes. “Seeing you today got me thinking. Maybe we could–“ “No.” Harry shook his head firmly. “Not tonight. Tonight I just want to have a good time.” A ghost of a smirk slid over Alex’s lips. “We could have a good time together.” “Not–“ Harry began again, but an all too familiar voice startled the words from his tongue. “Alex ” The click of boots, fast and angry. “You went off for drinks ages ago. What in Me– in God’s name are you doing?” Long, thin legs in tight jeans, sliver blue material stretched over a muscled chest. Harry’s jaw dropped, eyes traveling over pale skin, tousled blond hair falling in silver eyes in a fine boned face. “Malfoy?” Silver eyes flashed his way, lips pulled down into a scowl. He turned to Alex and then back to Harry, noticing the proximity between them. His scowl transformed into a sneer. “And who the Hell are you?” Chapter Two: Life Goes On Harry blinked, shook his head and blinked again. “What?” “Are you deaf?” The man scoffed, thin hands raising to rest haughtily on his hips. “Who are you and what are you doing with my boyfriend?” “I...” Harry stared, sensing the other’s growing impatience. It was Draco. It had to be. “It’s me.” The blond raised one delicate eyebrow. “It’s me? Not deaf then. Just stupid.” “No, I – Harry. Harry Potter.” The man lifted his chin slightly, staring down his nose at Harry. “And you are...?” “You know him?” Alex said suddenly and Harry was relieved to find a reason to take his eyes off the irate blond. “I think... I don’t know.” “Don’t tell me this moron is a friend of yours,” The man said, crossing his arms over his chest. Alex ignored him. “Harry, this is Damon, the guy I’ve been seeing. Damon, this is Harry... a friend.” Damon sighed. “Charmed.” Still somewhat lost, Harry extended a hand to Damon, which was dutifully ignored. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” “Yes, well,” Damon waved Harry off, turning back to Alex. “My drink?” “Right.” Alex was all smiles. “Damon, why don’t you take Harry back to our table? We can all get to know each other.” “Whatever,” Damon replied, spinning and taking off the way he had come. Harry ran to catch up, trailing him through the crowd. Once at the table, Damon dropped into a chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, lifting them to rest heeled boots on the edge of the table. “So...” He said after a long silence. “How do you know Alex?” Harry had not once taken his eyes off Damon. He studied him intently, and answered without much thought. “We used to go out.” “I should have known,” Damon groaned. “At least his tastes have improved since then.” Harry frowned. “You’re really not Malfoy?” Damon just stared. “You have to be.” “And why is that?” Harry gestured vaguely. “You look just like him, and... and you’re British.” Damon let out a mocking laugh. “You’re British. Are you Malfoy?” “Well, no.” Just then Alex appeared bearing not only a drink for Damon and himself, but one for Harry as well. Harry accepted with a nod and immediately downed a large portion. “Thank God you’re back,” Damon said, sitting up properly. “One more minute with this idiot and I think my brain would have turned to goo.” Alex chuckled. “I take it we’re not friends yet, then?” “If I ever become friends with that,” Damon said, gesturing to Harry with his glass, “please shoot me. Tell me all your friends aren’t this bad.” “Give him a chance,” Alex purred, nuzzling the skin above Draco’s collar. Harry suddenly felt very, very ill. “I have to go,” He said. Wooden legs scraped against the concrete floor as he jerked his chair back, jumping to his feet. The blood rushed to his head and he lay one hand against the chair back to steady himself. “What?” Alex said and Harry could swear he heard Damon mutter “Good riddance.” “But you just got here ” Alex continued, starting to stand himself, but Harry held out a hand to stop him. “Yeah, I know, I just...” Damon’s fingers curled around his glass, silver eyes studied a carving in the table. “I haven’t written anything today. My editor’s been after me to finish and suddenly I feel guilty.” “Just one more drink?” Alex pleaded. “You know, Damon’s read your book,” He said suddenly, and Damon looked up, disgruntled. “I have not.” “But..” Alex furrowed his brow, confused, “I saw it in your book case.” Damon shrugged, eyes going back to the carving in the table. “I could own it. I’m not denying that. I buy a lot of books I never read because I like the spines.” Confused, Harry forgot his escape attempt for the moment. “The spines?” Damon just shrugged again, so Alex answered for him. “Damon is an interior designer. I must admit the bookcase is rather aesthetically pleasing.” “Oh. Right. Well,” Harry fished a few bills from his wallet. “For the drink.” He nodded to Alex and held them out to him. “Tell Steve I’m sorry if you see him.” Alex accepted the money with a frown. “Fine. I’ll see you later, then?” Harry turned without answering, pushing his way back through the crowd into the crisp night air. Three days later and the red light still blinked on Harry’s answering machine. He imagined it angry now, angrier so each day the messages went unheard. The phone never range when he was home, however, just waited impatiently for him day in and day out as he bypassed the telephone. He almost bypassed the living room completely, traveling from the kitchen to the bedroom and back again. Now a familiar cardboard cup of Jamaican roast sat before him; his pen tapped useless blue dots along the edge of an otherwise blank sheet of paper. “And where the Hell have you been?” Harry didn’t bother to look up, simply dragged his cup across the table, gingerly sipping the strong and surprisingly still hot coffee before saying, “I’ve been here a while. Where have you been?” “Just got off break,” Steve replied, falling into a stiff armchair across the table. “But that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You just disappeared Friday night and never showed up for breakfast the next day. I was hoping you’d gone off with someone, but from the look on your face, I take it you’ve been sleeping alone.” Not quite alone, Harry wanted to say. Each night brought a lithe, hard eyed blond of his youth flanked by red eyes and dead bodies in the form of dreams. Instead he just shrugged. “I told Alex to tell you I’d gone.” “Never saw him.” “Oh.” Harry took another sip of coffee. Steve watched him and then leaned across the table, one hand stilling the cardboard cup on another ascent. “What happened?” Harry sighed and met Steve’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be working?” Steve tossed the question off with a wave of his hand. “They’ll get me if they need me.” Over Steve’s shoulder, Harry watched the two girls behind the counter speaking in hushed tones, smiling. His eyes drifted to the only other patron, a middle aged woman wrestling with a packet of raw sugar, and he nodded. “Well... I saw Alex and Damon.” “Damon,” Steve repeated, “So that’s his name. And?” “And...” How much to tell? “It’s strange... he reminds me of Draco – of Angel – so much that I swear it’s the same person.” “But it’s not?” “I...” Harry slipped the cup from Steve’s fingers to take a long drink. “I honestly don’t know. He didn’t seem to know me, or at least was pretending not to, but I don’t know why he would do that.” Steve though a moment and then shrugged. “If he is Angel, then maybe he just doesn’t want to see you. Maybe he’s a new person with a new life and doesn’t need to be reminded of the old one.” He smiled. “Or maybe he was abducted and now there’s an alien in his head controlling his body.” Harry snorted. “Yeah. Maybe.” “Yeah, well, fuck them,” Steve said. “You have better things to bother with. Speaking of which,” he nodded to the notebook, “Writing not going well?” Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. He was long finished the basilisk fight and was now attempting to deal with the subsequent confrontation with Lucius Malfoy. Considering recent events, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Enough about me,” Harry said, closing the book. “What happened with you?” Steve’s eyes lit up mischievously and he fingered a tasteful African pendant and the base of his throat. “Well enough I’d say.” The conversation continued to a short while and Harry left soon afterward feeling far better than when he’d stepped inside. He claimed that a change of location may help with his writer’s block, but in all truth he had nowhere he particularly wanted to be. He was, however, dying for a smoke. In the wee hours of Saturday morning he had made the trek to a 24 hour convenience store, allowing himself one pack of very light cigarettes. Now he crossed the street and took the last one from its pack, breathing in the poison with a sigh of relief. There was a small grocers two streets down where he could buy more and a fresh bag of ground coffee. He stood outside its doors watching the come and go of customers and the slow red burn of tobacco. He tried to remember the confrontation at the end of his second year, but instead of Lucius Malfoy, the only face that came to mind was his son. If Damon was indeed Draco, what reason would he have for hiding his identity? Harry could never imagine Draco living amongst muggles, as one, but it would go a long way in explaining his disappearance. And then there was Hermione’s request for him to locate Draco. Could this be a sign? So caught up in his own thoughts, it took Harry a moment to realize the face before him was real. “You shouldn’t smoke,” Damon said, the smoldering tip of a Newport protruding from between his lips. Harry raised an eyebrow and crushed the remains of his cigarette into a nearby receptacle. “Hello,” he said. Damon nodded and flicked his own cigarette onto the pavement, narrowly missing the scuffed sneakers of a young girl. They stood there for an awkward moment before Damon rolled his eyes, gesturing to the door. “Are you going in?” They entered side by side, neither speaking. Damon followed Harry through the aisles, pulling a face when Harry reached for a bag of coffee. “Barbarian,” he muttered and moved a few feet away to pull down a box of Earl Grey. “Come on,” he said, flicking his head toward the back of the store. “I need some lemons.” It wasn’t until they reached the produce section that Harry asked, “So, do you live around here?” “Close enough,” Damon replied. Harry nodded, watching Damon test each lemon, lifting one after another to his nose and squeezing gently. “Look,” Damon said, placing a final lemon in a thin plastic bag, “I have to... apologize for the other night.” He wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I was a bit of a prat.” A bit? Harry wondered, but simply said, “Apology accepted.” “Whatever.” Damon rolled his eyes, turning to stalk away in the direction of the registers. “I just figure we should get along if we’re going to be seeing each other as much as Alex implies.” They made their purchases, Harry giving in and buying a full carton of Marlboro reds. Once out on the street, Damon nodded to his right. “I have to be going.” “Me, too,” Harry said, motioning in the opposite direction. “Yes, well, I won’t say it was pleasant,” Damon replied, tapping a cigarette from his pack, “but I’m glad we talked.” He waited for Harry’s acknowledging nod and then turned to go, stopping after only a few steps to watch Harry over his shoulder. “We’re having a dinner party this Friday night, Alex and I, at his flat. Alex was planning on inviting you anyway, so I might as well do it first.” Harry contemplated the invitation for a moment, weighing the possibilities and the consequences, but ending with no real conclusion. Finally he just smiled and said, “Thank you. I’ll be there.” The light was still blinking on Harry’s answering machine as he passed it over once again to store both cigarettes and coffee in a half empty cupboard occupied by little more than sugar and salt. A shrill trill called him back, however, and he watched the light flutter angrily with every ring of the phone. