Misty

by leevansalmon

Summary:

A Short, Sweet Romance.

Harry, an eligible bachelor at thirty years old, is rotting in a house much too large for him. Tired of ministry balls where women chase his money, and men degrade themselves for his favor, Harry spontaneously wanders into Sleepless Street, a dingy lane located on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. There, in a small pub called Misty, fresh-from-Azkaban Draco Malfoy plays the piano. Harry—who has suffocated himself in high society—climbs down to the depths of poverty in pursuit of the pianist.

“Isn't it somehow so sweet to see a ruined man as a subject of bliss for many others?”

Notes:

Hello! After I finished the fall semester, I faced a terrible writing block. I’ve had an idea for ages to write a short romance whilst working on a longer story, but it simply never happened. Well, I’ve now started the romance and the larger project too. Misty is meant to be wholesome and quick, embedded with philosophical themes. Really, I wanted to practice my writing and develop a style, and unlike my first story I’ll Be Seeing you, I’m actually writing second and third drafts. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Welcome to Misty

The ballroom was generously filled, and with it came a constant rhythm of forced flattery. Harry had situated himself in the corner of the room and stared absentmindedly at the crown moldings that embellished the high ceilings. The cool autumn evening swept in through the opened glass doors and brought in a sweet aroma from the osmanthus tree outside. But even more so, the smell of cigarettes pervaded the room, which only worsened Harry's already plummeting spirits.

The minister had deemed Harry an attraction; that much was clear. And since he remained a bachelor, if it was known that he would be at a ball, only the loveliest women from all around the country would flock there. Being thirty years old, the ingenuity in which people behaved around him had become so terribly annoying that he'd began to find the very idea of existing burdensome. When he was young, he hadn't at all been annoyed by the special treatment to which he'd been subjected. He'd been too focused on maintaining his high status, believing that something good would come of him, but he'd lost and forsaken everything. Coupled with this lack of enthusiasm for his previous success and his rising aversion towards people, Harry had been plagued by an odd sort of feeling, and it was not until recently that he took notice of it. It was sort of like having a pebble stuck in one's shoe, and said pebble was lodged in the most unconventional location where he could feel it but not move it. And it was simply infuriating; the sensation seemed to laugh at him. Suffice it to say, ever since taking notice of this mild discomfort in his life, Harry fell into a deeper depression, and suddenly everything that had previously brought him joy seemed to be a source of mockery.What could be done about this odd sensation within him? What was it he needed?

That being said, because he neglected the pursuit of trying to better his life, his house had become cluttered, almost an outward appearance of his woes. Sure, he could have cleaned it all with a flick of his wand, but his heart had been ailing with an intense lethargy that those spells would not work anymore. If only those at this wretched ball could see the pathetic, nasty state he was in, they'd laugh! But nothing of the sort would happen. Should any individual in this hall peep into the disconcerting state of his home, they'd say, "Mr. Potter, don't you feel embarrassed! This is the loveliest atrocity I've ever laid my eyes on." And because everyone loved Harry—some even reduced themselves to kissing his hands and the ground where he walked—they would all praise him and clutter their own homes the very same way. Oh, wouldn't it be nice to be laughed at every once in a while! Perhaps that was what Harry had been in pursuit of; maybe all he wished for was to be laughed at, ridiculed even! After all, man cannot be treated like God without losing his mind. 

 

The high laugh from the woman opposite him caught his attention. She threw her head back in amusement, displaying her long porcelain neck, which had been wrapped in expensive jewels. Harry had noticed her shouldering her way towards him, and now that she had taken her position near him, she made all of the necessary efforts to try to catch his attention, resorting to indiscreetly glancing his way. Harry's eyes met hers, so he gave her a charitable smile. It seems she perceived this as a sign to approach him. 

 

"Mr. Potter, my goodness, aren't you just divine?" The woman whispered sheepishly, fanning herself with a rather large, feathery fan. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, why, in your laudable sense, do you refrain from marriage? I hope you do not mind my asking; forgive my curiosity."

 

"I don't mind," Harry replied. "I suppose I haven't found someone I wish to marry; it is that simple."

 

"Why is that? I dare say you are the most eligible bachelor in all of England, Mr. Potter; it is not as if your options are at all limited."

 

Harry heaved a sigh. "You've had several men approach you in pursuit of a dance, but you waved them off to ensure you remained in my company. It is not as if your options are at all limited either. And you'll waste your time if you believe I will ask to court you by the night's end. I assure you that nothing of the sort will happen."

 

The woman's expression—she had been batting her eyelashes all evening and continuously wore a sweet smile—suddenly twisted into a sour one and soon revealed herself as ugly and plain. With an insincere air, she curtsied and bowed her head with shame before she left him. 

 

Harry quickly left the ballroom, but then turned to face the large glass doors that shielded him from high society. The woman who had been trailing behind him all evening was enjoying herself in the arms of a new man who seemed to simply adore her for everything she was. There was a deep sense of sadness that surged through Harry in that moment. He was not sad to have lost the woman; no, he was merely lonesome. The woman, in her prosaic style, was being adored for her simple character by a complete stranger who knew nothing but her smile. Perhaps in this very moment, the man has decided that he cannot be without those gleaming teeth and her porcelain neck. And the woman has forgotten all about Harry because status and fame are temporary, but the joy she feels now must have buried itself in the loveliest part of her soul. Perhaps this is what she will tell their grandchildren as she, hunched over and frail, kisses their fat cheeks good night. 'I met your grandfather at a ministry ball,' she will say, her eyes distant with reminiscent youth, 'and he made me laugh, really laugh. He told me he loved my smile and declared that I should be his wife during the second dance.' And the young children would flush and giggle, as children are not immune to such things, and wish for their own story to be the very same.

And Harry, if he should live to such an age, will have been rotting in his cluttered home, opening yet another invitation to yet another ball. 

 

Harry had stared up at the endless night, his mood infinitely lighter now that he'd managed to escape the suffocating crowds. Clear and starry was the night, such a sky that promised peace and nothing more; the sort of night where, upon seeing it, one felt pangs of deep remorse for not having spent every moment underneath it. Harry, though still deeply troubled, felt he could now breathe. Slowly, he descended down the minister's steps, and his own carriage pulled into the gravel drive before him in a punctual manner. 

 

"Leaving early, Mr. Potter?" his coachman asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow and then bowing deeply. "Did anyone strike your fancy?"

 

"No," replied Harry. "I want to return home, that's all."

 

"Of course, sir," he said, opening the carriage's door for Harry, and they were off. 

 

Harry looked towards the minister's house as they pulled down the gravel road. The windows flowed feebly in the distance; the ornate fans the women used fluttered within, and Harry could somehow still hear the desperate words of praise and forced laughter. Exhausted, he pulled himself away from the window and leaned back into the velveted seats, cursing himself for the predicament he'd voluntarily placed himself in. Just like the last two times, he'd silently vowed to himself that this would be the last party he'd attend, even if he would succumb to the minister's begging and find himself in the same miserable position in a week or two. Harry felt this emptiness, this nagging pebble, now more than ever as he became painfully aware that he had attended yet another party after he had so adamantly refused to go. 

 

Harry peered out of the carriage window as they made their way down Diagon Alley and was nearing the narrow alley at the far end that, to Harry's understanding, was unofficially called Sleepless Street. It seemed otherworldly at this time because, despite being late, every shop was lit up and the lane was generously populated. As they approached the lane, Harry was possessed with a sudden curiosity and desire to explore it.

 

Without much thought, Harry hit the base of his palm on the carriage ceiling. "Stop," he ordered, and the carriage slowed to a halt. The coachman, confused, opened the carriage door for him and looked around as if they'd stopped in a completely foreign location. 

 

"Mr. Potter, are you quite alright?" The coachman asked tremulously. "This isn't a place for a dignified man such as yourself, sir. You ought to go home right away."

 

"That's alright," said Harry, waving his hand in dismissal. "Wait for me here; I won't be long. I just wish to look around; that's all." 

 

The coachman nodded, not at all at ease but more apprehensive of disagreeing with his benefactor.

 

The lane was filled with leisure travelers and pleasure-seeking individuals whose problems seemed a mere afterthought upon arrival. The general air of the street was that of a sweet shop filled with children around the holidays—an innocent sort of carelessness that became reprehensible as one grew older. The cobbled roads were damp from the autumn showers earlier that day, and the colorful windows and the light within cast multicolored patterns on the road, creating an illusion of light erupting from below. Harry looked around in awe, for it was all so foreign to him. He cursed himself for never having been here before; perhaps it was due to the street's notoriety among the upper-class, or perhaps it was Harry's own lack of motivation to divert from his routine. But here he was, and suddenly he wished for the divine sense of carelessness everyone around him seemed to possess.

 

There were all sorts of pubs and cafes, and the sound of laughter and music became more omnipresent the farther Harry ventured. Soon, he spotted a bright red door located at the bottom of a rather narrow stone staircase, snuggled tightly in between two stone walls. Above the door was a stained-glass sign that read, Misty. Having completely forgotten his promise to his coachman about his being hasty, Harry slowly made his way towards the door, as if an invisible force beckoned him inside. 

 

He pushed the red door open and slipped inside, and he was immediately hit with the scent of cigarettes and a strong incense. It was a pub—not at all large, but not suffocating either. The exposed brick walls wrapped around them in a sort of confiding manner, and from the ceiling, stained-glass lamps cast iridescent patterns on the furniture. The furniture, Harry noticed, lacked uniformity; the tables and chairs came in all shapes and sizes, as if the decorator used whatever they deemed appropriate for use. A barrel for a table; upside-down wicker baskets for seats; and a surfboard with an ominously large bite taken out of it served as a sitting space for larger parties. Harry was overcome with a childlike curiosity and continued to make his way towards the bar, maneuvering through the oddly shaped furniture. He situated himself on one of the bar stools—this one was a replica of a Corinthian column—nearest to the stage, where there had been a gramophone producing jazz despite there being a stand-up bass and a piano beside it. 

 

"Bloody hell! Would you look at this? Potter, I must be dreamin', or perhaps I've drunk myself into delirium! Is it really you?" Harry turned to find a rather large, reddened man with hardly any neck, looking at him with bewildered amusement.

 

"I suppose so," said Harry, eying the many empty glasses that populated the table in front of the man. 

 

"What brings you here, Potter? Investigating for the ministry, are we?" Harry merely shook his head and gave him a quick smile. "Hey, Higgy, get this bloke a whiskey on me!" With a meaty hand, the man slammed a couple of sickles down on the counter, greatly startling the little house elf operating the bar. 