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the receiver from its cradle. “Hel–“ “Harry Where have you been? I’ve left over a dozen messages ” Harry doubted that was an exaggeration. Hermione barely took a breath before continuing, not waiting for an answer. “Have you received my package? Have you read it?” “I have,” Harry assured her. “And? What do you think? Will you do it?” “Hold on,” Harry said, stretching the cord to move across the room where he settled comfortably on the couch. “I think I understand the situation, but what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” “I...” Hermione suddenly seemed at a loss for words, possibly not knowing herself what she was asking of him. “Find him? Bring him home? He needs protection now while we search for Lucius or whoever it is that means him harm.” Harry nodded slowly. “It seems more like the relatives trying to get what is lawfully theirs than Lucius come back from the dead.” “I must admit that makes more sense,” Hermione agreed, “but I don’t doubt that Ron saw what he saw. The have quite a few sightings of Lucius in the past weeks, actually, though none as detailed as Ron’s. I have to wonder what it means.” “Hmph.” Harry shook his head forgetting that Hermione couldn’t see him. “So, you will help us then?” Harry hesitated, mind jumping to Damon. If Damon was Draco, then he obviously had no desire to go back to England or his old life, something Harry understood completely. “I’ll try... I don’t know if I can get away, but–“ “Thank you ” Hermione gushed, taking his vague answer as a definite yes. Harry let her go on for a minute, grimacing with guilt at his slight deception. “On to more pleasant things, then,” Hermione continued, full of energy, “We haven’t spoken in ages, Harry. How are you? How is the book coming along? Are you seeing anyone? Honestly, I have my doubts about American women, but–“ Harry gave the softest sigh, wondering if he’d ever have the courage to tell his oldest friends that girls weren’t quite his cup of teas. He cut Hermione off mid sentence. “No, I’m not seeing anyone, and yes, the book is fine. Almost finished. I should be getting back to it, actually.” “Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl eventually. You know, there are some girls at the office.... Maybe if you came home–“ “Yes, well, I really do have to go.” There was a long pause before Hermione finally came bac, much quieter. “All right. Call me soon, okay? Especially if something comes up.” “Of course.” Short goodbyes were said, and Harry sat for a while on the sofa, the phone gone dead still held against his ear. Suddenly the dial tone kicked in and Harry stood to replace the receiver with over exaggerated care. Monday faded into Tuesday, Tuesday to Wednesday and Harry sat, day after day in the corner coffee shop, writing a sentence, possibly two, before scratching them out, shoving the notebook into his shoulder bag and heading home. Thursday was spent in the park across from Alex’s apartment watching his door, cigarettes scattered at Harry’s feet. Five o’clock came and went and Alex never returned home. Six o’clock and Harry wondered if Alex was with Damon. Seven and Harry considered just why he was waiting here, what he hoped to achieve. Eight o’clock and Harry imagined that Alex wouldn’t see his own bed that night. By nine Harry was turning the key to his own apartment. He dropped his bag by the door, peeled off his coat and fell onto the couch, contemplating exactly what he had accomplished that day, and reexamining the unanswered question of why. It wasn’t that he wanted to be with Alex. This he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Perhaps he just didn’t want anyone else to be. Or perhaps, just Draco. Because Damon was Draco. Maybe not in reality. Harry was almost certain, but without proof he wouldn’t let himself jump to that conclusion. In his mind, however, Damon DiLuce and Draco Malfoy were one and the same, the former a metaphorical reincarnation of the latter. Harry had always envied Draco his wealth, bearing, and power, and now he envied Damon simply because he had what Harry did not. Harry leaned forward, scrubbing his face with his hands. He hated this situation. How was he possibly going to get through tomorrow night? The answer eluded him the rest of the night and all through the next day. Harry joined Steve for lunch in Chinatown. They laughed at stupid things and gushed over the spices in the Singapore Mei Fun, but every second Harry could only see Alex: Alex’s eyes, hooded and inviting that night at the club, Alex nuzzling Damon’s neck. He remembered Alex beneath him, naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat on a humid August night so long ago. The image had him blushing as he stood in the cold outside with Steve in front of a pale blue door. Alex’s voice crackled through the old speaker and a buzzer sounded from somewhere inside. The climb to the fifth and topmost floor had always bored Harry, but this night he barely noticed it. Before he realized, Steve was slipping into Alex’s apartment, exchanging a brief hug with his host and handing off his coat. “Harry.” One hand extended, Alex smiled, small and content. Harry shrugged out of his coat. Alex took it, and with his unoccupied arm, gave Harry a light squeeze and pecked him on the cheek. “I’m glad you came.” Harry only nodded, averting his eyes. He watched the guests already assembled. Some he knew, some he didn’t. He counted them, if only to give himself something to keep his mind off the warm weight of Alex’s arm still resting on his shoulders. “I still want to talk.” The arm tightened ever so slightly. Harry breathed in deeply. “Where’s Damon?” Alex blinked and frowned, startled. He tilted his head, watching Harry, obviously pondering whether the question was genuine or merely a barb. He licked his lips, hazarded leaning in to reply, “Kitchen,” soft and slow, “but–“ “I think I’ll go say hi,” Harry cut him off, plastering a poor imitation of a smile on his face. He tossed off Alex’s arm and cut around him without giving him time to protest. The kitchen door was open, and Harry came to a rather abrupt halt at the threshold. Damon was indeed in the kitchen bowed low over an uncarved roast, prodding it gently with a fork. As Harry stood in the doorway just watching, Damon finished his survey, apparently satisfied, and began to slice the meat carefully before placing each piece onto a large silver platter. It was a strange sight: Malfoy cooking, if he was Malfoy. Right then Harry made up his mind to find out before the night was over. “It’s rude to stare,” Damon said suddenly, though continuing with his preparations as though Harry wasn’t there. “Sorry,” Harry said instinctively, not meaning it in the slightest. Damon looked up and frowned. “You don’t lie well.” Harry smiled. “A fact that I’m rather proud of, actually.” He moved further into the room and took a moment to look around, wondering what had changed since last he’d been there. Not much it seemed. The walls were still a tint of yellow just short of white, the counters a pleasant cornflower blue. Flour and sugar still resided in their labeled porcelain containers. It had always seemed such a typical and boring kitchen to Harry. Always clean and bright and too pastel. Damon even matched, Harry noticed absently, with his blond hair and button down that was only a shade off from the counter top. Creepy. Damon turned back to his roast. “The guests are all in the living room. I suggest you join them.” Harry nodded absently, watching Draco abandon his roast to slip on forest green oven mitts that Harry had never seen before. “I just wanted to thank you again for inviting me. You really didn’t have to. It was... noble of you.” Now inching a deep glass dish out of the oven, Damon laughed. The sound was short, mocking, and more like Draco than anything about Damon Harry has experienced thus far. “I can assure you that my intentions were far from noble.” Harry considered that and then shrugged. “I guess I’m not surprised.” There was a tension in Damon’s shoulders as he practically threw the dish down onto the stove top. “You are forgetting,” he snarled, twirling toward Harry and crossing the distance between them, jabbing at him with one finger still covered in padded dark green fabric, “that you don’t know me.” “I don’t?” Harry asked, far more calmly. “No.” Silver eyes flashed dangerously. “Get out of my kitchen.” A smile twitched over Harry’s lips. “This is Alex’s kitchen.” Without another word, Draco turned away, returning to his dinner, neck tinged pink with anger, and Harry found that he had run out of things to say. The trend ran well into dinner. Harry picked at his dinner, which, he had to admit, was absolutely delicious. Perhaps Damon really wasn’t Draco, Harry thought. He had a difficult time imagining that someone who had been catered to as long as Malfoy would be able to do such wonderfully sinful things to potatoes. He nodded and smiled throughout the first and second course, having little to contribute. He wasn’t one to keep up on politics or current trends, and so spent the evening watching Damon. Damon, as well, seemed to care very little for the conversation, though he was pulled in to a slight discussion on fashion. They wanted his “professional opinion” as a decorator on the newest designs coming out of New York. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, not even when Damon argued that rugs and lampshades were a far cry from dresses. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.” Scott nudged Harry under the table as Alex set down dessert before them: a simple baked pudding. “Yes, do tell us more about yourself,” said an older woman who Harry had learned over the course of the evening was a coworker of Alex’s. Harry shrugged, dipping his spoon through the crisp outer layer of pudding. “Not much to tell... I’m a writer....” “Oh, yes,” the woman’s husband said, “Your first book did rather well, didn’t it? Congratulations.” “Thank you.” Harry smiled politely. He felt eyes on him suddenly, looking up to find Damon watching him carefully. An idea struck him. Turning away from Damon, Harry addressed the room at large. “I’m almost finished with my next novel, actually, though I’m stuck at one part.” He could tell the interests of the older woman and her husband were waning. They had obviously mentioned Harry’s book as an ice breaker or out of courtesy. Steve and Ben, however, perked up at the chance for more information. Harry ignored them all and continued, “A friend of mind called me recently with some interesting news. A certain person who I know to be dead has apparently been seen alive and well. I’ve been having difficultly writing the scene including the character based off him.” “Oh?” Alex said with the air of someone who was politely bored. He was another one who had never shown any real interest in Harry’s books. “Who?” Steve asked eagerly. Normally, Harry would have just given him an enigmatic smile and said he would have to wait and see. Today, however, he turned to Damon saying loudly and clearly, “Lucius Malfoy.” “Malfoy...” Ben frowned. “Wasn’t Angel’s real name something like that?” “Yes,” Harry said. “It’s his father.” He could tell the news was far less impressive than anyone would have hoped. He heard somewhere in the background a vague discussion of the oddity of a dead man seen walking around, but it quickly petered out into more mundane topics, and he paid it no mind. His eyes were locked with Damon’s. Outwardly, he looked utterly disinterested, but for just a moment Harry could swear he saw a flash of emotion in those cold, silver eyes: fear. Chapter Three: Just Dance Alone on Alex’s small balcony some time later, swishing the last of his wine in a large round glass, Harry considered that one moment of fear. For him that was proof enough that Damon was Draco. Now what to do about it? A large part of him felt inclined to keep Draco’s secret. He would not tell Hermione, not until he found reason or actual concrete proof for that matter. It would be difficult to drag Draco back to England, a place where Harry would rather not go anyway. He could see no fault in attempting to protect Draco in Philadelphia. He knew well enough not to press the identity issue either. Draco might get scared and run, and Harry would have to follow. It would be much easier to watch him in familiar territory. And he would watch him, protect him. It was the least he could do. Besides, he doubted he would get much writing done until the mystery surrounding Lucius was solved. Unfortunately, the best way to protect someone was to get close to them. Harry watched Damon make small talk with the older woman through the balcony’s glass doors. Damon looked bored, and his eyes kept darting to where Alex stood chatting with Scott. As Harry continued to stare, Damon frowned and, having felt the weight of his gaze, turned his head slightly to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry gave him what he hoped amounted to an encouraging smile. Damon stared for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, before turning away to continue his conversation. Harry turned away from the doors and let his gaze linger on the street below, drinking deeply from his glass. The city was beautiful from this standpoint; the lights from the bridge shimmered in the black water of the Delaware river. White smoke curled, pink and green, in the distance. The city was very pretty at night, but Harry barely noticed, too caught up in the impossibility of befriending someone he’d really rather not. “Hey, aren’t you cold?” Harry looked over his shoulder to find Steve at the door, jacket slung over his shoulders. Harry shook his head. The night was mild for February, though admittedly still chilly. He took a sip of wine. “Well, I’m going to get going.” Steve waited after Harry had nodded, watching him. The older couple and a man Harry hadn’t bothered speaking to were leaving. “See you tomorrow?” “Of course.” Harry gave him a small smile. “Right. Well... bye.” “Bye.” The balcony door shut with a click, and Harry looked back to the city scape while he finished his wine. A moment later, however, he heard the door open again. “Really, Steve, I’m fine.” “Are you?” Harry stiffened. Strong, warm arms snaked around his chest from behind. Alcohol tinted breath floated past his cheek. “And before you ask,” Alex continued, fitting himself against Harry’s back, “Damon is in the living room, thoroughly distracted by Scott and Ben.” “Alex, don’t.” Harry made a weak attempt to move away, but he was effectively trapped between Alex and the railing. “I thought we could have our talk.” Harry sighed. “Then talk.” “I want you back.” Harry leaned as far away from Alex as was possible. He didn’t have time for this. No matter his feelings for Alex, it was long over and Harry had other things to worry about. He felt annoyance stirring into anger. “What about Damon?” “Fuck Damon. “I’m sure you have.” Alex growled, moving far enough away to spin Harry to face him and then pull him close again. The wine glass slipped from Harry’s fingers to shatter at their feet. They stood there for some time, Alex leaning his forehead against Harry’s, his breathing deep and angry. “I...” Unable to hold Alex’s gaze, Harry looked down, disturbed by the feral gleam of hope he saw there. “I don’t love you anymore.” For a fraction of a second Harry had the irrational thought that Alex was going to push him off the balcony, but the next moment Alex was pulling back, eyes closed, hands limp at his sides. “I think you do.” “I’m sorry.” “Fuck.” Alex spun, slamming one fist into the bricks beside the door. He fished in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, fumbling to get one out. In his haste the pack slipped from his grasp, hit the railing and ricocheted, tumbling to the street below. Alex punched the wall again and rested his forehead against the cold concrete. Harry frowned and took two careful steps toward him. “Hey,” he said softly and held out one hand, offering a cigarette from his own pack. Alex lifted his head from the wall. He gave Harry a long sideways glance before plucking the cigarette from his fingers. “You’re too nice.” Alex’s voice was strained. Harry imagined, with an uncomfortable sense of guilt, that he was holding back tears. He watched as Alex lit the cigarette and took a long pull. Harry ended up pulling one our for himself and slid his back down the railing to sit across from Alex. They stayed that way for some time, Harry studying the shards of broken glass like deadly confetti, smoke twisting up and out of sight. “Thank you,” Alex said at last. “And I’m sorry.” He dropped the remains of his cigarette down to the street and disappeared inside. Harry sighed and lay his head on his upraised knees. A solitary car passed beneath him. A cold breeze skimmed the balcony, scattering ash from his neglected cigarette, and Harry pondered what he was doing here. “What have you done now?” He didn’t have to look up to recognize Damon’s voice. “Nothing,” He muttered into his knees, “Go away.” “Nothing?” Damon practically screamed, “You’ve bloody well done something Alex looks as if–“ “As if what?” Harry snarled, raising his head to glare at Damon. Damon stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other flung backward in the direction of the bedroom. Scott and Ben were nowhere to be seen, and Harry realized they must have gone. Damon’s cheeks were flushed from the wine, lips pulled back into an all too familiar sneer. “Just get out.” Harry didn’t move. “Get out ” Harry had had enough. He jumped to his feet, flicking his cigarette at Damon and pushing past him into the dining room. “Fuck you, Malfoy.” He was out the door and halfway down the block before he realized what he’s said. But more importantly, he’d forgotten his coat. All things considered, he’d have preferred to let them keep and come back for it days, weeks, months later, but his wallet was in it as well as his apartment key, and oh fuck, his wand. Harry spun around, taking two steps before coming to a halt. He couldn’t go back there, not after the way he’s left, but he couldn’t go home. For ten minutes he paced the empty sidewalk, stopping every so often to glance up at the balcony. Another two minutes passed, and the dining room light went out. “Damn.” He crossed the street to the park and dropped into a child-sized swing. The rubber seat bent under his weight; supportive chains dug into his sides. He took out a cigarette and lit it, watching the shaky flame of his lighter, hands trembling from the cold. One puff and then another and Harry dug his heels into the dirt, pushing back and letting the swing fall forward again. He swung in small, slow arcs, the motion oddly calming. A door slammed somewhere nearby. Harry looked up to see a figure approaching. He passed under a street lamp, and muddy light glinted lazily off platinum hair. Heels skidded through the dirt, slowing Harry further while coughing up brown dust. “Hello,” Harry said, unwinding one hand from a freezing metal chain to take another drag on his cigarette. Damon sighed. “Take your fucking coat.” He dropped it into the dirt at Harry’s feet. “Thanks.” “Yeah.” Damon watched him as the wind caressed the grass and chilled the back of Harry’s neck and then turned and walked away. Reaching the entrance to the park, he turned left, heading away from Alex’s apartment. Harry lifted his jacket from the ground. His eyes went to Alex’s door, tinted green by the street lamps and then to Damon. He made a decision. “Hey, Mal– I mean Damon, wait up ” Damon didn’t stop, but he slowed. He was shaking his head as Harry, still pulling on his coat, caught up to him. “What is wrong with you?” The question threw Harry a little. He stopped in his tracks and then had to sprint to keep step alongside Damon. “Excuse me?” “I believe you heard me.” “I... yes. I just don’t understand.” Damon shut his eyes, still walking. His brow furrowed as if in pain. “Every time we meet you thank me.” Harry blinked, frowning. “Every time we meet you do something nice.” Damon laughed his familiar mocking laugh, and Harry found himself smiling; he was growing strangely fond of the sound. “Do you honestly believe that?” Harry took the time to consider the question. “I do,” he said at last. “I’m not a nice person.” “No,” Harry agreed, catching the hint of a genuine smile flit across Draco’s face, “but it makes the times where you are that much more special.” “Special,” Damon chuckled, “that’s me.” “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” “I know.” They walked in silence for a while, block after block before finally turning onto South Street. At this time of night South Street was still full of life. Harry moved closer to Damon to avoid a group of scantily clad girls going in the other direction. They passed the guitar shop and Harry stopped. Damon continued walking. After almost twenty feet, however, he came to a halt, and with a visible sigh turned to see what had become of Harry. “This is me,” Harry called, nodding to the alcove containing the entrance to his apartment. Damon nodded. He didn’t come any closer, but he didn’t walk away either. Harry crossed the distance between them in a few long strides. A sudden burst of wind swept the street, and Harry wrapped his arms around himself. He found he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end; Damon was being almost pleasant. “Do you want to come up... maybe?” Damon looked up at the building and then at a point somewhere over Harry’s left shoulder. “I think not.” He stayed silent as Harry nodded and then said, “I don’t live very far away. It’s on the corner of fifth.” As small as this bit of information was, it filled Harry with a warmth no coat could. Damon was trying to trust him. Becoming friends wasn’t as impossible a quest as it had seemed only an hour before. “So,” Harry said, moving to lean against the building behind them and out of traffic, “what happened after I left? Is Alex okay?” Damon shrugged. “Alex’s a mess.” “Oh.” Harry frowned, feeling a touch of guilt. Damon leaned against the wall next to Harry and watched the constant flow of people in and out of the bar across the street. “Everyone’s a mess.” It was not the most optimistic statement, but Harry had the distinct impression that Damon was trying to make him feel better. He watched the blond curiously of the corner of his eye. “Why did you leave?” When Damon just watched him, Harry tried to elaborate. “If Alex is upset, then shouldn’t you be with him now?” Damon gave a frustrated sigh and closed his eyes as another gust of wind whipped past. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” “It is if I caused it.” “Fine.” Harry groaned. “Fine?” Opening his eyes, Damon pulled away from the building and leveled a glare at Harry. “Fine, you can believe it’s your business if you like, but it’s really not.” “Oh.” Harry fell silent, which only seemed to anger Damon further. “Do you really want to know?” “No, it’s okay.” “Because if you’re dying to know then I’ll tell you.” Harry shook his head. “Come on, Malfoy, just–“ Damon was on him so quickly that Harry barely had time to register the movement. One hand clutched the collar of his shirt; hot breath sour with alcohol washed over his face. “Don’t fucking call me that.” Damon sucked in a ragged breath, and the fist curled tighter in his shirt. Silver eyes narrowed. “When you left, I tried to talk to Alex, but all he wanted from me was sex. So I left. Happy?” Harry stared back, gaze unwavering. “No.” With a snarl, Damon shoved Harry back, his thin shoulders lifting and falling with each breath. Harry frowned, suddenly disturbed that he’d unwittingly brought out this side of Damon when things had been going rather decently. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t apologize ” Damon shouted. Though the streets were filled with people, not one spared them a second glance. “But I–“ “I’m the one being an ass Why are you apologizing?” Harry shook his head, lost. Damon stepped back toward Harry, eyes bright and clear. His next words were little more than a whisper. “When I found you on the balcony, you were a right mess. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You had a right to be angry at me then and you do now. Don’t back down.” He took a step back. The corners of his mouth lifted into an almost-smile. “You’re no fun when you back down.” Harry shook his head. He had no idea what was happening. “I– I still don’t–“ Damon spun away from him then, stalking off down the street. “Good night, Potter,” He called over his shoulder. Moments later the crowd had swallowed his slight form. “... Good night....” The next morning Harry awoke to the phone ringing. The digital clock on his bedside table read 8:14. He dragged himself out of bed, reaching the phone on its fourth ring. After Damon had left last night, Harry had stayed up, sitting on the steps to his apartment, just thinking. His first thoughts were of Draco– Damon– whoever he was and his odd request: ”Don’t back down.” It seemed as though he wanted Harry to be angry with him; he enjoyed the fighting. But why? That question merely brought back the situation from earlier – the conversation with Alex on the balcony. Despite his jealously, the cause of which was still uncertain, he was positive that he’d spoken the truth when he’d told Alex he no longer loved him. But that didn’t mean he still didn’t want him. He had stayed up, curled on the steps to his apartment, ignoring the cold, unanswered questions making him more and more exhausted for close to two hours before finally heading to bed and falling into a dreamless sleep. “Harry?” Hermione said the moment the receiver touched his ear. “Hi.” “I can’t talk for long,” Hermione continued. “I’m at work, actually. My supervisors want a report on your progress.” Harry smiled. Hermione knew him well enough to know that even if he had found out some dire information he was far too lazy to send in a report of his own. “I...” he shrugged, “I haven’t found anything.” Hermione sighed. “It’s been nearly a week, Harry.” “Yeah...” Harry played with the phone cord awkwardly, staring at a speck on the far wall. He breathed in deeply, suddenly frustrated. “What exactly do you want me to do? If Malfoy’s in New York city then he’s over 150 kilometers away You can’t expect me to just drop my entire life to go chasing after him ” It was a weak argument, he knew. He had no real job to go to every day, and the trip to New York would take less than two hours. He could disappear for weeks “on holiday” and his friends wouldn’t question it. But Hermione was even one step ahead of all that. “Well, it’s a good thing Malfoy’s in Philadelphia then.” Harry felt his stomach drop down into his knees. “What?” Hermione sounded impatient. “If you had read the reports, you would know he’d been seen in New Jersey not too long ago.” “But that sighting was sketchy at best.” “Yes, well there’s more.” Damn it. “Oh?” “A wizard on the city board had a meeting with his lawyer this past Tuesday at the Greenspan law firm.” Oh fuck. Harry sank back against his desk, suddenly remembering the name of Alex’s firm. “Guess who he literally ran into in the lobby?” “Malfoy?” “Bingo.” Hermione waited for Harry to say something, but continued when he stayed silent. “I can’t imagine why Malfoy would need a lawyer, but it was him. We’re positive We don’t think he realizes he was recognized, though.” “He wasn’t going to see a lawyer, just his boyfriend,” Harry almost said, but stopped himself just in time. “We’ve been going through Greenspan’s records, but can find no mention of anyone fitting Malfoy’s description to be a client. We’re thinking perhaps he’s using magic to disguise his appearance, so we’ll start looking into cases in order to see if any of them seem like it could be him.” Harry let out a long breath, strangely relieved that the ministry was so off track. For some reason he couldn’t quite name, he really wanted to do this himself. Hermione’s line of thought reminded him of something, however. “By any chance have you looked into the relatives mentioned into the will? Victoria Malfoy?” “We have,” Hermione replied, though she didn’t sound hopeful. “Victoria was Lucius’ great uncle’s daughter. She married a man named Thornton and had one child by him. A girl.” “Thornton?” Harry frowned, knowing he’s heard the name before, but where... “Wait. Kelly Thornton?” “You got it.” He heard Hermione’s smile through the phone. “The coroner who did the autopsy on Lucius’ body. There’s more, though. Victoria divorced Thornton and remarried a man named Wallace. After that, unfortunately, we lost track of her. It seemed she moved to America. To Seattle, Washington, to be exact, but she left there a long time ago and we have no idea where she, or her children for that matter, could be now.” “Wallace...” Harry mused. It sounded familiar. “Do you recognize it?” “I’m not sure,” Harry said. He did a quick run through of the last names of his friends: Steve Winters, Alex Holten, Scott Sawyer, Ben Underwood. No Wallace, though he could swear he’s heard it in relation to one of them. “Maybe. I’ll look into it.” “Good. And please, Harry, find Malfoy.” “What?” Steve lifted an eyebrow, giving Harry a curious smile. “I...” Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just wondering.” Steve chuckled and shook his head. “It was Dougherty. What was your mother’s maiden name?” “Evans,” Harry replied, relieved. He’d been attempting to find out if the name Wallace had been connected to Steve for a quarter of an hour, but his roundabout questions hadn’t helped. In the end he had to come straight out and ask. “Now why do you need to know this?” Harry shrugged again, eyes on his cooling cup of coffee. “Running out of last names for my book.” “So, you got past the dead guy scene?” “Well... no....” “Dude, you’re losing it,” Steve laughed, picking up his apron from where he’d tossed it over the back of his stiff armchair. “Well, I have to get back to work, but... let’s do something tonight. Just you and me.” “Yeah, okay.” Harry stood and then cocked his head to one side, looking to Steve curiously. “But wait, today’s Saturday. Don’t you have a date or something?” “Nah.” Steve looped the apron over his neck and began to fiddle with the ties at his waist. “I’ve gotten bored of... of whatever his name was. It’s time for a new toy.” He smiled at Harry. “Let’s go to a club on the waterfront tonight. We haven’t been there for months.” Harry nodded and downed the remains of his coffee. “That sounds good.” Steve smirked and leaned in close enough to whisper, “And wear the gold shirt again. You looked God damned sexy in that.” Harry let out a laugh. “That would require doing laundry.” They exchanged a quick hug and agreed that Steve would call Harry after work to detail when and where to meet. In the end, Harry decided he really was too lazy to do laundry and ended up dressing in a dark green t-shirt, black jeans and heavy boots. He liked the way the shirt brought out his eyes. They shone a vibrant green behind his black wire rims. The taxi ride to the club was uneventful, and Harry found Steve inside, seated at a small table in a dark corner halfway through a large pink drink. He raised his glass in a salute to Harry. ‘Go get drunk so you’ll dance with me ” Harry doubted that would happen, but getting very, very pissed sounded like a good idea. He’s ordered and finished two shots of whiskey before ordering a rum and coke and joining Steve at his table. They spent the better part of an hour just talking as indecently dressed waiters kept their glasses full. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much. By the time Steve stood, swaying a little on his feet, and extended a hand to Harry, the room had faded to a multicolored haze. “Come on. Dance with me.” “No...” Harry smiled. Laughed. “I’m a horrible dancer.” “You are,” Steve laughed, “but you’re far too gorgeous to spend the night sitting here. Now come on.” Harry let Steve take his hands, but resisted as he attempted to pull him to his feet. Eventually Steve got him up, but he was far too unsteady, and they both ended up in a pile on the floor, laughing uncontrollably. “Ow...” Steve giggled, pushing Harry off him. “My ass...” They both dissolved into laughter again as they climbed clumsily to their feet. Steve took Harry’s hands and before he knew it, they were pushing past sweaty bodies to the middle of the dance floor. It was a fast song, loud techno with far too much bass. Harry watched Steve as he swayed with the music, throwing his arms over his head and bucking his hips to the beat, making a weak attempt to imitate the movements himself. Steve smiled at him, cheeks pink and eyes shining in the dim light. He stopped for only a moment to grab Harry’s hips, leading him, showing without words how to move. And it almost worked. The moment Steve let go, however, Harry got lost, forgetting the rhythm. Steve steered toward Harry again, but a pair of strange hands wound into Steve’s shirt and he ended up dancing away with this man and then another, eyes closed, lost in the music, Harry long forgotten. “This is the most definitely the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” Harry stopped his disjointed movement and looked over his shoulder, blushing so deeply he feared even his feet were red. Damon approached him, slipping through the maze of bodies until they stood toe to toe. They stayed that way, eyes locked, Damon’s shoulders twisting to the music, feet tapping impatiently. Eventually his eyes slid closed, hands slipped up leather clad thighs over his hips toward the pale expanse of toned stomach. His black button-down hung loose and open. His chest heaved as his breath hitched. Harry found himself captivated by the way the muscles in his torso moved as Damon began to dance in earnest. “Dancing is like sex,” Damon murmured, his voice barely audible over the pulsing music. His eyes half opened and he smirked at Harry. “Though I can’t imagine you’re very good at that either.” Harry gave a smirk of his own. “Never had any complaints.” “Oh?” Damon smiled now, full and luxurious. He backed up a step, brushing the hair out of his eyes, hips still moving to the music. “Then prove it.” Had he been even remotely sober, Harry might not have understood Damon’s meaning, but as it was, the urge to prove himself was already running strong in his veins. He let his eyes roam the delectable body before him, memorizing every inch of it. Then he closed his eyes and danced. His hips rocked back and forth in time to the music, head tossed back, imagining Damon’s eyes on him. He’d never lost a competition to the blond and he wasn’t about to start. He imagined he was flying, twisting and turning in the blue expanse of sky, the snitch hanging just out of reach. “Not bad, Potter.” Harry felt hands on his hips sliding against the kind above his jeans. He opened his eyes. Damon slid his arms around Harry’s waist. The song had ended, a new one begun much slower. Damon began to sway to the sultry beat, talking Harry with him. Silver eyes shone. “Dance with me.” Despite himself, Harry leaned into the touch, hands sliding up Damon’s bare torso. “You’re drunk,” came his weak protest. “So are you.” In his inebriated state, Harry found this argument too good to resist. He lay his head against Damon’s shoulder, letting him guide them. It had been far too long since Harry had been touched, caressed, and he practically purred as Damon’s hands slid over his back under the thin material of his shirt. Suddenly Damon was pulling back, but a moment later he had spun Harry and fitted them tightly together so that they moved as one from shoulder to hip. “Much better.” Harry could hear Damon’s smile, taste it as the other pressed his cheek to Harry’s. They moved in tandem, Harry following Damon’s lead on instinct. Damon was toying with the lip of Harry’s jeans. Harry slid his fingers under the cuffs of Damon’s shirt, feeling each and every soft hair on the back of his wrists. “What are we doing, Draco?” Harry turned his head slightly. He could feel Damon’s lips move against his cheek as he answered. “We’re dancing.” “But...” For some reason he couldn’t quite remember this was wrong. Very wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be dancing with Damon, enjoying the feel of hard muscled hips against his ass. He searched his mind as quickly as the alcohol allowed, pouncing on the first thought to surface. “But aren’t you with...” Fuck. What was his name? “... your boyfriend?” Damon laughed, his chest rumbling against Harry’s back delightfully. The movement traveled around his rib cage and up his throat as Harry laughed with him, not knowing why. “Not tonight.” “But we’re not supposed to be dancing.” Damon was a long time in answering, and they rocked together, his arms tightening around Harry’s waist. “No, I suppose not.” Yet they stayed that way until the song ended, moving slowly, calmly, lost in the haze of alcohol and the sound of the music. The song ended and another started, fast and angry. Damon back off and without the warmth and the scent of patchouli that seemed to cling to every inch of him, Harry’s mind cleared a little, but not enough to stop his next words. “I know who you are.” Damon didn’t answer. Harry turned to face him. Damon’s eyes were closed, the corners of his lips tilted down in a slight frown. Harry closed the distance between them and laid one hand on Damon’s shoulder. “It’s not a threat. I just thought you should know. There are things happening. Things we need to discuss.” “Don’t.” Damon’s frown became more pronounced, and though the word was not spoken, it hung in the air, causing Harry a moment’s hesitation: ”Please.” “I’ve run away, too, Draco,” Harry murmured, bringing up his other hand to curl around Damon’s arm. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, but–“ “Don’t,” Damon said again, low and harsh. His eyes flickered open, dark in the half light and very angry. His gaze darted from one of Harry’s hands to the other, and suddenly he looked crazed, desperate. He jerked back, breaking contact. “Draco–“ “My name is Damon DiLuce. Not Draco. Not Malfoy. I don’t know what kind of fixation you have with this man, but I’m not him.” Harry could swear he heard the echo of a whispered “not anymore,” but it may have just been hope or his desperate mind playing tricks. Harry shook his head, moving toward Damon as the other continued to back away. He could sense his own growing frustration around the alcohol. “What do you have to lost by confiding in me?” “Confide in you? I don’t know you ” And this, at least, was true. Whether Draco or Damon, Harry had never had a conversation with him that had delved any deeper than insults and idle threats. “Then get to know me.” They continued to move, Harry forward, Draco backward, the crowd parting before them until Damon bumped into the far wall. His eyes dashed left and right, searching for escape. His chest, still gleaming with sweat in the dull colored lights of the club, expanded with a deep sigh and Damon met Harry’s eyes. His voice was quiet, but hard, cold. “Why couldn’t we just dance?” A confused smile flitted over Harry’s lips. “I don’t get you.” “I think we’ve already established that.” Damn it, Draco, I’m just trying to help you ” “Damon ” Damon screamed, and then his voice lowered dangerously. “I never asked for your help and I sure as Hell don’t need it.” “Will you just fucking listen?” “No,” Damon snarled, “you fucking listen.” His voice was calm, eyes glinting as if tempered steel. One finger lifted to jab at Harry’s chest. “I said I don’t want your help, and I’m not one of your bloody charity cases. I don’t need saving.” Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Damon cut him off with a sharp slap, stinging his cheek. He continued angrily, “Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking.” His knuckles were white, fists trembling. “This is my life,” he said, arms swinging wide to indicate nothing in particular, “I’m happy here.” “I don’t think you are.” “Shut up.” Harry shrugged, calmed by Damon’s anger. “You wouldn’t smoke if you were happy.” “Fuck you.” “I’m not happy,” Harry continued, moving closer so that their chests brushed. “I’m happier here than in England, but I doubt I’ll ever be truly happy. Not with all I’ve seen and done. Neither will you.” “Fuck you,” Damon repeated, practically spitting the words. “Just let me talk to you.” Harry risked putting his hand back in Damon’s shoulder. Damon flinched, but did not remove it. “I understand that you don’t want... don’t need my protection, and that’s fine. Still, you should be warned.” Damon heaved another sigh, and for the briefest moment Harry thought he would give in. And then: “Get away from me.” “What?” “You heard me.” Damon shoved Harry’s hand off and scooted around him, heading for the exit. “Damon, wait ” Harry called after him. Damon kept walking and was soon swallowed by the crowd. With a cry of frustration, Harry started after him. And then everything went black. Chapter Four: The Way Things Are A woman screamed. Bodies jostled him in confusion. The music came to an abrupt halt, and a deep voice layered over the room. “Just a power outage, folks. The lights should be back on momentarily.” Harry swore and darted back across the room, shoving past bodies that were reluctant to move. In the dark he accidentally slammed into the wall and skidded back a few feet. He turned, reaching out blindly to begin searching tables for his things. He knocked over a glass, poked a woman who shrieked. “Please remain calm,” the voice sounded again, “Our back up generators should kick in any second.” With a cry of relief, Harry ran his hands over the