 

"Thank you, but I don't intend on staying long," said Harry, suddenly remembering the promise he made to his coachman.

 

"Rubbish! You can't leave before nine o'clock; that's when Misty comes to life. You'll see," said the man.

 

The house elf prepared the drinks in a staccato manner, meticulously serving each person at the bar. 

 

Harry looked inquiringly at everyone and was pleasantly impressed with the variety. Among them there had been healers, entry-level aurors, Gringott's workers, typists, and perhaps vastly more. Harry could only tell by the clothes they wore, but their faces were so transparent that he felt most at ease. He found he could determine their shortcomings, and perhaps if he stared long enough, he'd know them in their intimate depths. How genuine and simple they all were. 

 

A whiskey slid his way, and Harry gratefully raised his glass towards the man who had purchased it for him. "So, tell me, Mr. Potter, what brings you to Sleepless Street, huh?" the man asked quietly. "Really."

 

"I don't know," Harry replied honestly, wincing at the whiskey's bitter taste. "I suppose I was just curious. It was a sudden decision, really. I am not immune to impulses." 

 

The man nodded and listened with great interest. "Forgive me," he said. "Misty hardly gets visitors like you."

 

"Visitors like me?"

 

"You know, the wealthy lot. Those who are rubbing elbows with the minister, you get it," the man said. 

 

Harry nodded. "I understand. Sleepless Street is always under scrutiny. I hear absurd rumors such that these businesses are run by Azkaban escapees."

 

"And? Do you believe it,  Savior?"The man asked, raising his drink to his lips, which were twisted into an amused grin.

 

Harry shook his head, earning a laugh out of the latter. "No, I don't."

 

"Good. "I'm Lonnie Mint, by the way."

 

Harry gave him a nod of acknowledgment and took another sip of his bitter whiskey. Lonnie ordered another drink and lit a cigar before holding it out to offer it to Harry. Harry declined. "Where are you coming from, savior?"

 

"Ministry party," answered Harry, feeling especially foolish to say so in a dingy bar such as this. "I left early," he felt the need to add.

 

"Why? Did you run out of women to dance with?" Mint asked. "I read somewhere that the quality of witches is on the decline! Ha ha!"

 

"No, I danced with no one. I found it boring, is all."Lonnie Mint looked at him for awhile, as if he did not believe Harry, but said nothing more on the subject. 

 

There was a door behind the bar where the elves handed the bar-tending elf food to serve from the kitchens. And from this door erupted a face Harry had not seen in a terribly long time. Luna Lovegood, upon seeing Harry, lit up with elation, and she made her way towards him with alacrity.

 

"Harry, what a pleasant surprise!" Luna breathed, her eyes wide as if she didn't believe it herself. "When I told people I was sure you'd come one day, they told me I was delusional," continued Luna, "that you had wished for nothing but your upper-class circle. But I know the sort of person you are, Harry, and I know you'd never neglect a friend."

 

Harry, who was still taken back by the sudden reunion of an old friend, shook his head in disbelief and returned her sincere smile. "I wish you'd contacted me with an invitation, Luna. I find myself gradually beginning to like this place. Is it yours?"

 

"Yes," answered Luna. "And I'm thrilled to hear you adore it. Will you stay long? My pianist has yet to arrive; I find you'll enjoy Misty more with the pianist's being here at nine o'clock."

 

Harry pulled out his pocket watch from his coat pocket; it was a quarter before nine. "I suppose I can stay for a little while longer," he reassured her.

 

Luna's face relaxed immediately, and she began to work alongside the elf in serving drinks to those at the bar. "Well, tell me about how you've been," she said. "The papers imply you're doing well, but you'd be a fool to believe that."

 

Lonnie Mint snorted into his cup. "Then I must be the biggest fool to have ever walked the earth! Why shouldn't he be doing well? The lad is wealthy, handsome, and popular! I read last week that your property is worth six million galleons! And you maintain that he's not doing well?"

 

Luna looked at the plump man and gave him a fond smile. "And does that constitute happiness, Lonnie?  Comfort? No, I say it doesn't. If you give a man everything he wishes for, he will fall into a unique sort of melancholy that one who has absolutely nothing could never achieve," Luna began. "And if he is exceptionally comfortable, he will wish for disaster. Just like the case of Monterey Lipton last week. Officials claim he'd murdered his servants just to have to clean his rugs himself!"

 

"You're so certain," replied Lonnie, "to have everything and not wish for anything is happiness. A man just wants to be fed and clothed. It's nature!"

 

"And then what? When you have everything, what shall you do? You'll become so bored that you'll dirty your clothes just for the sake of it. Or like Lipton, you'll murder your servants and destroy yourself," Luna said as if she were stating an axiom. "Isn't that right, Harry?"

 

"Well, it is not true that I am melancholic, but I have certainly not achieved great happiness," said Harry, trying not to intensify the debate. 

 

"Free will, Lonnie. That is all we want," Luna said with finality, sliding over a glass of whiskey to a Gringott's goblin who'd been staring bitterly at them. 

 

"You know what?" Lipton started. "I think Potter would be a happier lad if he had a nice lady on his arm, eh? Why haven't you gotten one? Plenty nowadays!"

 

"Hm, I'm not sure. It's difficult," admitted Harry. "I simply cannot bear the idea that someone may give their future to me merely because of my status."

 

"That's pessimistic," said Lonnie. "You could have just about anyone!"

 

"Come on, Lonnie. Don't be silly; it's completely understandable! It must be rare to find someone who will love you for your character and not your image. After all, isn't that what an honest man such as yourself needs?"

 

"Ah, but Harry's a young lad! He doesn't need to settle down just yet, eh?"

 

"I'd like to," admitted Harry. Harry hadn't really admitted such a thing out loud, but deep down he knew he longed for someone to love and to be loved for all that he had been. 

 

"Ah, you young fellas are much too hasty," Lonnie grumbled, downing the rest of his whiskey. 

 

"Isn't it almost humorously ironic? It is much easier to find those who are honest and genuine if you are hated by the entire world," sighed Luna.

 

The three of them lapsed into silence. With his chest puffed, Lonnie thrust his now-empty glass into the air, looked towards Harry, and said, "Potter, I wish you love." Harry couldn't help but laugh, and Luna soon followed, leaving Lonnie Mint in a state of bewilderment. 

 

Suddenly, Misty's red door swung open, and in came a tall, slender man, his face covered by a threadbare cloak. Harry didn't give the man much attention; he'd merely wondered if it had been his coachman inquiring about him. 

 

"Our pianist!" Lonnie Mint clapped his beefy hands together, a large smile erupting on his face. 

"Malfoy, you ought to start with the blues tonight!

 

Upon hearing the name, Harry tensed, his heart beating tumultuously behind his sternum. It was such a name he had not heard uttered out loud in ages, the exception being when Malfoy's release from Azkaban had been announced in the papers two years prior. 

 

The man removed his hood, revealing the face of Harry's old schoolmate, or more accurately, nemesis; it was a face he had not seen in exactly twelve years. Well, there he was, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy stood there by the stage as he hung his cloak and his tattered leather bag at the front. Tall, of lean build, and that familiar face that Harry deemed exceptionally handsome, his being faced the crowd and gave the excited audience a timid bow. And because Harry had unfortunately—or fortunately, the feeling the man unearthed in Harry was ambiguous but intense—he was able to get a real good look at the latter. While Malfoy did look considerably different from when Harry saw him last twelve years ago, not at all alluding to the way he'd aged ever so gracefully, he seemed to have changed in the way he carried himself. Yes, precisely. There had been something lurking in those gray eyes—a sort of concealed and incurable sadness that Harry found oddly alluring. The pride and snobbishness that had been Malfoy were entirely absent; instead, there was that sadness, a meekness, and something else so extraordinary that Harry could not quite understand. 

 

The sight of this man was so terribly confronting that Harry was overcome with an urge to step out of Misty in defiance. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he continued to stare as Malfoy situated himself at the piano and began to play a melodic blues tune. Malfoy's pale hands danced elegantly across the ivory keys; his playing lightened the air tremendously, and Misty seemed to come to life. This short event had taken hold of Harry's soul and shook it violently; he felt as though everything—the framework he built his very life on—crumbled, but he couldn't seem to feel too distraught about it. 

 

"Malfoy? Draco Malfoy is your pianist?" Harry managed to ask, his voice trembling pathetically. 

 

"Ye-es," answered Luna inquisitively. "I hope you don't mind; I find his playing exceptional. You'll see that Misty simply cannot be without it."

 

Harry nodded. "So, this is where he's ended up after he was released from Azkaban."

 

"And what do you think, Savior? Did a decent person become of him? Did Azkaban rehabilitate him?" Lonnie asked with a snarky smile. 

 

"I don't know," whispered Harry honestly, his eyes still on Malfoy. "But I'd think so. Look at him, don't you see it?"

 

"See what?" They asked synchronously.

 

Harry wasn't too sure how to answer, for he himself wasn't sure what he was alluding to. How could he explain that a man's mere presence had vaporized Harry's ailments? It reminded him of a time when his friends adored him for his character, when he felt he could really fall in love, and when the public's opinion of him fluctuated naturally. While Harry hardly wished to redo his years at Hogwarts, seeing Draco Malfoy now revealed an ugly sorrow within himself. Malfoy hated him; yes, that was real. Harry almost missed it; he missed the scrutiny and the way Malfoy challenged him and consistently denounced his ways. It was so terribly real, so pitifully honest. 

 

"Did you assume you'd never see him again?" asked Luna. 

 

"No, it's not that," muttered Harry, turning to her finally. "It's just a face I haven't seen in a long time, but such a face I couldn't dare to forget." Harry waved his hand in dismissal, feeling a little silly now. "Ah, what of it? It's my nostalgia; I found him strangely refreshing." 

 

"Term it with nostalgia," Luna smirked, "but I know you've always found Malfoy particularly attractive."

Harry felt she was too loud for his liking, and coupled with Lonnie's snickering, he felt exceptionally foolish now.

 

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed. "Besides, I'm not the only one; I merely stated what everyone thought but was too consumed with hatred to say. You can tell me otherwise, but I'll be offended that you have just lied to my face."

 

"We won't lie to you, my friend," said Lonnie with amusement. "Excellent observation, Mr. Potter. Our pianist is very attractive. If you're so struck with nostalgia, why don't you speak to him?" 

 

"What?!"

 

"Ha! You reject me! By all means, Mr. Potter, continue to neglect your piquing interest. And you'll hate yourself when you leave; you'll crave to return like an alcoholic craves a drop of whiskey!"

 

Harry rolled his eyes and turned to Luna. "I'd like another drink," he muttered.

 

Lonnie cheerfully raised his glass in the air, laughing heartily at Harry's flustered reaction.

While Luna was fixated on making his drink, he turned once more to Malfoy, who still played the piano with an admirable passion. An involuntary smile spread across his face—a real one, an honest, sincere smile. There was not an ounce of animosity towards his old-school nemesis; not an ounce. And it wasn't as if Harry expected there would be; he couldn't find it in himself to hate a man who's lost everything. They've grown up. That was that. But Harry wondered if the latter still carried his previous aversion. He wondered if the pianist envied Harry's status or perhaps had been consumed by bitterness over his own clear lack of wealth. While Harry theorized this, he didn't manage to convince himself. Yes, the pianist lacked pride, but he also seemed to have remarkable humility, which is odd given who he used to be. 

 

Suddenly, Harry's admiration was halted by the hurried entrance of his coachman. "Mr. Potter," he cried, fretfully maneuvering around the oddly shaped furniture towards him. "There you are! I have been most worried, for I believed you had taken to forsaking the carriage altogether!"

 

The entire bar erupted into hurried whispers and excited laughter upon hearing this. "Oh, to have a carriage," he heard a woman sigh with envy. "Never mind a carriage, but a coachman to retrieve you and escort you," another whispered.

 

The piano playing had stopped altogether, and Harry was afraid Malfoy had taken notice of him. With great apprehension, he looked towards the stage, and those gray eyes were indeed upon him. The two of them stared at each other; not a word was exchanged. Harry was able to behold Malfoy in his entirety. Everything. The same luminously pale skin, striking blonde hair, and his intense features showed a discreet insecurity, as if he had suffered some sort of spiritual emaciation. All Malfoy possessed was this dingy piano in a terribly cramped pub at the farthest end of Diagon Alley, far from where he and his proud family used to roam, haughtily looking down on everyone they deemed lesser.

 

Malfoy, as if hearing Harry's thoughts, straightened his posture and looked away at once. His face crumbled, evidently due to the excessive shame he had just suffered, and he resumed his playing (this time with more aggression). 

 

"Mr. Potter! You must return home now! Pray that word of this will not reach the papers," the coach blurted in a state of nervous agitation. "It is most incorrigible to be seen amongst the..."

 

"Amongst the what? Are you not a mere coachman? How are you any better than I?" Lonnie Mint suddenly shouted, earning several laughs from the members of the pub. 

 

Harry's coachman turned a bright red, and with defiance, he turned on his heel and left Misty.

"Good night, Harry," said Luna, giving him a sweet smile. "I hope you do return. And if you wish to know, Malfoy plays the piano for me most nights after nine o'clock." 

 

"Thank you; I shall return," Harry promised her and bowed. "It was nice to make your acquaintance, Mint."

 

Lonnie Mint straightened, puffed out his chest, and smiled triumphantly as if it were the greatest accomplishment to be told so by Harry. 

 

With that, Harry made for the door. Before leaving, however, as if on instinct, he turned to the pianist once more. Malfoy's eyes looked away with a steadfast gaze. He guessed that the latter had been watching him, for he had felt those enigmatic eyes upon him. And for a brief moment, he watched Malfoy stubbornly refuse to look up again, even though Harry wished for it dearly. Harry left, but vowed it would not be the last time he would be at Misty, for during the short time he had spent there, he felt he had truly lived.

Chapter 2: The Drunkard’s Poem

Ever since that moment yesterday, Harry's being has been in extreme torment. He wondered why, out of all the pubs that populated Sleepless Street, he ever stepped foot into Misty. Of course, there wasn't an ounce of animosity between him and Malfoy—well, not on Harry's side—but he'd be at ease without Malfoy sitting uppermost in his mind. And Luna, who'd been on more amiable terms with Harry in their youth, didn't at all torment him the same way Malfoy did. Perhaps Ron was right; Harry bought high society at the price of his friends; maybe Luna and all those with laudable qualities did not weigh enough on Harry's mind; perhaps his soul is rotten. These thoughts threatened to derail his consciousness, and now he finds it increasingly difficult to focus on the morning's Prophet in front of him. But Harry had no obligation to Malfoy. Upon thinking of this, Harry smiled. Yes, there is nothing that he owes him, so why does he torment himself with the latter's unexpected appearance? He suddenly remembered the look on Malfoy's face when the two of them met eyes—how Malfoy's appearance had been one of an inward shame at his own timidity. 

Harry tossed the newspaper on the carriage floor, stomping on it with irritable agitation. On closer examination, the front page was littered with pictures of his old friend's face; the image of Ron Weasley allowed Harry to become distinctly aware of his gradual decline into melancholy. In all honesty, Harry hadn't thought of his old friend in a terribly long time. Perhaps his own mind, in an attempt to protect itself, cast away the argument that had destroyed the seemingly solid foundation that had been their friendship. But now Harry has thought of it. At the time, Harry was anything but certain that his friends were resentful, for Harry was moving up in high society. Ron and Hermione, living modest lives with a small family already, had confronted Harry for his haughty attitude and supposed negation of who he'd been. Yes, somewhere along the way, Harry lost himself, and suddenly he'd become painfully aware he did not wish to wear the clothes he wore or ride the carriage he rose. When was the last time he'd walked somewhere or cooked an honest meal? Harry's eyes stared back at Ron Weasley's photo. To see his old friend's conspicuous, inviolable bliss on full display seemed a sort of jest, poking a sore spot in Harry's heart that quietly wished for nothing at all but responsibility. 

'Why are all these familiar faces possessing me?' thought Harry. 'Why do they torment me? Do they somehow know how miserable I've become?' 

Harry's agitation increased tenfold; the velvet walls of the carriage began to close in, and he could hear nothing but the raucousness of the horse's hooves and the coachman's calls. He slammed his fist into the carriage ceiling, and they slowly came to a halt. 

"Sir, is it here that you wish to stop?" The coachman asked. "Sir?"

Harry peered to see Sleepless Street lit up once again at an ungodly hour. "Yes," answered Harry. "Here precisely." 

"Sir, you really ought to avoid such a place," the coachman warned him. "They'll deceive you! Examine your conscience. Good sir, you're not well! What will they say?"

"Devil take their comments," snapped Harry, greatly startling the coachman. "Let them say as they wish! They won't utter a word against me; we both know that!"

"Yes, sir." The man bowed quickly and shuffled back onto the carriage. "Send for me whenever your sojourn comes to an end."

"I will."

Harry decided—the moment he left yesterday—he had to return to Misty once again. So, with a disagreeable haste and without the accompaniment of his coachman, he set off for the little red door at once. And the entire way there, Harry prayed silently that Malfoy would be on the piano tonight.

Harry had arrived rather late, a quarter before eleven. Despite this, the pub was generously filled, and even with Harry's developed aversion to people, he was rather pleased with this outcome. But he paid no attention to the insignificant crowd. At once, his eyes gravitated towards the pianist. Malfoy sat there just like yesterday, playing with a noble passion, his handsome face not once leaving the piano's keys. 

Upon seeing him there, Harry sighed with relief, and a small part of him pledged insanity should Malfoy be absent. With his eyes still on Malfoy, Harry moved towards the bar where Luna stood as she fixed a cup of whiskey for Lonnie Mint. 

Her doe-like eyes lit up, and a childlike expression took over her winsome face. "Harry," she beckoned for him to be seated. "I did not expect you to return so soon!" 

"I promised, didn't I?" Harry smiled and sat on the same Corinthian column nearest to the stage, gladly accepting a drink that Mint insisted he have. 

"Ah, young lads feel it is their duty to keep promises. They view promises as debts, and they feel the burden of an unfulfilled wish as if there's interest in such a thing! Silly lad!"

"Nothing of the sort, Mint," assured Harry, his mood lifting now. "I wished to return as soon as possible."

"Ah, right," snorted Mint. "For the pianist." At this, Mint and Luna giggled at Harry's expense, and a dreadful blush overcame him. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry muttered, chugging the bitter whiskey so as to hide his reddened face. "Luna, on that subject, would you ease my mind? How is it that you've gotten Malfoy to play for you?"

"I don't suppose you believe he's playing because he truly wishes to. Surely, you know the ministry is withholding his inheritance and wand; don't you know he is on parole?"

Harry had, in fact, not known this. He'd become sort of detached from reality when he retired from the auror forces three years prior. Harry slowly shook his head, rather surprised by this piece of information. 

"He's taken up at Lacewing Lane," joined in Mint, who, at this point in the evening, was hardly intelligible. "Malfoy's poor! I never liked his family—a snobbish and pretentious lot they were. But it's a shame the ministry is withholding what he is due, huh? The guy spent ten years in Azkaban; isn't that enough? I think he's a good young lad; he has humility. To have fallen from tremendous wealth, well, it'll destroy any man. But Malfoy's still standing, and I must say I admire it all." 

"Indeed" was all Harry could say. He watched Malfoy play, his white-blond hair falling in front of his eyes, his lips pressed together as if suppressing a sob. A surge of sorrow overtook Harry. Isn't it somehow so sweet to see a ruined man as a subject of bliss for many others? 

"Well, Harry, I don't think it is at all my doing to tell you of Malfoy's circumstances. Don't be offended; I'd have let you know if I was not sworn to secrecy," said Luna, attending to a rather grumpy-looking witch at the far end of the bar. "Draco doesn't want me telling you, I suppose. He was very adamant about it."

"Does he think I will laugh at his expense? Was this secrecy specifically directed towards me?"

Luna nodded. "Yes, I believe so. He'd been beside himself the moment you left. Wasn't he, Lonnie?"

"I'll say! I'd never seen anything more than impartiality from that lad, but he was plenty agitated with you being here!" 

For some reason, the idea that Draco had wished to conceal his poverty from Harry allowed for a pang of guilt and an odd sensation of betrayal. And Lacewing Lane is an awfully run-down place, housing laborers, smugglers, and the elderly who lived off of welfare checks from the ministry. Harry recalled his being there once or twice whilst working on a case; he could remember the dilapidated state of the buildings and how they threatened to collapse underneath the unusually permanently gray sky. Harry came up with the weightiest objections to the ministry's decision to withhold Malfoy's inheritance. It was not at all policy; no, it seems a unique circumstance was placed upon Malfoy. It was as if they did not wish for him to be free, and perhaps if Harry paid more attention to the Wizengamot, he may have been able to object to their absurd, arbitrary behavior. 