creased and worn leather of his jacket. He searched the pockets: keys, wallet, and wand were surprisingly still inside. The lights flickered on. Harry pushed through the dazed, unmoving club-goers. The music started up again, but was immediately shut off as the DJ attempted to soothe the crowd. Harry ran out the doors into the crisp night. He scanned the streets. Lights down the row were turning on. Cars swarmed in the streets, and about a block away to his right, Harry thought he saw a blond head as it rounded the corner. “Damn,” Harry mumbled and took off after him at a run. Turning the corner, he stopped. Two girls who were most likely prostitutes laughed on the corner. Three large men huddled further away, speaking in whispers, and people of every shape and size milled about, crossing back and forth across the street, ignorant of disgruntled drivers and blaring horns. No Damon. Harry started down the sidewalk anyway, walking quickly, stopping to glance at every blond. The three large men crossed the street before him, heading into an alley across the way. He rushed past them and then paused, backpedaling furiously. Deep in the alley, pale light glinted off white blond hair for only a moment before the figure was swallowed in darkness. Harry practically threw the men aside in his rush to get to Damon. They alley was dark with no street lamps, only the blue light of television sets through cracked windows allowed him to see at all. And just beyond, barely indiscernible from the black buildings around him was Damon. Harry heaved a sigh of relief and ran to catch up. Damon was walking quickly, but Harry soon overtook him, pausing in his path, doubled over, hands on his knees as he panted. “Damon.” “Leave me alone.” Damon wove around him and continued walking. Harry groaned and turned to follow, his body protesting. “Damon, wait.” He snatched at the blond’s arm, but Damon jerked away. “Damn it, Damon, stop.” Damon continued to move away, his laughter echoing off dilapidated buildings. “Well, since you asked so nicely....” Harry growled and took off after him, stumbling after a few steps as pain shot through his side. He stopped and sucked in ragged breaths through his mouth. “Please....” “Yeah, Damon. Stop. Please.” The unfamiliar voice caused Harry to choke on his next words. Surprisingly Damon stilled as well. A sharp click reverberated down Harry’s spine, and cold metal pressed against his temple. He dared not utter a word as his eyes slid over the cracked pavement, over dirty sneakers and up torn jeans to the gun pointed as his head. It was suddenly difficult to swallow and even harder to breathe. Another man materialized from the shadows and then a third: the three large men from before. They must have been following Damon. And no wonder; Damon’s clothing, while not uncommon, were obviously expensive. From his hair to his coat to his posture, he screamed money, and here he was, walking all alone in a dark alley. “Leave him alone.” There suddenly came the feverish click of boots on blacktop and Harry realized Damon was coming back. The cool touch of steel left his temple, and the gun swung outward, aiming at something beyond Harry’s vision. Damon, presumedly. The footfalls slowed, stopped. “Stop right there,” The gun with the man attached to it said. “Just give up your money and no one gets hurt,” another one spoke up. With the gun trained on Damon, Harry found the will to move. His right hand slid under the folds of his coat, fingers flexing toward his inside pocket. “Don’t move.” Another click and Harry felt rather than saw the second gun aimed at him. “I’m just getting my wallet,” Harry said slowly. He stopped and waited. The second gun approached him and flung his hand away, reaching into the pocket himself. Fuck. He pulled a face, extracting the length of mahogany. “What the–“ What happened next was pure instinct. Harry wrenched his wand from the man’s loose grip and then dropped and rolled to one side. There was a bright flash and a deafening boom as one gun went off. Then he was on his knees, wand pointed at three startled faces. He shouted a curse, two, three, and watched as one man fell after another. When the last man had hit the ground, body bound by some unseen force, Harry simply sat and breathed. He felt lightheaded with adrenaline. A soft groan sounded from behind him, and he spun around, shooting to his feet, absently noting that he’d placed himself between Damon and their attackers. He remembered the gunshot and his eyes went wide. “Damon?” Damon, however, was far from hurt. He threw his head back, hands balled into fists. “I can’t believe I let you save me.” Harry smiled, almost laughed. “Then help me out now. Let’s apparate these guys to the nearest police station. I’m sure they’ve got an outstanding warrant or two. Where’s your wand?” Damon shrugged, looking past Harry to the men still silently struggling. “I don’t carry it on me.” “You don’t carry it... on... you?” The question had started out angry, accusing, but as the last word was spoken, a broad grin broke out across Harry’s face. Damon turned annoyed silver eyes his way. “No, I do– oh fuck.” “Why Damon,” Harry laughed, sauntering up to him, “I didn’t know you had a wand.” “Shut up.” “Really,” Harry tilted his head to one side in feigned confusion, “you don’t fancy yourself some sort of wizard or something, do you?” “Fuck off, Potter,” Draco growled, shoving past him toward the busy street beyond. Harry continued to laugh. With a casual flick of his wand, he dissaparated the three men, not really caring whether they reappeared in one piece. He trailed Draco back to the main street and watched as he hailed a cab. The driver looked to them through the rearview mirror. Harry looked to Draco, but he was staring at his feet muttering, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” over and over again. Harry sighed and rattled off his address. The taxi moved sluggishly through the streets. A siren blared in the distance, and Draco continued to mumble curses under his breath. They eventually arrived on South Street and exited the taxi, Harry paying the driver as Draco waited patiently beside him. “What is wrong with you?” Harry asked once the car had pulled away. He fished in his pocket for his keys. Draco only shook his head, but followed Harry dutifully up the narrow staircase to his upstairs apartment. Harry dropped his coat on the chair by the door and went into the kitchen. He could hear Damon moving around the living room. There was the click and swish of a lighter and Draco sighed deeply. Harry reached for the bag of coffee and then paused. “I don’t have any tea,” he called out, “Is coffee okay?” “Do you have alcohol?” came the sullen reply. Harry sighed, but turned to the next cabinet and pulled out a half empty bottle of rum along with two squat glasses. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough to drink tonight?” “No.” And Harry silently agreed. He reentered the living room to find Draco staring out one small window. He poured them each a drink and then handed one to Draco, watching him flick ashes onto the rug. “Hey ” Draco shrugged, accepting the drink. “You need a new carpet anyway.” So Harry left him alone. He dropped onto the couch and downed his drink, before automatically reaching for the bottle. “Aren’t you bothered that we’re so calm?” Harry finished his second glass with a smile. “You call this calm?” Draco shrugged again and moved to sit next to Harry. He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table and took a small sip of rum. “We were nearly mugged, at gun point no less, and two seconds later you were laughing at me. I find that odd.” “Is that why you’re so upset?” Harry asked, taking a long pull straight from the bottle, “Because I laughed at you?” Draco sighed. “Asshole.” Harry gave him a sardonic smile. “But no, that’s not why I’m so upset.” “Then why?” Draco shook his head, eyes drifting around the room. “This really is a horrid apartment, you know. You should let me design something for you.” “Malfoy...” There was a warning tone in Harry’s voice, but he couldn’t help but smile, finding comfort in freely calling his nemesis by his real name. Draco finished his drink and held his glass out for Harry to refill. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. He kicked off his boots and threw socked feet up onto the coffee table, leaning back into the soft cushions of the couch. “After that last battle, I was done: done with magic, done with England, done with you.” Harry perked up curiously at that last part, but Draco simply ignored him and continued. “I’d killed my own father for Merlin’s sake, and all anyone could do was praise me as some sort of bloody hero. “So I came here. I went to school, a muggle one where no one would recognize me. I stopped living for my father and started living for myself, going into design. I loved it and I never once had to compare myself to you. It was... nice.” Harry sat completely still now, just listening. He dared not make a sound for fear that Draco would stop. Draco’s eyes were closed, hands in his lap, cradling his drink. “Everything was fine for so long and then that... that girl found me. She said that everyone had been looking for me. She wanted my fucking autograph. So I ran. I had to. I wasn’t about to go back to all that. “For the first time I found myself thinking of you... pitying you. Mere months of fame had driven me to the God damned muggle world, and you had been dealing with it your entire life. “I ran. I moved here. I rebuilt my life... and found you.” Now Draco’s eyes opened and he turned slightly to watch Harry. “I was... angry doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. I think I actually considered killing you once.” Harry gave him a small smile. That would have been fun. Draco had turned away to stare at the far wall, slowly spinning the glass in his hands. “I expected the Ministry to come knocking on my door for days, but they never did. And then I ran into you in a muggle-fucking-grocery store of all places, and I thought maybe you weren’t going to turn me in. Maybe... maybe you were hiding, too.” Draco sighed very deeply. “Then you went and mentioned my father at dinner last night and I didn’t know what to think.” “Malfoy, about that–“ But Draco held up one hand, stopping him. A wry smile strained his features. “Remember what happens when you interrupt me? I’m not finished yet.” Harry nodded and settled back to listen. Nodding himself, Draco frowned as if trying to remember his next words. “We talked...” “Talked?” Harry couldn’t help himself. He laughed, earning a disapproving glare from Draco. “We fought, all right? And I... I realized... damn.” Damon lifted his glass to his lips, downing the bitter drink in one swallow. Harry watched him, waiting impatiently for him to continue. When he didn’t, Harry dared speak up, voice soft and low. “What did you realize?” “I...” Draco’s eyes darted to him and then quickly away. He scowled and snatched the bottle out of Harry’s hands to refill his drink. “Don’t sound so pathetic, Potter. I’m not a child. I won’t be tricked into telling by a sappy tone.” Harry grinned. He’d expected no less. “So you’re afraid, then?” “Afraid ” Draco cried. He thrust the bottle back at Harry and jumped to his feet, rounding on him. “Me? Afraid? Of course not I... I... I missed it, all right?” He tore his gaze away from Harry and began to pace, gesturing emphatically with his glass, ignorant of the alcohol sloshing over the edges. “I haven’t had a fight like that in ages. No one gets to me like you do and it was really...” He shook his head and growled softly, “it was really nice in a very twisted way. It scared– I didn’t want–“ He stopped in his tracks and met Harry’s eyes. “That’s why I went all the way to the waterfront tonight.” Harry was confused. “You knew I’d be there?” “No, you idiot I knew– thought I knew– that you wouldn’t be there. I had to get away from you, but somehow you’re everywhere.” Harry blinked. “Oh.” Despite their continued drinking, the night’s events were coming back into focus. At Draco’s mention of the waterfront, Harry remembered dancing, Draco’s hands, the scent of patchouli. From the blush slowly creeping up Draco’s neck, he had remembered as well. It seemed so long ago. His cheeks burned. “We were drunk.” Draco didn’t answer, but Harry thought he saw a ghost of a smile, the illusion of gratitude. “Yes, well...” Draco ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his face. He regained his seat by Harry and placed his glass on the table, reaching for his cigarettes. Harry decided to join him in that particular vice. “Tell me about my father.” Harry sucked on his cigarette for a full minute without answering. He wasn’t adverse to the change of topic; he just didn’t know how to begin. “It’s not really your father I’m worried about,” he said at last. He idly ripped at the paper around the filter. “I think he’s a distraction.” Draco was visibly relieved. “Then my father’s not after me?” “I don’t think so,” Harry murmured. He lifted his gaze to Draco’s. “I don’t think it’s even really your father.” Draco’s eyes narrowed curiously and Harry settled back to tell his story. He told Draco what he’d learned from Hermione: about the coroner and Ron’s report. Draco listened intently without comment. When Harry had finished, he nodded and spoke almost to himself. “My father’s not one for holding meetings in alleys in the middle of the night; that kind of thing was saved for Sunday breakfast. Besides, if he really is supposed to be dead, he wouldn’t let someone like Weasley see him.” “Then you agree?” Harry asked “It’s not your father?” “I do.” Draco gave Harry a sidelong glance. “Who’s really after me?” “Other relatives, I’d bet. They were cheated out of a lot of money.” Draco was nodding again. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes on some indistinct point. “I’ve been expecting this. Malfoy’s don’t give up without a fight, and they’re in America... on the other coast if memory serves me, but if they found me here...” “Someone knows where you are.” At Draco’s questioning look, Harry stood and retrieved the packet of papers Hermione had sent him from his bureau. He let Draco peruse them and sat back to watch silently, finishing one cigarette and lighting another. “Anything useful?” Harry asked when Damon put the papers down and reached for his own pack of cigarettes. He’d let the last one burn to ash in the dish. Draco shrugged. “I’m too tired for this.” “We can discuss it tomorrow,” Harry offered, “after breakfast.” Draco started to nod again and then stopped, looking to Harry quizzically. “Why not during breakfast?” “Can’t,” Harry replied. “I’m meeting Steve. It’s tradition.” At Draco’s raised eyebrow, Harry smiled. “We always meet for breakfast the morning after going out to discuss our...” He gestured vaguely, searching for the right word. “...conquests.” “I see.” Draco gave him an amused grin. He stood and stretched. The VCR was blinking 12:00. “Hey.” Harry stood, blocking Draco’s exit. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? You could join us for breakfast tomorrow... if you like.” Draco watched him. “I wouldn’t be imposing?” “No,” Harry said, “I’m inviting you.” Draco considered this a moment, gaze trailing over the couch. “Steve’s that flamboyant fellow, right?” Harry smiled. He awoke the next morning with the sun high in the sky, bathing him in warmth from between the slats in the blinds. He heard movement in the next room and sat up, startled, before he remembered that Draco had slept on the couch. Harry relaxed. He idly remembered what time it was, regretting having not reset the clocks before going to bed. Assuming it was still before eleven, he stretched and left the bed to pad barefoot into the bathroom, gaudy red and gold flannel pants hanging from his hips. Draco was seated on the couch in the living room, and it looked as though he had been up for some time. He sat watching the morning news dressed in a faded pair of jeans and olive sweater Harry had leant him the night before. Harry and Draco were about the same size, but the sweater was a bit large on Draco. He looked adorable lost in the dull green folds. A steaming cup of something or other was nestled between his long pale fingers. Draco glanced Harry’s way and then turned back to the news. “I stole your keys and went to the store for tea. I hope you don’t mind.” Harry shrugged and moved toward the kitchen. “There’s a cup for you.” “Thanks.” A few minutes later he was falling onto the couch, sipping his black tea. Not nearly as good as coffee, but it would do. “Anything good?” Harry nodded toward his little used television set. “There was something on the blackout,” Draco replied. “They’re not sure what caused it. Apparently half the city went down but only for a few minutes.” Harry nodded, not really interested. On the television screen a dark haired woman droned on and on. “I hate the news,” Harry said suddenly. “It’s far too depressing.” Draco sighed. “Life is depressing.” They sat for a few minutes more. The news continued to play, punctuated every so often by the chink of porcelain mugs setting down and lifting off the table. “I take it we’re not going to breakfast?” Draco asked, breaking the silence. Harry shrugged, smiled. “Breakfast isn’t until eleven on Saturdays.” “And here I thought we’d be eating before noon. Silly me.” “Well, I should get ready now or we’ll be late,” Harry replied, noting the time displayed on the news program. He stood, leaving his half full mug on the table, and motioned toward the television set. “Tell me if anything interesting happens.” It was almost ten after eleven by the time they stepped through the door of the coffee shop, and Draco was still berating Harry, as he had the entire walk there, on the impudence of making someone wait. Harry shoved Draco playfully. “Shut up, Malfoy.” “It’s Damon in public,” Draco reminded him. Steve’s eyes widened comically when he caught sight of them. He looked back and forth between them and then addressed Harry. “Did you....” he trailed off, gesturing at Draco. Harry laughed, dropping into a chair across from Steve. “Oh good God, no.” Steve was visibly relieved. “I was going to say....” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t go over well with Alex if you got over him with his boyfriend.” Draco smirked. “Still have a thing for Alex, do you?” Harry threw Draco a warning look, and Steve laughed. “Oops. Sorry?” Harry sighed, but smiled. “No, it’s okay.” He turned to Draco. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not out to break you two up.” “Yeah, that’s great,” Steve leaned forward, forcing himself into the conversation, “so you guys didn’t screw, but then what did happen last night? Don’t think I didn’t notice Damon wearing your clothes.” “Oh, that...” Harry frowned, wondering what, exactly, to tell. Between the dancing, the magic and Damon’s true identity, it was going to be hard to stick to the truth. Luckily, Draco saved Harry from have to come up with a plausible explanation. “Well, we met at the club, and we did leave together. Potter, of course, decided to pick a fight, and then we were mugged, and by that–“ “Holy shit You got mugged?” Harry shook his head. “It was an attempted mugging. We’re fine.” “Yes,” Draco said, obviously put off at being interrupted. “As I was saying, by the time everything was over, I was far too tired and drunk to go home, so Harry valiantly let me sleep on his couch.” “Damn.” Steve looked to Harry. “Every time we go out something bad happens. Maybe we should think about staying in.” Harry thought about that, a smile creeping across his lips. “It’s not all bad. Damon and I aren’t at each other’s throats anymore.” Steve laughed. “Won’t Alex be happy?” Though he didn’t show it, Harry wasn’t quite sure of that. In fact, he would be willing to bet that Alex would react in a decidedly bad manner. It was obvious he didn’t care for Damon as if they were in a serious relationship, and he certainly didn’t feel for him the way he felt for Harry. If Harry and Damon started spending time together... well, Harry wasn’t sure what Alex would think, but he did have a suspicious mind as Harry well remembered. Not only that, but it would be difficult to pursue a relationship with Harry while still dating Draco, not if the two became friends. Friends. The thought caused Harry’s smile to widen as he watched Draco lick whipped cream from his upper lip some time later. While Harry remained lost in thought, Draco conversed with Steve, arguing the good and bad points of both coffee and tea while rating the men who wandered in and out of the café. Draco seemed so... so normal. Who’d have thought it? Harry pondered, taking a bite out of his over priced deli sandwich, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter: friends. Not that he’d categorize them as such. Not yet, though they were damn close. “So, what’s got you smiling?” Steve asked, turning away from the solid eight that had just walked out the door. Harry considered the question, and then his smile widened. “Just thinking how darling Damon looks in my sweater.” “Oh, shut up.” Draco scowled. “I can’t wait to go home and get into some decent clothes.” “Hey ” Harry tried to act offended, but failed miserably, bursting out laughing as Draco picked at a loose stitch in the sweater and raised one eyebrow as if to say ‘You’re defending this?’ Steve shook his head. “I feel like I’m in the twilight zone. I thought you two hated each other.” “Oh, we still hate each other,” Draco replied, smirking. And Harry had to wonder if that were really true. It must be, he decided; a decade and a half of bad blood didn’t resolve itself in one night. “I think we’re just having a good morning,” he put in thoughtfully, “but I also think hate is too strong a word.” Draco met his eyes, giving him an odd look. “Perhaps it is.” Harry nodded, eyes still locked with Draco’s, almost forgetting Steve was there. “It doesn’t feel like hate anymore, does it?” “No, it doesn’t.” “Is that possible?” Before Draco could answer, Steve laughed, startling them. “You two act like you’ve known each other for years, not weeks.” A small part of Harry’s mind pointed out that it had been less than two weeks since he actually bothered to get to really acquaint himself with Draco, and even now he felt he barely knew the man. Their years at school had been spent on opposite sides of a false wall of prejudice and assumptions, neither willing to look at each other in any other way. Still... “It feels like it.” Draco nodded his agreement and then shook himself, breaking eye contact. “I think it’s time for me to go home.” “Now?” Harry frowned. “We still have to talk.” Draco sighed and stood, slipping into his coat. “I really do have to get out of these clothes,” he protested. He was avoiding the conversation, denying that he was in danger. It frustrated Harry to no end. “Fine.” Harry stood as well, scrounged around in his pocket until he found a pen and grabbed Draco’s hand. “You’re calling me later.” He pulled Draco toward him, ignoring his cry of anger and jotting down the numbers onto his palm. Draco sneered at the blue ink in disgust. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, “I really do hate you.” Harry watched him go, falling heavily into his seat only after Draco had disappeared from view. Steve cleared his throat and Harry looked up to find himself under curious scrutiny. “What the Hell was that?” “I...” Harry blinked. That display hadn’t looked nearly as innocent as if really had been. “Erm...” “You are going to tell me right now,” each word was punctuated with a sharp tap to the table top with one forefinger, “exactly what happened last night.” “I told you ” Harry exclaimed, “We were mugged ” “And...?” “And nothing. Nothing happened.” Steve rolled his eyes, exasperated. “You’re telling me that you two came in here all smiles, wearing each others clothing, desperate for time alone to talk and nothing happened?” “To be fair,” Harry retorted, a weak smile on his lips, “Damon is the only one not wearing his own clothes.” “Harry ” Harry sighed. He desperately wanted to trust Steve. He wanted, no, needed someone to confide in, rant to, someone to beg for advice without having to hide his sexuality or his past. Still, there was the slightest chance that Steve was related to what was happening with Draco, and even if he wasn’t, Harry had little hope that Steve would believe a history filled with dragons and dark lords. Steve was presenting, however, the perfect opportunity to discuss something that had been bothering him since last night. “Well... something... might have happened--” “I knew it ” “–but we didn’t have sex or anything like that ” Harry finished quickly. “We just... danced.” Steve raised an eyebrow. “Danced? Or danced?” The latter was accompanied by a nod of the head and a smile leaning more towards a leer. Harry felt his cheeks go hot. “The second one. Maybe.” Steve nodded eagerly. “All right. And then what? Go on.” “Well, we left the club, got mugged, and by that point the mood was pretty much ruined.” It was true enough. “So we went back to my place and just... talked.” Steve frowned. “Talked? Like real talking?” “Yeah. That’s it.” “Oh.” Steve stared. “So... if that’s all, then why do you want to spend time with him so badly?” And that was the question. Harry did want to see Draco again, spend time with him, but it was difficult to sort out if was business, pleasure, or simply nostalgia that had him craving Draco’s attention. Finally he shrugged and replied, “We never finished the conversation.” “Ah...” Steve nodded knowingly. “You like him.” In that way? The dancing may have been nice, but any warm body would have elicited the same reaction. Harry shook his head. “I have no idea.” “Well, for your sake,” Steve said, lifting his cardboard cup in a mock salute, “I hope all that real talking turns into metaphorical talking. We still need to get you laid, remember.” Harry gave him a confused grin. “You’re saying you want me to steal Alex’s boyfriend?” Steve smiled back. “Hey, you said it, not me.” His voice lowered considerably then, and he looked quite content. You’re my best friend, you know. Not Alex. I just want you to be happy.” Harry entered his apartment to find the phone ringing. He shoved his keys back inside his pocket and crossed to the phone, not bothering to remove his coat. “Hello?” The voice that answered was strained. “Harry?” Harry blinked and then smiled. “Malfoy? What’s up? When I gave you my number, I didn’t expect you to call right away. Did you want to talk now?” “I have been calling you,” Draco replied quietly, “over and over for the past half hour.” Harry’s smile dropped. “You have?” “Yes.” “I, er, I just got back from breakfast.” “Oh.” In the silence that followed, Harry could hear unfamiliar voices in the background. A spike of fear shivered down his spine. “Malfoy... where are you?” “Home.” “Is everything all right?” “Oh,” Draco replied as if suddenly remembering why he was calling, “no, it’s not.” “What is it?” Harry clutched the phone tightly, knuckles white. “What’s happened?” “I...” Draco hesitated and then laughed uncertainly. “I don’t even know why I’m calling you.” “Just tell me what happened.” “I was robbed.” “Robbed?” Harry let out a long breath. “Is that all?” He wanted to laugh; he wanted to scream. He had imagined far, far worse. “Is that all?” Draco cried indignantly, and he suddenly sounded more like himself than he had the entire conversation. “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” Harry meant it, though he found it hard to keep from smiling; his relief was almost tangible. “I was just worried that it might have something to do with... you know, everything.” There was a long pause. “I believe it does.” “What?” Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Why?” “Just get over here. Now.” He sighed, dragged his hand through his hair. “Tell me where. I’ll apparate over straight away.” “You can’t. There’s–“ his voice dropped to a near whisper. “There are muggle police here. Walk over. It’s not far.” Draco said his address and the receiver had barely touched the phone base before Harry was off, scrambling in the pile of coats before remembering he hadn’t taken his off. His hand was on the door know when the phone rang again. Harry groaned and went back to pick it up. “Malfoy?” “Malfoy?” The voice on the other end repeated. “Hermione ” Fuck. “Hi.” He could hear the frown in her voice. “Why did you say Malfoy, Harry? Have you found him?” “I...” Shitshitshit. “No, I... Hermione. Why are you calling?” “You said Malfoy,” Hermione said, pressing on, “Why did you say Malfoy? What’s going on?” “I...” Harry muttered a few choice swears under his breath. He didn’t have time for this, and suddenly the truth seemed like the best excuse. “I really, really can’t talk now. One of my friends is in trouble, and I have to go to him.” “Oh.” Hermione paused. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and make this quick, then. I would let you go, but I think this is really important and I have to tell you and–“ “Hermione,” Harry growled, patience wearing thin. “Right. Yes. There was a blackout last night in Philadelphia. Did you know?” She called me for this? Harry sighed. “I live here, remember?” “Oh, right, well, I don’t know if you watch the news, but the muggles are saying they don’t know what caused it. They don’t, but we do. “What are you talking about?” “Harry, that blackout was no accident.” Chapter Five: What Do I Have to Do? Harry stood outside the door to Draco’s apartment, cigarette burning to ash between his trembling fingers. He’d explained to the police no less than ten times that he was Draco’s friend, that he’d been asked to come over, but they still insisted on questioning him about everything from his birthdate to his whereabouts last night. He explained that not only had he been across town, but he’d been with Draco the entire night. Finally they let him pass once the story checked out against Draco’s version of events. During the interview his mind kept skipping to the conversation he’d had with Hermione only moments before. ”That blackout was no accident.” When Hermione had explained the cause, Harry had almost burst out laughing. Someone had set loose a dozen Cornish pixies inside the power plant. The method, though crude and rather childish, was quite effective. The muggles who had discovered the pixies had their memories modified while the damage was being repaired, resulting in the vague report that morning. What was truly frustrating was that since no magic had been used there was no magical signature left and no way to trace the saboteur. He had left no fingerprints. For all they knew he may no even be a wizard, but it was a he. This was the only thing the authorities were even remotely sure of. The plant’s security cameras had picked up a figure cloaked head to toe in black robes. He wore a hood, obscuring his features, but from the build and the way he moved they doubted it was a woman. The news of sabotage had disturbed Harry to his core, and he had nearly told Hermione about Draco. The combination of the blackout and the robbery were far too coincidental to be just that. As much as he wanted to protect Draco’s secret and keep him out of England, Harry was starting to wonder if he’d gotten in over his head. But first he needed to talk to Draco. Fortunately, the police were finished taking statements and looking for clues and had begun making vague promises to look for the culprit. Even after they’d gone, however, Draco wasn’t alone. Stepping into the apartment, the first thing Harry noticed was that the walls were a warm chocolate color. The second was that the place was destroyed. Harry closed his eyes, concentrated, but there had been no magic done here. This was pure muggle destruction. Loose papers skimmed across the floor in a cold wind blowing through a shattered window. Books lay scattered across the entirety of the room. A desk draw lay empty in the middle of the floor surrounded by couch cushions and overturned furniture. In the middle of it all stood Draco wrapped securely in Alex’s arms. Looks like they’ve made up, Harry thought wryly as he started toward them. The crunch of paper under his sneakers foretold his approach, and Alex looked up with a start. He frowned, just the slightest down turn of the corners of his mouth, and his arms seemed to involuntarily tighten around Draco. “Hey,” Harry nodded to him in greeting before turning to Draco. “Are you okay?” Draco lifted his head from where it rested on Alex’s chest. “Potter,” he said and looked as if he wanted to go to him, but Alex’s arms tightened further, and he didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” Alex asked suddenly. Harry was slightly taken aback. Though Alex’s tone was not harsh or angry, it was far from inviting. Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering at Alex’s state of mind. “I... Mal – Damon called me.” “Why?” Draco groaned, speaking for the first time. “Don’t be jealous, stupid.” He smirked at Harry in his own sort of greeting before turning his attention to Alex. “ I’m not going to check in with you every time I make a friend.” “A friend?” Alex lifted an eyebrow, a nasty smile on his lips. “Guess I have to kill you then.” “What?” Harry found himself going instinctively for his wand. But then Alex was laughing, and Harry was very confused. His hand hovered just above the opening to his jacket. “You said it yourself,” Alex said to Draco, still laughing. “If I ever become friends with... blah blah blah; I don’t remember it word for word, but it ended with you asking me to shoot you.” “Don’t do that ” Draco punched Alex lightly on the chest, caught between anger and amusement, before settling back against him. “I’m fragile right now.” Even Harry had to chuckle at that. He was suddenly grateful for Alex’s presence. It put off learning the truth behind Draco’s call, the importance of the robbery, but at least the mood was a little lighter. After all that had transpired in the last forty eight hours, they all needed to laugh. Alex met Harry’s gaze over the top of Draco’s head. “I told you he wasn’t that bad.” His grey eyes were warm. “Right,” Harry said, and averted his eyes. There was an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. They were speaking about Damon, but Alex was looking at him as if they were the only two in the room. Along with Alex’s complete change in attitude, it had Harry feeling somewhat nervous. He looked for a change in subject. “What was stolen?” “Nothing,” Draco replied a little too quickly. Their gazes locked for half a second and the message was clear: not in front of Alex. Back to business; Harry could handle this. “Looks like they just ravaged the place,” Alex was saying. “Strange. I wonder what they were looking for.” “Money, most likely,” Draco said, giving Alex a winning smile. He suddenly turned his eyes back to Harry, still smiling. “Luckily I don’t keep any here,” he said slowly. The smile dropped as Draco continued to watch him. He was trying to tell Harry something, but Harry didn’t understand. “I keep all of my money on me,” Draco continued. Harry shook his head. “What?” Draco’s eyes widened in frustration. Alex turned to Harry quizzically. “Harry? Is something wrong?” “I...” Harry thought frantically. “I’m a little out of it today. Did Damon tell you we were almost mugged last night?” “Oh my God.” Alex’s arms tightened around Draco, though his eyes remained on Harry. “That’s right ” Draco shouted as if he’d had a sudden epiphany, catching and holding Alex’s attention. “We were almost mugged last night. I was so scared,” he said sadly, and wrapped his arms around Alex’s waist, laying his head once again on Alex’s chest. It was an unusual gesture for Draco, oddly submissive. Alex cooed softly into Draco’s hair, rubbing soothing circles across his back. Harry watched the display curiously, attempting to figure out Draco’s meaning. With Alex distracted, however, Draco looked directly at Harry, speaking quietly, but clearly. “Harry had to protect me.” “Protect you?” Harry mouthed back silently, still unsure of where Draco was going with this information. “Because I don’t carry any weapons.” Harry shook his head. Don’t...? Oh. “Oh, shit.” “Harry?” Alex’s head popped up, watching him, but Harry continued to stare at Draco. “Tell me this is a joke.” Alex unwrapped himself from Draco and crossed the room to Harry. He laid one hand on his shoulder. “You’re acting very strangely, Harry. Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry tore his gaze away from Draco and forced himself to meet Alex’s eyes, forced himself to think. “I left my oven on.” “What?” Alex looked like he was on the verge of laughing again. “What are you talking about? You don’t even cook.” “No,” Harry agreed, “I don’t.” “Then why–“ But Harry cut him off. “I’m really, really stupid. I’m sorry. I have to go.” And with that he turned and ran. “Your wand was stolen?” “Yes, Potter, how many times do I have to say it?” “But your wand ” “I know.” “Malfoy, your God damned bloody fucking wand was stolen ” “Merlin, Potter, do you think I’m happy about this? I don’t need you rubbing it in ” They were in the posh hotel room Draco was currently calling home later than night. Harry paced the thick, pale blue carpet as Draco sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Harry had been berating Draco for what was now going on twenty minutes. Harry came to an abrupt halt, arms falling to his sides, hands limp. “This is my fault.” Draco peered at him sardonically through his fingers. “What?” “It’s all my fault,” Harry repeated. “I was supposed to be protecting you. I let this happen. How did I let this happen?” “If memory serves me,” Draco replied, hands falling away from his face, “you were pissed off your ass at the time.” Harry frowned. “Besides,” Draco said and then groaned as Harry once again began to pace. “Will you sit down? You are making me anxious.” He waved Harry toward him, motioning to the bed. “Besides,” he said again as Harry sat and then fell on his back on the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, “you were protecting me last night, remember?” “But–“ Harry began weakly, shaking his head. “You can’t be in two places at once,” Draco said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched Harry over his shoulder. “It could have been worse. It could have been me instead of just my wand.” Harry started to nod and then paused, eyes locked on the ceiling. “We have to tell someone.” “I beg your pardon?” “About your wand,” Harry clarified. “We need to tell the authorities.” Draco laughed, short and mirthless. “If you think I have any plans to tell those... those... police–“ He scrunched up his nose as if the word were beneath him. “Not the muggle authorities,” Harry cut him off and met his eyes. They stayed that way for a few seconds, gazes locked, and then Draco jerked his head just once. “No.” “Malfoy,” Harry warned, sitting up, “this is too much for me... too much for us to deal with. We need help.” “No,” Draco said again, turning away. “I’ve told you: I’m done with all that.” “You have no choice.” But Draco continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You can help me. Fine. But no one else. I am not going back to...” he made a vague, erratic gesture, “that. If I even think that you might tell anyone where I am,” and now he was looking to Harry again, hands balled into fists, “I’m gone.” Harry closed his eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. The bed shifted beside him as Draco fidgeted, his breath coming in shallow, angry pants. “The blackout,” Harry said quietly, “was planned.” He opened his eyes. Draco had his hands folded in his lap, his eyes locked on the far wall. “The plant was sabotaged by wizards, Malfoy.” “I don’t care.” Frustrated, Harry groaned. He gripped the blanket in an effort not to hit Draco. “My clocks were off. The power went out in my building, and I think your building was affected as well. Someone is after you, someone who’s willing to go to great lengths to get to you, and I have no idea who it could be.” Draco sighed, his anger visibly fading into some other indiscernible emotion. He turned slightly and faced Harry directly. His voice, when he spoke, was hard, but