"I wouldn't laugh at him," whispered Harry. "No, I couldn't possibly..."

"Let him have his pride, or whatever he's so desperately protecting," Lonnie said. "Why don't you send a drink his way, Potter? Pity is written all over your face! Send a glass his way! I haven't seen an honest to goodness bar fight in a good while!" 

"No need," said Luna, her own eyes on the pianist, who still played with tremendous enthusiasm. "Malfoy will take a break soon; he typically will enjoy a brandy and a cigarette at the bar. Doesn't he, Lonnie?"

"Good lad, good lad," agreed Lonnie, whose unstable weight threatened to break the upside-down wicker basket on which he sat. "Hey, why don't you light his cigarette for him, Potter? Let the Savior burn his woes away! For thou art our savior, but our pianist's prosecutor! And in his shackles and fetters, he curses you from the depths of his poverty! 'Curse he who set these bars before me, curse him in his silken sheets, and curse him in his four poster bed!' he says as a prayer before his modest dinner of burnt bread and dirtied water! The pianist hates thee for thy warm milk and curate stand of pastries!" Lonnie recited, swaying in his seat. Harry frowned. 

"Oh, Lonnie's begun reciting poetry!" Luna snapped her fingers hurriedly. Two house elves scurried to either side of the large man, took a hold of an arm each, and, with great difficulty, pulled him onto an oblong sofa at the far end of the pub. Sometime during his journey across the pub, Lonnie fell asleep. "He's had enough to drink."

"Do you really think so, Luna? Do you believe he's bitter for his sentence?" Harry asked who's spirit was marred by the drunken man's poem. "And that is why he refrains from my knowing of him?"

"You mustn't give weight to Lonnie, Harry. Especially when he's gone and drunk away his wages yet again," whispered Luna, who looked upon the sleeping man with intense disapproval. "It seems you've begun to nurse an inexhaustible fancy for Draco. After all, you had always claimed an impartial attitude towards him. Why don't you speak with him when he comes for his drink, Harry? Don't you laugh; I am serious. It seems you both could benefit from a simple conversation."

Harry shuddered, staring at the empty seat beside him with growing anxiety. "I don't think I can. He will throw his drink in my face and promise to curse me forever... for my curate stand of pastries and warm milk."

"You say that with reproach," sighed Luna. "Was it not you who just yesterday wished for someone to be genuine with you? And if he shows this animosity, shouldn't you be glad for it? After all, don't you want to be treated as someone who is a consequence of his own behavior and not as a divine being? So let a drink be thrown at you, let him laugh at you, and rejoice in his refusal to kiss your feet like everyone else." 

Harry nodded, turning to look at the pianist, who had just stood up in his seat. "Yes, I did say so..."

Malfoy slowly made his way over to the bar, not once acknowledging Harry's presence with his eyes. It seemed his usual seat had been the one right beside Harry, for Luna had already set out his glass of brandy and cigarette. 

When Malfoy sat besides him, the proximity sent Harry's nerves into hysterics—a sort of nervousness he hadn't felt in a long while. And when he gathered up the courage to look at him, the wretched predicament he'd placed himself in materialized before his eyes. 'It will go precisely this way,' Harry thought. 'I'll utter one word, and I'll feel the downpour of brandy. Maybe I'll feel it the moment he knows I've been staring at him. What am I to do?'

"Good evening," Harry croaked, very discretely turning his body towards the pianist. Malfoy's face twisted into a mix of irritability and confusion, but his proximity to him allowed Harry to realize that the latter was indeed very endearing to behold, even if there had been nothing but contempt in his physiognomy. "Forgive me; I didn't want to interrupt. I just wanted to greet you... cordially."

Malfoy continued to stare at him; no words escaped him. He even opened his mouth to answer but closed it, deciding against a response altogether. Harry couldn't help but take offense at the silence. But suddenly Malfoy answered:

"Is that why you've taken to staring?"

Harry's eyes widened and he suddenly became self-aware, flushed at this confrontation. "I suppose I find it odd seeing you here."

Malfoy's eyes flashed and seemed to shudder from hatred. "Do you find it odd seeing me here or seeing me at all? Besides, if it is the former, I'll maintain that it should be the opposite. What is such a dignified man as yourself wandering around these streets?"

"I don't know," answered Harry honestly. His sincere tone did not seem to ease Malfoy at all, for those gray eyes finally fell upon them, narrowing with intense distrust. 

"I find that hard to believe. People of high society do not just wander into Sleepless Street. If you're here on behalf of the ministry, perhaps to inquire about my conduct, then rest assured, my parole officer will tell you I've not stepped out of line. Hermes Biconus, my parole officer."

"No, I'm not keeping an eye on you, Malfoy," laughed Harry, earning a contemptuous look. "And I'm sorry you've landed yourself Biconus as an officer; I've never met anyone more insufferable in my life. Honest, I wandered here by pure accident; I've been rather shocked myself that we've reunited."

"I never relayed to you my shock. I feel nothing of the sort," answered Malfoy hurriedly, sipping his drink routinely. 

Harry couldn't help but smile. He'd imagined Malfoy to have thrown a drink in his face by now, but they've exchanged a few words, and Harry's clothes are still dry. That drunkard's poem holds no weight after all! Harry felt exceptionally foolish now. 

Malfoy had finished his glass of brandy and picked up his cigarette. His gray eyes flickered across the room, perhaps looking for a candle. Harry hurriedly took out a lighter—it had been gifted to him by the minister himself—and held the flame out to the man opposite him. Malfoy stared at the lighter for a while, as if accepting the gesture was a psychological prerequisite to despair and shame. Harry grew nervous himself, wishing desperately for Malfoy to accept. Finally, Malfoy leaned forward, and the tip of his cigarette met the modest fire, and Harry had become idiotically happy for no sufficient reason. 

"Thank you," said the pianist, who turned away in defiance. 

Harry watched with an unhealthy amount of interest. Malfoy's own poverty had been on full display before him, but he had not noticed before, for he was too preoccupied by the man's face. His waistcoat was awkwardly capacious; perhaps he hadn't had enough food to maintain the weight required to fit the garment. The fabric was old and threadbare, as were his pants and his shirt. And his shoes: the leather has been scratched, the soles have threatened to detach themselves completely, and the laces have become so frayed they've knotted in awkward places. As for his socks, he wore one that was slightly higher than the other and a bit darker in color too. Harry surmised Malfoy had worn handouts; he knew the man opposite him had always been pedantically dressed in his youth. It must have pained him deeply to have to wear such dilapidated clothing. Harry hated to see it; he wanted to bring the lovely pianist into his own home and serve him warm milk and a curate tower of pastries. And after that, allow him to rest on his silken sheets on his four-poster bed. Harry wanted Malfoy to wish and want for nothing. The desire to care for the latter had something more elevated than he'd expected; he felt intensely captivated by the pianist's mere movements. 

"You've got a bad habit of staring, Potter," said Malfoy, who stood abruptly and situated himself at the piano once again, this time playing an angry blues tune. Harry stared at the empty seat beside him, feeling the loss deeply. It seemed in this moment he had sunk to severe loneliness—no, not at all like at any ministry ball, but to be denied the company of a man who Harry had just decided to promise everything. 

Luna, who'd been standing a distance at the bar, approached Harry with a drink. "He's right, you know. You do stare at him. And considering he's rather vexed with you already, I wouldn't do it much anymore."

"You know I have no ill intentions," whispered Harry hurriedly. "You don't understand at all, Luna. You don't. I do not feel at all at ease knowing he is impoverished; I want to take care of him, don't you understand? It's an odd thing, really; I don't expect you to get it, but upon seeing him yesterday, I've been possessed with a burst of something like an extraordinary passion that remedied my previous ailments. And upon speaking to him now, I've decided that I never wish to part with him." 

"You wish to take care of him for what reason, Harry?" Luna asked. "Now, I don't doubt you when you say you have good intentions, but Draco is a dear friend of mine, and I know his heart to be rather fragile. If you're seeking a cure for boredom, I know plenty of-"

"Boredom!" Harry gasped. "Don't think so low of me, Luna. I've decided that I will care for him, and it is not because I am bored and wish to have a charity campaign. Haven't you had a moment where you've laid your eyes on someone and decided that they should have everything? And if I don't do anything about it, I'll suffer for the rest of my life!"

Luna's eyes flicked to Harry's empty glass in front of him, visibly asking him if he'd had too much to drink. But Harry felt none of the alcohol inside of him; he felt he'd been thinking clearly for the first time in nearly a decade. "Harry, are you in love with him?"

At this, Harry recoiled, and a dreadful blush overcame him. "Luna, I've only just met him yesterday... that is much too hasty to fall in love."

"I surmised as much; after all, you've claimed an extraordinary passion and expressed a desire to never be without him. Forgive me; maybe I'm wrong."

"Maybe you are," agreed Harry. 

"Maybe I'm not."

"Maybe you're not."

"So, which is it?"

"I'm not."

"Then what do you feel for him?"

"I don't know."

Luna looked terribly confused now, her lips pressed together, lest she confuse the both of them more. Then, without another word, she left the bar and went into the kitchen.

"I don't know," Harry muttered, watching as Malfoy situated himself in front of the keys. His slender body beneath his ill-fitted waistcoat and his enigmatic beauty there before him. Harry let out a breath; his chest felt terribly heavy as he watched Malfoy. A foreign sensation has erupted within, a feeling that has brought terrible strain to his heart. And in this very moment, Harry felt that nagging sensation he'd come to discover slowly fade away. Everything else and everyone besides Malfoy had depleted his sense of self; every plain woman that kissed his hand erupted a dreary affection from him. But the affections he felt now, good God, would surely take over his entire body and soul. And now he wished no more for his stale life; he wished for nothing but Malfoy.

Chapter 3: By the Candlelight

 

"Luna, there's someone in my seat," Harry whispered, becoming agitated at the balding drunk who sat nearest to the stage. "Can't you ask him to move?"

 

"I don't know if I can, Harry. After all, he was there first. You'll have an excellent view from the stage at the front," Luna pointed her finger at a small vacant table right in front of the pianist. And Harry could have agreed to sit there if he didn't know about Malfoy's usual spot at the bar. 

 

"But Malfoy sits there, doesn't he? I want to speak to him again tonight. Or just be beside him," Harry brought out with embarrassing desperation.

 

Luna thought for a while, looking at the man occupying Harry's seat. He seemed to be fast asleep, drooling onto the table. Around his right fist was a bandage, and tucked into his trousers was a wand with an ominously large bag of galleons. That man must have been a diabolical sort; perhaps he partook in dirty business. "I have an idea," Luna began, coming to the same conclusions as Harry. "Invite him to your table."

 

"I-invite Malfoy? You're not serious!"

 

"One hundred percent. And why not? If he denies sitting with you, you'll know where he stands with you. If he accepts, then you can get drunk on bliss and continue to pursue him."

 

"You're right," said Harry. "Except that I am not pursuing him in the way you are implying."

 

Luna didn't look too convinced. "Suit yourself, Harry. But I think you've developed a terrible habit of lying to yourself." With that, she left to attend to a man who'd just fallen over after trying to flirt with a woman twice his age.

 

Harry sighed, turning to Malfoy, who—in the same clothes as yesterday—played the blues, his eyes glancing at the piles of sickles on the stage beside him. Throughout the night, pleased listeners would slide their excess change there as a tip, and every night Harry watched as Malfoy lowered himself on one knee, collected these coins in his thin, youthful hands, and stored the change away in his coat pocket—the only pocket of his without a hole. Malfoy looked just as endearing as he did yesterday and the day before. And that newfound affection for him prompted Harry to move forward. 'Even if he rejects me, at least I'd have talked to him now,' thought Harry.

 

Gathering up his courage and humility, he made his way over to the pianist. Harry stood before him and stared for a moment, unsure of what to do now. "Hello!"

 

Malfoy abruptly ended his song, playing the last chord angrily. "Yes, Potter?"

 

"I know you're about to be on a quick recess, but my seat has been taken..."

 

Malfoy turned to see the sleeping man sitting on the Corinthian column. "I haven't a clue what that has to do with me."

 

"Oh, yes," Harry chuckled nervously. "I am wishing to sit with you for a while. I hope you don't mind sitting at that table with me."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why? Why do I wish to sit with you? Why, I don't know, Malfoy. I enjoyed sitting by you yesterday, so I wondered if you'd do it again. Just sit by me."

 

The latter's eyes bore into his soul with a fiery intensity. In his gray eyes, there was tremendous confusion, and Harry possibly discovered a discreet sort of nervousness. The pianist recoiled, his eyes lowering in submission, and finally nodded. "Alright, I'll sit there tonight."

 

"Really? You're serious?"

 

"Of course I am, you fool." Malfoy shot him an irritable look. Harry, just like Luna predicted, had been drunk on bliss. A genuine smile broke out on his face, his heart fluttered, and his entire being felt light as if in an empyrean! He turned to the bar, and with outstretched arms, he shouted:

 

"Your lovely pianist will sit with me, and therefore you all shall enjoy a free drink on me!"

 

The entire pub roared with laughter and applause, thanking the pianist for the silly gesture. Harry turned to Malfoy, who'd been looking at him with exceptionally lively eyes. "You really are a fool," muttered Malfoy, not smiling—not really, no—but he let out a quick laugh, shaking his head.

 

"Yes, but you've agreed to sit with me. And now everyone is grateful for you, but no one more so than I." Harry smiled, giddy to hear Malfoy's short laugh.

 

The two of them sat face-to-face at the small table, and Harry's smile did not falter a moment. The pianist sat rather awkwardly before him and hurriedly drank his brandy. Seeing the man possessed by visible agitation and nervousness startled Harry into a forced conversation.

 

"I see you've brought a book with you," Harry started hastily, pointing at a thick novel underneath the piano. The cover nearly entirely faded, and the pages were yellowing with oxidation. "Which book is it?"

 

"The Idiot."

 

Harry blushed. "I mean, I cannot tell with the cover being so faded as it is... I do read books."

 

"No, I'm not calling you an idiot. The book is called The Idiot," Malfoy scoffed. "By Dostoevsky."

 

"I've never read it," said Harry. Malfoy made a sound as if he were agreeing. "Your favorite line?"

 

"Why must you have to know?" Malfoy's tone was harsh; if it had materialized, it would have produced a serpent with venomous bites.

 

"Forgive me." Harry bowed his head. "I was merely curious. A good line is enough to prompt me into reading a novel. I suppose if I deemed the line you recited lovely, I'd have read it in an instant."

 

There was a short pause. Harry and Malfoy merely stared at one another, and the latter was seemingly wondering if the former deserved the effort of reciting a line. Evidently, yes, for he spoke:

 

'What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine. How should I grudge and count every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant. He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden on his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it,' Malfoy quoted hurriedly, his eyes fixated on Harry.

 

Harry found this moment so lovely that he felt liable to cry. The vehement recital of those words from the lips of Malfoy seemed to be a verbalized shadow of who he once was—the evidently incurable disease that ailed him—on full display. If everyone in Diagon Alley could walk by and hear those words from his mouth, they would be reduced to tears; they ought to cry and be told that this was such a man who had everything taken from him. Such a man who fell a terrible distance away from everything he held dearly. Such a man's heart clings to being saved.

 

In that very moment, the feeling Harry termed nostalgia stepped forward and revealed itself as the deepest sort of affection one could have for another being. Perhaps it was love, as Luna surmised, but he wasn't yet too sure. He knew for certain that in that moment, Malfoy was the only being on earth with whom he wanted to sit.

 

"Will you say something?" Malfoy asked.

 

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I'd have been glad if that was the last thing I heard."

 

Malfoy stared at him, clearly very unsure of what to say next. He lowered his eyes and stared at the table with a very thoughtful expression. Harry wished for him to reply; he wished desperately for this pathetic silence to end. Even if Malfoy broke into irresistibly joyful laughter at his expense, it would ease his mind. But the silence continued, and Harry wished for nothing more than to start over again. Why did I say such a thing? I've placed too much importance on him, and now he must find me odd, Harry thought.

 

"I am sorry," Harry began, placing his palms on the table. "I could not resist the temptation to speak my mind."

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and lifted the cigarette to his mouth, his pale fingers sliding the candle his way. Now, it has already been established that Harry was not immune to impulses. He himself knew this to be both a blessing and a burden. But the mere fact that he would not be able to light Malfoy's cigarette tonight prompted him to hurriedly blow out the flame.

 

"What is this?" Malfoy removed the cigarette from his mouth. "What are you playing at?"

 

"I am not trying to inconvenience you; I'm sorry. I had been intending to light your cigarette for you as a gesture of respect."

 

Malfoy, looking both shocked and annoyed, stared at Harry in disbelief, as if he'd just said something absurd. "Fine... But know that was most insolent of you."

 

"I know; I'm sorry. I should have offered first," whispered Harry. He pulled out his lighter and held it in front of the pianist, who looked absolutely divine in this moment. "You come to Misty at nine o'clock," observed Harry. "What are you doing before then?"

 

"Awfully interrogative of you, Auror Potter," said Malfoy, exhaling a breath of smoke. "Why do you care?"

 

"I've retired three years ago; I'm merely curious, is all. I figured you could be playing for the entirety of the time being because you possess immense talent."

 

Malfoy brought the cigarette to his lips again and studied Harry closely, as if he'd just asked him a riddle. "I did not know you'd retired... As for my late shift here, I have other occupations."

 

"Ah, I see. Do you play piano at different pubs?"

 

"No, I translate textbooks from French and write labels for apothecaries." Malfoy whispered, evidently embarrassed.

 

"I had no idea you could speak French." Harry smiled. "It must have been difficult to find a publisher; I hear it's been difficult for even well-known writers."

 

"He was an old family friend," replied Malfoy. "He recognized me when he saw me wandering around Ashwinder Alley."

 

"Did he wish to fulfill a promise to your father? Is that why he took you on?"

 

Malfoy's shoulders tensed at the mention of his father. Harry had been present in the courtroom when Lucius Malfoy received the Kiss. His last wishes were that all those in debt to him provide for his son in any way possible upon his son's release. Harry never forgot those words. As an eighteen-year-old who tended to view all as either a villain or a hero, a man he deemed most vile and diabolical, in a fit of desperation, begged for his son's comfort upon release. It struck Harry deeply in that moment, and perhaps it still did, which is why he was liable to bring it up so easily.

 

"My publisher wasn't in debt to my father," Malfoy finally answered with slight irritation. "I earned the right to translate for him." There was a brief pause. "If you'll excuse me, I must take to the piano now." Malfoy stood hurriedly but paused and whirled around to face him. "Do you wish to hear anything in particular?"

 

Harry's heart swelled up with childlike giddiness, and a large grin broke out on his face. "By all means, Malfoy, repeatedly play three notes in succession, and you'll reduce me to tears."

 

"And odd sort you've become, Potter. But I'll maintain you've always been this way," whispered Malfoy as he left Harry's table for the piano.

 

With great pleasure, Harry waited until Misty closed. He had become terribly self-aware with each hour that passed, and with each moment he sat, waiting, with his leg bouncing with impatience. To wait hours for the mere chance that he may exchange a word or two with Malfoy. Goodness, even he, in his stubborn nature, could easily admit the effect Malfoy had on him was inexplicably intense. And his waiting there proved it to himself; he revealed the ugliness of his heart to himself, and there it was. The deepest affection for the pianist is on full display for all to see, admire, and perhaps laugh at. But he felt that even if the entire populace thrust their fingers his way and laughed at him for this sudden yield to affection, he'd continue all the same, and perhaps he'd even hope that Malfoy would laugh at him too, and Harry would marvel at the sight.

 

"We are closing," Luna's voice sounded, pulling Harry from his thoughts. "You'll come again?"

 

"Of course," he assured her earnestly. Malfoy was wrapping himself in his cloak and heading to the door. Losing sight of him unearthed a startling panic in him, and he quickly rushed after him. "Malfoy!" Harry called.

 

Malfoy turned slowly; his tall figure cast a long shadow on the dampened, cobbled roads. "Have I forgotten something?"

 

"Yes," Harry breathed, his eyes wide as he beheld Malfoy up close. "You forgot to say good night or goodbye, whichever you prefer, I suppose."

 

The man recoiled; a flicker of mutiny appeared on his otherwise lovely face. "Forgive me, Potter; I did not know I was obligated to wish you a good night."

 

"Goodness, no!" Harry panicked, shaking his head. "I wouldn't obligate you to do a thing in your life, Malfoy. But I'd have liked to have wished you a good night."

 

After a short pause, Malfoy stepped towards Harry and spoke in a low voice: "Why are you so amiable towards me? Did you perhaps hear a pitiful story about me? Do you wish to bask in the difference in our clothes? Perhaps you just cannot get enough of my poverty, and this amiability is mere charity work?"

 

"No, none of it," whispered Harry, unable to look away from those gray eyes. "And I'll have you know I take no pride in my wealth."