even. “I know I’m asking a lot, wanting you to keep quiet, and I’m... I’m sorry. But please,” he stopped here, as if startled by the word. He shook his head. “Please,” he said again, louder, “respect my wishes.” Harry eventually conceded, though incredibly reluctantly, and they stayed up late into the night, Harry drilling Draco on any pertinent information. Draco had little to offer, however. He knew that Victoria had a second child, a girl who was close in age to his father, but that was all he knew. From this Harry deduced that any children she would have had would be around their again, but would carry the last name of their father; not Wallace or Malfoy. It was nearing two a.m. when they finally settled down to sleep, Draco in the bed, Harry on the couch. Harry tossed and turned for over an hour, listening as Draco did them same, and it was a long time before sleep claimed him. Harry rarely saw his own bed in the days that followed. Mornings were spent in discussion, Harry and Draco seated stiffly in the hotel room going over each bit of information they had time and time again. In the afternoons they returned to the ruins of Draco’s apartment, futilely searching for clues and then cleaning as Alex joined them after work. They would go out to eat each evening, often with Steve and always with Alex. The dinners were the most enjoyable time of the day, reminding Harry of the time before Draco had come back into his life. The illusion was shattered each night, however, as they retired to the hotel for more discussions and to plan. With each day that passed, Harry grew more frustrated by their depressing routine and lack of solid facts. They had compiled a list of every person Draco had become close to in the few months since arriving in Philadelphia. The list was short, but they had not had the opportunity to cross off a single name. Harry wasn’t even sure where to begin the research that would exonerate or condemn them; that was Hermione’s strong point, and Harry had been strictly forbidden to ask her help. Not that he had the chance. He had gone home once Monday morning after breakfast to pick up some clean clothes. The light on his answering machine was blinking, but Draco had been with him, hovering over his shoulder and exuding impatience, and Harry had not even bothered to listen to the messages. Friday afternoon found them tired from another night of too little sleep, tempers at the breaking point. They had spent practically every waking moment together for nearly a week, and while they were getting along well enough, they still managed to get into numerous heated arguments and a million little disagreements as the days wore on. Harry stood in the center of Draco’s apartment, which was now spotless; the windows were repaired, each bit of trash was tossed, and numerous wards were woven around the cement and drywall. He had spent the day helping Draco move back in and they were just about finished. Harry found himself distracted, though. Draco was good at what he did; the apartment, now that Harry had gotten a proper look at it, was gorgeous. His eyes traveled over every stitch of furniture to the wall hangings and area rugs covering newly polished oak floors. He could see himself living here. “I thought you were here to help,” Draco called testily from the bedroom where he arranged and rearranged the shirts hanging in his walk in closet. Harry shrugged, smiling despite Draco’s tone of voice. “I’m admiring the place,” he called back, “It’s really very nice now that it’s not a wreck.” “Yes. Thank you.” Though Draco didn’t sound pleased as he entered the living room. He sounded quite the opposite, in fact: irritated and rushed. He placed his hands on his hips, watching Harry move toward the bookcase as he had spotted his book on an upper shelf. “You still have wards to put up,” Draco reminded him, “before you leave.” “Only one,” Harry said and then paused, hand outstretched toward the line of books. “Leave?” He frowned, turning to look at Draco. We’re not going out to dinner? “Why?” Draco averted his eyes when Harry looked to him. “I have to shower and dress. I still have a boyfriend, you know.” Harry stared. He had nearly forgotten about Draco’s relationship with Alex. It was easy considering the amount of time he had spent alone in the blond’s company. Now that that time was drawing to a close, Harry suddenly felt used... angry... jealous? The last one took him by surprise, though he quickly shoved it aside and focused on the other emotions. “You’re going on a date?” Draco shrugged. “Now? Tonight?” Draco swung his head around to catch Harry’s eyes, his own flashing accusingly. “And why not?” “We have research to do. Plans to make,” Harry said. “We don’t have time for dates.” Draco’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Harry in disbelief. “Plans? Research? We’ve done nothing else for a week and what do we have to show for it?” he cried. “Did it ever occur to you to take a break? That I need a break from it all? From you?” That last one stung. Harry took an involuntary step backward as though slapped. Despite the seriousness of the situation and the oft times dull work, Harry had found himself enjoying Draco’s company. It hadn’t occurred to him that Draco might not feel the same. Harry’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find any words. He shut it again and scowled. “Fine,” he said at last, turning to place the final ward on the windows, but his wand shook in his hand, trembling with unreleased anger and dejection. He gave up after a few moments, unable to concentrate. Draco stood just out of his line of sight, watching with growing impatience. “I’m tired,” he lied, voice far more calm than he’d expected considering the war of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “Can I finish this later?” “Whatever,” Draco said and had left the room before Harry had turned around. Three days later, late Monday afternoon, Harry was back in the corner coffee shop, pen tapping the empty page of his notebook. He hadn’t bothered to go back to set the wards on Draco’s apartment, hadn’t even bothered to get in contact with him. He had gone home that night angry, confused, and wishing he had never heard the name Draco Malfoy. He wasn’t sure why he was so put off, even after three days of ignoring the small blinking light on his answering machine and the ringing of the phone to consider it. He knew Draco was justified in wanting time away from the dangers he faced. Harry had felt much the same way during school and the subsequent run ins with Voldemort. Still, to be dismissed so easily put him in a foul mood. He had declined Steve’s offers to go out that weekend and refused to discuss his problems with his friend. Steve had left him alone with his thoughts, threatening to not speak with him until he stopped acting like such as ass. Harry’s eyes left the blank white page to spot Steve now, chatting happily with his coworkers. They hadn’t spoken two words to each other all day, and it just made Harry feel worse. Harry went back to his notebook, mind on everything but the story he was supposed to be telling. Was it really possible that he had... feelings for Malfoy? It would go a long way in explaining the blinding anger he felt whenever he imagined Alex with Draco... Alex touching Draco.... Harry forced himself to halt that line of thought as his vision went red and his fingers curled tightly around the thin plastic body of his pen. Him? Like Malfoy? The idea was implausible at best. He didn’t even consider Draco a friend after all the time they’d spent together. There must be another explanation. Still he found his thoughts wandering to the small things he had committed to memory during their nights alone: the way Draco’s hair fell into his eyes, and he had to continually brush it back. It looked so soft not gelled back. And then there was the way Draco moved, every turn of his head deliberate, every gesture expressive. When he wasn’t hiding behind a mask of indifference, Draco was possibly the most passionate person Harry had had the displeasure to know. Because working with Draco was not a pleasant experience. He was difficult, unwilling to stay on one topic for too long. They seemed to get into a fight every night, even when they agreed on the topic at hand. Even though, the fights were familiar, comforting, and Harry had to wonder if one or the other caused them intentionally, if subconsciously, to regain some sense of normality. Normal. Harry gave a bitter chuckle and took a sip of his long cold coffee. “I thought I’d find you here.” Harry blinked and looked up to find himself face to face with Alex. Alex gave Harry his customary warm smile and took the seat opposite him. Harry just stared. Alex was the last person he’d expected to see that night. Harry caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked past Alex to meet Steve’s curious gaze. Steve widened his eyes, asking silently what the Hell was going on. Apparently his anger didn’t extend to such interesting turns of event. Harry gave him a shrug and then turned back to Alex. “Hello.” “Hi.” Alex was still smiling, his eyes alight. He watched Harry a moment more before his voice lowered, smile faded. “I haven’t seen you around the last few days.” “No,” Harry agreed. He gestured toward the notebook. “I’ve been busy.” Alex nodded, not bothering to glance down at the still empty page. “How’s Damon?” Harry asked. “Moody,” Alex replied with a shrug, not breaking eye contact. “Let’s not talk about him.” “Okay...” Harry trailed off. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. “How are you?” Alex asked. Harry shrugged. Tired. Frustrated. Confused. I think I want to fuck your boyfriend. “Not bad. You?” “I’m fine.” Alex chuckled. “No, actually, that’s a lie.” He studied Harry, head tilted to one side, smiling ever so slightly. “Isn’t it strange,” he asked, “how we always say we’re fine or we’re good even when we’re not? The question ‘how are you?’ has become nothing more than a greeting. We reply automatically, knowing the other person doesn’t really care and isn’t really listening.” Alex’s sudden foray into philosophy wasn’t putting Harry any more at ease. “I care,” he said truthfully. “Do you?” There was some emotion dancing in the depths of Alex’s eyes that Harry couldn’t quite make out. He stared at Harry as though looking through his eyes into his soul. Harry shifted uncomfortably. “You said you didn’t love me anymore.” “I... don’t...” Harry replied slowly, fearing the reaction his words could cause, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care for you. We’re still friends.” “Friends,” Alex mused. His hand snaked across the table to run strong fingers over the back of Harry’s hand. The touch caused the hairs on his arm to stand on end, a shiver coursing down his spine. Alex shifted closer, leaning across almost the entire width of the table. “I don’t think it works that way,” he said in a near whisper, eyes still boring into Harry’s. “Once you’ve been more, you can never be just friends.” “I...” Harry watched as Alex overturned his hand and lightly traced his lifeline with his thumb. Another shiver ran down his spine for an all together different reason. “I’m...” Harry had to clear his throat to continue. “I’m inclined to agree with you....” “But?” Alex prompted. Harry brought his eyes up, away from where Alex was still toying with his palm to meet his eyes. “But I don’t want that anymore,” he said, jerking his hand away with more force than was necessary. “Besides,” he continued, as Alex frowned, “I couldn’t do that to Damon.” “Right,” Alex snorted, “Damon.” Harry narrowed his eyes. Something had been bothering him about this relationship ever since he learned of it, and it was high time he brought it into the light. “You don’t even like him, do you?” Alex sighed and settled back in his chair. He was watching Harry, considering him, looking as tired as Harry felt. “No, I don’t.” “Then why continue to see him? What’s the point?” “I can’t...” Alex shook his head, looked away. “It’s complicated.” “I’m listening.” But Alex was still shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I really, really can’t.” “Well,” Harry heaved a sigh. He didn’t understand, but considering the rift currently between Draco and himself, he found himself not really caring what Alex’s motives were or how they could affect Draco. It would almost please him at this point to see Draco hurt. “I’ll be here when you can tell me.” It was nothing more than the offer of a friend, and Alex knew it. “What do I have to do,” he asked, seemingly to himself, eyes closing slowly, as if in pain, “to make you want me?” Harry’s first instinct was to pack up his things and flee. He wasn’t prepared for such a direct question. His thoughts fluttered to Draco, to their last conversation and the way he’d been brushed off without a second thought. His answer, when it finally came, was very much the truth. “I said I didn’t love you. I never said I didn’t want you.” Alex looked to him then, startled. I really shouldn’t have said that, Harry thought, seeing the flame of hope flare in Alex’s eyes. But it was true, and a part of Harry liked the idea that he could obtain so easily something that was supposed to belong to Draco. “Do you think,” Alex said, a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth, “that I could walk you home?” Harry’s mouth opened before he’d allowed himself time to think. “I’d like that.” TBC