 

Malfoy's lips twitched as if he wished to challenge him, but nothing of the sort was done. "You have yet to tell me why you've been so kind to me and why you've been watching me closely for the last three days."

 

"Forgive me," breathed Harry. "I merely wished to be around you. You don't care for it, do you? You don't care about our previous enmity?"

 

"No," Malfoy said, shaking his head. "I'm thirty-years old with scarcely any money; I hardly have a reason to be embittered by a childhood rivalry. Only those who have all they wish for torment themselves with trivialities of the past." The blonde's expression was deep, and his voice quieted as if the last half of his speech was more for himself than for Harry, perhaps an outward examination of his own conscience. "And you, Harry? Do you care for it all?"

 

"Care for our past?"

 

"Yes, and who I used to be?"

 

"No, I don't care for it. I don't care for any of it. Not in the way you believe I ought to."

 

"Then in what way?" His tone had been self-assured, but ironically, it seemed that Harry's answer, if deemed unworthy, possessed the power to greatly waver his confidence.

 

"I care about knowing you; I'd like to get to know Draco Malfoy. Not he who was a Death Eater. Not he who was the son of Lucius Malfoy, or he who spent his youth in Azkaban. I wish to know why you read Dostoevsky; why you must have a cigarette after a cup of brandy; why only when you play the piano do you treat everything and everyone as an afterthought."

 

Malfoy's face flushed pink, and his eyes widened for a moment. This expression was of such great personal beauty that Harry had to squeeze his fists together to resist the temptation to take hold of Malfoy's face and kiss it for all that it was. Yes, even now he'd admitted to himself that he'd kiss him. Wouldn't one kiss a cherub upon seeing one? It is the very same!

 

"There's nothing about me that you will find interesting, Potter. I don't mean to disappoint you greatly, but if you wish for something or someone exciting, you ought to look elsewhere. I cannot cater to your boredom."

 

Harry laughed at him, and the blush on Malfoy's face darkened. "Boredom? How low do you think of yourself?! Surely, you really don't think yourself uninteresting!"

 

"Oh, laugh all you wish, Potter," Malfoy gasped, bewildered. "Goodnight, just as you wish!" With that, Malfoy turned and hurriedly walked into a narrow alleyway that led to God knows where.

 

Harry watched as his figure disappeared as the shadows engulfed him. He stood there for a while, unable to breathe, unable to do much but marvel at their exchange. Harry wished he did not laugh; he wished he could have declared Malfoy the most interesting creature he has ever encountered to his face and perhaps reduced him to a more flustered state. And it wouldn't be untrue, not at all. The most uninteresting of people stayed in his mind for mere seconds or minutes at most. But for three whole days, Harry had thought of nothing else. And there is no one besides Malfoy that he would importunately chase across the world to hear him utter a simple good night.

Chapter 4: Apartment 6B

"Good evening, Malfoy," Harry said, giving the pianist a large smile as he walked into Misty for the fourth consecutive night.

 

Malfoy's eyes seemed slightly startled, and his face reddened at the unexpected greeting. The latter merely bowed his head timidly as he continued to play the piano. 

 

Since the moment he left last night, he'd lay awake on his sofa—his own bedroom was much too cluttered, so he'd been reduced to his sofa—replaying his conversation with Malfoy over and over. It was then that he realized why Malfoy had always seemed embarrassed to have his cigarette lit. His own cigarette was free, complementary from Luna, and it was being lit by a minister-gifted lighter in the hands of his old rival. It did not matter if Malfoy did not despise Harry any longer; the animosity did not need to be there for Malfoy to have felt bruised in that moment. Lucius Malfoy must have had the same lighter; Harry was certain of it, and Harry cursed himself all night for injuring the pianist's heart in that moment when he insisted he light his cigarette. That is why, on the way to Misty tonight, he'd purchased a rather cheap lighter and intended to use it tonight. 

 

When Harry sat at the table before the piano, being in close proximity to Malfoy once again brought on a burst of something like hysterical ecstasy. His heart fluttered wildly in his chest, and his skin tingled with anticipation. He'd become so captivated by his movements and the way his face—not just while he played the piano—expressed every emotion. The very first day he'd been reunited with Malfoy, Harry pitied him, for he'd gathered that all the man possessed was this piano at the back of Sleepless Street. Let it be so, because Harry is not at all better off. All Harry possessed was a tortured pianist in the same pub. He'd become so quickly addicted to the man that the mere essence of the pianist's simplicity came to him like a revelation. The word "love" lingered lazily in his mind, but Harry never confronted it; after all, how could he possibly try and decipher his own feelings when he'd been perfectly content now? Motionless, in a sort of trance, Harry watched and listened to the pianist, never once taking his eyes off of him. 

 

Suddenly, as if sensing it, Malfoy's eyes moved from the ivory keys and towards Harry's, lingered there for a second or two, and returned to the keys. And then he smiled, a reticent smile, as if their eye contact were their own little secret. Every fiber of Harry's being trembled as he stared in amazement. Someone ought to paint this, thought Harry. The entirety of the man, his soul on full display before him, and the painter, too, would tremble with intense captivation. What a sight! Oh, what a sight!

 

"Blink, Potter!" Lonnie Mint shouted from the bar, raising a glass of whiskey his way. 

 

Malfoy laughed at his expense, looking once again at Harry, who'd been marveling at the sight before him. "Do you need anything, Potter? Is there a song you wish to hear? Or do you intend to stare like a child all evening?"

 

"I have a request." Harry leaned forward, prompting Malfoy to pull away from his instrument and listen in. 

 

"Go on then. What will it be? Blues? Jazz? And if it's to your liking, you'll tip me well, Mr. Potter?" Malfoy sneered, drawing out his name with a playful distaste. 

 

"Yes, I shall," said Harry, "but I wish to hear none of it today."

 

Malfoy recoiled; his face grew confused as he lapsed into a dangerous silence. "What do you mean?"

 

"Will you sit with me tonight? Please? Don't play the piano, but sit with me."

 

Malfoy glanced uneasily at the piano. "I need the money, Potter. I cannot neglect my job, not even for a day."

 

"How much do you need?" Harry asked, hastily pulling out his wallet.

 

Malfoy grabbed Harry's wrist with intense strength; it was almost desperate. "I don't accept charity. And I don't accept money to sit idly by men. Goodness, what do you take me for? A hostess? I have nothing; I know that, but spare me my dignity," he hissed, and he glanced over his shoulder as if he were deathly afraid someone would see this exchange. "Look, let me earn my wages and come back later. I'll let you walk me home if a conversation is something you desperately want. And don't you pay me for it; you'll only insult me! Is that alright?"

 

"More than," Harry smiled. "Well, I'll wait for you."

 

Malfoy shook his head but was smiling anyway. "You've gone mad," he said, turning his attention to the piano. "Absolutely mad."

 

"That I have," muttered Harry to himself, a smile spreading across his face. So, that was exactly what Harry did. He spent his evening with Lonnie Mint and Luna, with half of his attention on the pianist for the entirety of the time. It had been only during his evenings that he'd been able to shake off that feeling of loneliness. It evaporated upon seeing Malfoy, and when Malfoy looked upon him, he’d felt nothing but excitement. And he soon grew addicted to it, sending in a total of three drinks over to the pianist. If he was lucky, Malfoy would acknowledge him with a nod or a half-smile. But as the night had gone on, Malfoy had become a little tipsy, accepting every drink Harry had sent his way. Upon noticing Malfoy subtly stumble out of his seat, Harry stopped sending drinks altogether. Even if he had only sent three, he should have known that on an empty stomach, it takes only a few to become tipsy. 

 

At the end of the evening, Harry waited by the door like an excited dog that wished to go for a walk. He watched as Malfoy gathered the sickles at the edge of the stage and collected his wages from Luna—one galleon a day, which is rather generous in this part of Diagon Alley. He carefully put the coins in his pocket and patted the slight bulge as if he'd doubted the integrity of his clothing. With a slight sway, he wrapped his frail body in his tattered cloak, shouldered his bag, and stood before Harry. "Why must you look at me like that?"

 

"Like what?"

 

"Well, I don't know, half ecstasy and half madness." 

 

Harry laughed loudly and opened the door for Malfoy. "I couldn't have said it better myself." 

 

Malfoy had given him a look of fondness. Harry watched him closely, observing that odd reticence in him that hadn't been there before. Instead of his previous masterful expression of arrogance, he seemed free—weightless—and it was not because he was tipsy. It seemed this divinity had not come from Azkaban either, even if Malfoy was reborn in those walls, but from a personal surrender before his sentence. Harry knew; he remembered the softness in his eyes the moment he learned of his sentence, and it'd struck him intensely, refusing to give Harry an ounce of peace. 

 

"Will you say something, or do you intend to stare at me the entire way?" Malfoy asked suddenly.

 

"Oh, yes," Harry replied, startled. "After all, I'm the one who wished to speak with you. I'm sorry for the drinks; I didn't intend for you to become tipsy," said Harry, grabbing onto Malfoy, who swayed a little too far away.

 

"Ah, that's alright, Mr. Potter," Malfoy said with a sneer. "I haven't the same tolerance as you, who feasts every day. Wait! Stop here." Malfoy planted his feet and turned towards Harry, his eyelids heavy and gray eyes glossy with intoxication. "Will you laugh at me?"

 

"Laugh at you? What for?"

 

"I live on Lacewing Lane," whispered Malfoy in a tone of earnest seriousness. 

 

"I would never think to do so, Malfoy. And will you laugh at me that I've waited all evening for this quick conversation?" 

 

Malfoy's once timid expression changed into immense amusement; he suddenly smiled and laughed heartily. Even in the never-silent state of Sleepless Street, the air carried his laugh like a song, and it echoed. Harry's heart trembled, and he made a quick point to keep himself from tripping over his feet as they made their way down a darkened alley. 

 

"Forgive me," Malfoy said, covering his face as he attempted to stifle his own laughter. "I am just confused! Ah, you don't know how to spend your time, Mr. Potter; why must you waste it?"

 

"Waste it?" Harry asked, not at all offended by Malfoy's reaction. "But it is only moments such as now that I feel alive!"

 

"And why? Why is that? Surely, you've not become so arrogant that the mere presence of a poor man is enough to intoxicate you?" 

 

"Even if I were poor, I'd have asked to walk you home. If you were rich, I'd ask to drive your carriage home."

 

"But you have tremendous wealth. And... I... Well, I am without any."

 

"Yes, so I'm walking you home. I don't see your poverty, Malfoy, nor do I care for it the way you believe I might. All I know is that I am going to walk you home and dedicate my efforts to you from this day forward.

 

Malfoy froze for a moment. Even if the alley they'd walked down was hardly lit, Harry could see that those words gave rise to a remarkable transformation in his countenance. Malfoy seemed he could no longer look his way anymore. But his expression was so utterly raw, as if everything he believed he knew had crumbled before his eyes, and it seemed he was glad to be liberated from some doubt. 

 

"I take it you had a drink too many yourself, Mr. Potter," whispered Malfoy, still unable to look at Harry. 

 

"Will you be referring to me as 'Mr. Potter' all evening?" 

 

"Yes, I find it amusing," said Malfoy. "Because everyone refers to you in that manner, do they not? And everyone deems you perfect! But I don't think you're at all without fault, clearly." Malfoy nodded in his direction to refer to his being there beside him. "It is rather refreshing to find that you are not as perfect as people say." 

 

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "No, nowhere near being perfect."

 

"Ah, so Mr. Potter is also terribly humble as well as excruciatingly handsome! An eligible bachelor, I dare say," jested Malfoy, with a teasing smile. "Take my hand, Mr. Potter, but refuse me so that I may finally move on!"

 

Harry took Malfoy's extended hand and placed a soft kiss on it, immediately silencing the latter. Malfoy pulled his hand away, startled. His face expressed great embarrassment, and his appearance was one of agitation. "You were supposed to refuse me, Mr. Potter," whispered he; his voice trembled slightly. 

 

"But I would never," Harry breathed. "Merlin, why would I ever?" Their eyes met, and the pianist blushed heavily. He turned on his heel and hurried quickly down the lane.

 

"Make haste, Mr. Potter! You're to walk me home!" The pianist demanded, not once looking to see if Harry had been following him. "You foolish man! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! A fool! A scoundrel! A pompous beast!" Malfoy continued to let out a string of insults at Harry, but he'd been smiling the entire time, and like a child, he continuously checked if Harry had become at all vexed with him. 

 

They moved down the narrow alley and into Lacewing Lane. The buildings were crumbling just as before, with tattered paint and garbage littered on the pavement. Harry instinctively walked closer to Malfoy as a depraved-looking man walked past them. Malfoy stopped in front of a three-story building with peeling white paint and rotting wood. The lawn was surrounded by a rusting iron fence and pervaded by weeds and garbage. Malfoy suddenly blushed and dared not to look at his own building. Tremulous became he who's own home displayed his disease of poverty. 

 

"You promised me not to laugh," Malfoy started. "Keep your promise until you've left me. Then you may laugh as you wish. Actually, why do I care? Laugh at me!

 

Harry smiled. "Never." 

 

Malfoy gave him a tense,  brief grin before turning and opening the squeaky iron gate. The front door, whose hinges seemed to alert the entire building of their entrance, opened into a dark corridor with multicolored doors to each flat lined along the sides. The walls, blanketed with faded wallpaper, were thin, for Harry could hear a couple arguing in one room and a baby's wails from another. With a shy gesture, Malfoy beckoned Harry to follow him further down the hall and up a narrow staircase. The second floor and the third floor seemed the very same, with the exception of a stained-glass window on the third that cast a colorful pattern on the stained carpeted floor. The floor creaked; the wood bent ominously under his weight, but Harry continued down the corridor, following Malfoy's lean figure. At the very end of the corridor, Malfoy stopped and faced an emerald-green door with brass knobs. And painted on it, 6B. 

 

"Forgive me, it is not as luxurious as it appears from the outside." Malfoy smiled briefly at his own joke; Harry found this intensely sweet. Malfoy looked down at his feet and swiftly picked up a sheet of canary-yellow paper. Printed on it:

 

EVICTION NOTICE:

PAY COMPENSATION FEES OF 30 GALLEONS AND DEATH-EATER REPARATIONS OF ANOTHER 20 GALLEONS WITH RENT TOMORROW. 

 

150 GALLEONS UP FRONT BEFORE NOON TO AVOID EVICTION. 

 

Malfoy, who'd been in a good mood up until now, quickly brought the paper to his chest. His face displayed terror and intense worry. "Go home, Potter," he whispered hurriedly. "Thank you for walking me." 

 

"Do you have the money, Malfoy?" Harry asked. The pianist's gray eyes flashed with indignation and inward shame. 

 

"Don't you worry yourself with my trivialities, Potter. I'll be fine, have faith in me, will you? You're insulting me every moment you stand before me now. Good night," Malfoy whispered and his pale hands began to tremble. 

 

"Let me help you just this once–"

 

"Harry, please leave me be!" The pianist, with trembling hands, hastened to unlock his door. Before he hurried inside, Harry grabbed his arm. 

 

"I'll go mad if you leave like this, Malfoy! Let me help you, for you've already provided me hours of lovely music!" 

 

"I get paid! Oh, I get paid, you fool! I'm tired and you'll only torment me if you hold me here a second longer. Let go!" Malfoy yanked his arm from Harry's grip and slammed the door in his face. 

 

"Keep it down, Death Eater, or I'll complain to the landlady again!" Shouted the neighboring man. 

 

Harry stood in the darkened, mildew covered corridor, his heart bruised and liable to breaking. "I love you," Harry whispered towards the door. "Merlin, I think I've fallen in love with you..."

 

Harry did not sleep for a moment the entire evening. On his sofa, he'd been ailing with the mere knowledge that Malfoy, whom he declared the love of his life just earlier that evening, would become a vagrant! And Harry wracked his mind all night, working desperately to conjure up a solution. No, he would not accept charity; even if he has so little and a standing so fragile, the man wishes to get by honestly. So Harry cannot hand Malfoy the galleons he needs by noon. If suddenly the fee was waived at Harry's request, then Malfoy's surely would pin it on him. How could it be that Harry could provide for Malfoy while he believes he received it honestly? "What an enigma," thought Harry deeply as he strolled down Diagon Alley early the next morning. "By noon today, he will be without a roof over his deserving head. And yet, even with all that I wish to give, I cannot do anything! Surely, there must be something!" 

 

Harry also thought about what he'd whispered in front of Malfoy's door last night. I love you. At first, he'd reckoned he'd been too consumed by emotion, and that prompted him to make a rash confession. But why would he ever confess if it were not at all how he felt? And if that were the case—which it most likely was—how could he fall in love so quickly with hardly a conversation spoken between them? It was not delusion or boredom, for he'd never been so sure about something in his entire life. Every minute he spent near Malfoy, boundless rapture engulfed him (Merlin, to be in love)! The timid, tremulous gestures of a proud man; the vehemence of his character! And yet, no matter if Harry reached and called for him, Malfoy would stand at a distance, laughing at him, while the plainest of them would tug at Harry's arm for his attention. 

 

There is, in that man, a will of iron. And under God's capricious grace, he toiled on just because he could. It had been precisely that Harry admired; it had been that determined character that Harry knew he could not be without. And perhaps this is what he would tell their grandchildren, and he, hunched over and frail, kisses their fat cheeks a good night. 'I met your grandfather at a pub called Misty. No, he did not flirt with me in a lowly fashion; he played the piano as if he wanted the world to hear that he was quite alright. And he held me in his gaze and saw me in my entirety, the ugly and the proud.' And the children would giggle and declare that their grandparents were truly in love and that there was nothing else quite like it. 

 

Harry paused in front of the Weasleys' shop and pondered for a while. Then, on a whim, he walked in. Adults and children alike laughed and thoroughly enjoyed themselves among the treats and toys that populated the towering shelves. The brightly colored furniture seems to be an outward reflection of the store's perpetual bliss. Harry himself began to smile. 

 

"Why, it's Mr. Potter!" A little boy rushed towards him with pleasant eagerness. The young man had barely a stitch to his name. His clothes were pitifully tattered, his shoes were much too small, and his pale skin was dirtied with soot. "Mr. Potter, will you stay long?" 

 

"I'm not sure; I came in just to look around," said Harry as he kneeled down to the boy's level. "And will you stay long?"

 

Upon being asked this, the dirtied child puffed out his chest and gave him a stern nod. "That I am, Mr. Potter! My papa will bring home two galleons today; he'd promised me that I'd be able to pick out a sweet! I'm scoping the scene, Mr. Potter; I'm deciding which of these to buy."

 

The boy pointed his little finger at the sweets, which were priced at two sickles a piece. Harry frowned, suddenly remembering the sight of Malfoy scooping up sickles from the edge of the stage. 

 

"Here." Harry reached into his bag and handed the boy five galleon coins. The dirtied boy was overcome with an onslaught of emotions; he held out his little hands and accepted the coins. 

 

"No! I mustn't! Papa is too proud to accept handouts, and therefore I am too!" The little boy thrust the coins back into Harry's hands, tears in his eyes. 

 

"Why not? You've earned them, little one; you've earned them fair and square."

 

"Fair and square? How so? I've just greeted you!"

 

"Yes, that is true, but you've brightened my day, and I will be very sad should you reject my offer," said Harry, putting the coins back into the little boy's hand. "Do me a favor, little one; buy the lot."

 

"The lot!" The boy threw his arms around Harry and hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Mr. Potter! I'll love you forever!"

 

Harry stood, feeling infinitely warm, watching the young boy among his friends fill their little baskets with the small treats. There is nothing more gratifying than a child's boundless joy. 

 

"Harry?" 

 

Ron Weasley approached him with clear apprehension. He, despite their falling apart, looked upon Harry with genuine excitement. "What are you doing here? Have you an order?"

 

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I wandered in, that's all. I hear good things about your shop; let me congratulate you."

 

"Oh, thanks," Ron looked pleasantly surprised and shook Harry's hand earnestly. "I haven't seen you in ages! How long has it been? Two years?"

 

"Three," said Harry. "And Hermione? Is she well? And the twins?"

 

"Yes, they're all well." There was a short pause between them. "Harry, are you well?"

 

"Lately, yes," said Harry, smiling at the thought of his little secret behind the piano. "But now that I've seen you, I'll let you know who you were right then. You had been right about everything."

 

His old friend smiled in an unexpected sort of way, and in an almost frenzied voice, he spoke: "Harry, come eat lunch at our place. Let us reconcile then. 

 

"Perfect."

 

And they parted, with Ron whistling a happy tune and Harry humming a blues tune that had been playing last night at Misty. 

 

The Weasleys' abode had been a lot more put together than what Ron had grown up in. They occupied a medium-sized flat, modestly furnished and of simple tastes, above their main store in Diagon Alley. Harry had found their place rather homely and was confronted with the realization that even though he had lived in luxury, he did not depend on it in the slightest. He could do just as well without the many lavishly decorated, unused rooms. 

 

Two little children, who, when Harry had seen them last, were too young to remember him, pattered up to him in excitement and tugged on the hems of his coat. 

 

"You stop that, both of you! You'll pay for it if you break it," Ron shouted, pulling the two girls away from Harry. "Sorry, mate, let me get your coat."

 

"No, that'll be fine. I think I remember how to use a coat hanger," jested Harry at his own expense as he hung up his cloak on the wall. "A lovely home, really. I should like to live in a place like this."

 

Ron laughed awkwardly.

 

 "I shouldn't think so. Your place is magnificent; I see it on the Prophet every once in a while, and I'll admit, I've been quite envious."

 

"Harry!" Hermione entered the living room with her hair tangled, and she hastily dried her hands on her trousers. "Long time, no see!"

 

She threw herself onto him and squeezed him tightly, and on her was an aroma of roses and freshly baked bread. It seemed that the luxurious coat he wore, his shiny boots, and the glittering golden chain on his waistcoat produced the least impression on her. There were beads of tears collecting on her brown lashes; she hurriedly blinked them away and let out an exasperated laugh. "I knew this would happen! It is about time we all reconcile! Three years is much too long. Come, come sit, Harry. Dinner is ready." She beckoned him into a smaller room where the children had already seated themselves, poking at their dinner rolls with increasing impatience. Ron hastily pulled out a chair at the end of the table and gestured for Harry to be seated. 

 

"Ah, Rose, you stop that. Don't poke holes in your bread; that's rude," Hermione snapped, pulling her daughter's little finger from the roll. She sat down finally, beside Ron, and stared at Harry with curious wonder. In fact, they both did. They stared at him as if to silently ask, "So? Did you change? Did our Harry come back?" 

 

Harry cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of what to say and how to proceed with admitting his conceited behavior. "I'd believed that a high status would perhaps unlock a version of me that I'd greatly admire—someone who would have done well. But I was wrong, and in that covetous strive for high society, I've lost touch with myself. It cost me my friends and happiness. And it had become so clear to me lately that your words were absolutely true; they weighed heavily on me," Harry whispered, his eyes meeting Ron's, who stared with great intrigue. "I'd forgotten myself and have become terribly unhappy."

 

"Oh, you know we don't despise you, Harry," Hermione whispered. "How could we? We knew you'd forsaken yourself, yet we could not tell it to you."

 

"And I'm so deeply sorry for it," Harry told him, bowing his head. 

 

"You're alright, mate," said Ron, still astonished by Harry's confession. "I mean, I was plenty annoyed with you. But like Hermione said, I was upset for your sake, more so than mine. It seems you've come around, though, and I'm happy for you, mate. Really."

 

"Yes, and I'll let you know that Ron and I missed you terribly. We were afraid you did not feel the same." Hermione added. 

 

"I did miss you all; I'd become a sort of shell of myself these last few years. And it had been three days ago precisely that I'd gone through a spiritual rebirth," explained Harry. "Since then, I've wished nothing more than to be who I once was." 

 

Hermione and Ron exchanged curious looks. 

"That's oddly specific," started Hermione. "To go through a spiritual rebirth exactly three days ago? Did you go to a Mind Healer?"

 

"No, nothing of the sort. Do you know Luna Lovegood owns a pub on Sleepless Street?" They both nodded. "Well, I'd stumbled into her pub by accident and felt that I had lived for the first time in a decade!"

 

"I've never visited Misty," whispered Hermione. "I'd been too busy with the kids and work, but I hadn't assumed it had a morally decisive air. That is most odd! Did you perhaps meet someone there?"

 

"Yes, I did," Harry said proudly. His friends gasped, greatly startling their children, who had been meticulously eating their dinner. "Do you happen to know who plays the piano in Misty?" They shook their heads, leaning forward with intrigue. "Draco Malfoy!"

 

"Malfoy?" Ron mumbled; his eyebrows furrowed as if he were desperately trying to remember who that was. "Ah, that is odd, Harry. I hear he's become a sort of vagrant nowadays."

 

"Well, no, Malfoy lived on Lacewing Lane and toils in three occupations. He's without his inheritance and magic, you see? Isn't that morally decisive enough?" Harry explained with a fretful tone. 

 

"So, you've seen a poverty-stricken Malfoy and decided that you should forsake high society?" Ron surmised, glancing at his wife for assistance, for he didn't at all believe his own conclusion. 

 

Hermione stood abruptly and thrust her finger towards Harry, her eyes flashing. "No, Ron! That's not it! Harry's gone and fallen in love!"

 

"Yes, Hermione! I have! Oh, thank you for seeing it in me; it's been tormenting me!" Harry leapt to his feet and grabbed her small hands, holding them tightly to his chest. "Tell me, am I being obvious? Can you easily tell?"

 

Hermione shook her head, her own hands trembling in his. "Harry, the last time I've seen you, you've been in a terrible state. You seem infinitely better, and upon mentioning Malfoy, well, I know you'd always tormented yourself over him after the trial. Not to say his sentence hadn't weighed heavily on our minds, but none more than yourself. I think you'd always had an affection for him, and now that you've seen his soul on full display, that affection has revealed itself to be love."

 

"You're right!" Harry gasped. "I couldn't have said it better myself! You must come to Misty and see him play. Ron don't laugh; I'm being serious! You're laughing!"

 

Ron, who'd been reduced to tears due to a laughing fit, hurriedly wiped his eyes and attempted to speak. Hermione pinched him repeatedly to get him to stop, declaring him the most insolent man in Britain. "Can't you see he's being serious, Ron? He's in love!"

 

"Alright, Harry," said Ron after he'd calmed down from his laughing fit. "But we've been too busy; we cannot spontaneously leisure into a pub nowadays. And we've got a company banquet to plan this weekend. You know, to lure investors."

 

"Have you a venue?" asked Harry. "And at any banquet, there must be food! Have you hired a musician?"

 

"Well, to be honest, it's been difficult to find a location to host at a decent price," admitted Hermione. "As for a musician, we'd settled on a gramophone; musicians are much too expensive." 

 

Harry leapt to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest. "Then host at my home," began Harry, his great idea materializing before his eyes. "Yes, and let me pay for everything! It has been ages since I've allowed anyone to call on me; I've never let another soul into my home in years! And to open it for all in your name, you must understand how crowded it will be with haughty investors with eyes like glittering galleons! They'll flock from all around the country, and you'll flourish like a primrose. And I'll fill their greedy bellies with towers of pastries and samovars of tea and cocoa. But allow me one thing: Malfoy must play the piano! And if he doesn't, then I won't be able to do anything, let alone clean my cluttered home—I cannot even sleep on my own bed anymore; I've been sleeping on the sofa—so, permit me Malfoy!" Harry brought out hurriedly, his knuckles white as they gripped the tablecloth. This was it! With this alone, Malfoy will earn enough to put a roof over his head and feed himself! Yes, Harry will pay him generously and conceal his gift with etiquette and policy. 

 

Ron and Hermione sat with their eyes wide open, digesting Harry's sudden outburst with great intrigue. "Merlin, he's gone mad," said Ron, finally. "He's begging us to allow him to pay for our troubles if we allow him, Malfoy... How is it that you've fallen in love so terribly fast and so intensely?"

 

"Oh, you don't get it," Hermione scoffed. "By all means, Harry, let Malfoy play his piano. You haven't asked a thing of us," she said, laughing now. 

 

Harry had reached the pitch of ecstasy and clasped his hands together, letting out a sigh of sincere bliss. "Brilliant! I will pay him generously so he may fit that tattered waistcoat; better yet, let him buy a new one. How is it that the loveliest people have nothing and the most wretched of men sit at the top with everything?"

 

"Malfoy used to sit at the top; don't forget," said Ron incredulously, wanting not to ruin Harry's delightful mood. "And he was not always lovely."

 

"Yes, I know," Harry said as he sat in his chair, assuming a quieter voice. "And that is what is so lovely. At the time, we did not care for a person's complexities. Our Euclidean minds couldn't possibly handle the idea that someone such as Malfoy could be hurt. Could you imagine the sort of inner turmoil one goes through when their comfort dissolves before their eyes? Not at his own faults, mind you; the world fell apart, and he'd no say in any of it. That proud, penniless young man patiently served his time for his parents' wrongdoings. Upon release, he does not unleash a curse upon us to spite us; he continues to patiently serve his time for his parents' crimes to remedy the suffering he'd endured." Harry muttered, his voice lowering as he reached the end of his speech. "Did you know he'd nearly rejected my offer to light his cigarette? I could see it all over his face—that twisted expression he'd given me. Why must you offer to light my free cigarette with the lighter presented to you by the minister? Are you laughing at me? I saw he'd suffered the insult; he's terribly real. But he said nothing to me, as if he'd reconciled with himself that it did not matter. Do you understand? Am I rambling? Perhaps I've really gone mad."

 

"Yes, I think you have," muttered Ron, shaking his head in disbelief. "Harry, I don't oppose you when I say this: do you think there may be a slight chance you're reading into Malfoy in excess? He's suffered a great deal, undoubtedly, but 'he's patiently serving his time' for his inheritance, Harry, not to cure his suffering."

 

"If that were the case, why doesn't he stay with a family friend?" Hermione began with a pensive look on her face. "We all heard Lucius Malfoy's last request: 'protect and provide for my boy upon his release.' Surely, there are many in debt to Lucius, and wouldn't they take his boy in to appeal to the heir who's due for great power after parole? He knows there are those in debt to Lucius who are still salivating at the chance to relieve their debts. Yet he does not indulge in their comforts or their offers. I agree with Harry," said Hermione, wiping her daughter's face with a napkin. "Why would he take up Lacewing Lane, toil through three occupations, and rid himself of all comfort if he didn't want to save himself? I see why you're so interested, Harry."

 

"Whatever you wish, let the man play the piano," Ron agreed nonchalantly. "I couldn't discredit Malfoy anymore. Look what he's done! Harry's been resurrected."

 

"The Boy Who Lived," joked Hermione, and all three of them shared a laugh. Harry's own heart was tremendously full, and all that used to gladden him ceased to mock him.

Chapter 5: The Pianist’s Debut

In three years, Harry hadn't stepped foot into the auror department. The moment he retired, he declared he'd never return. But today was a particular occasion on which he'd gladly disregard his own declarations. To avoid being seen, Harry slipped his way through the many insignificant ministry workers, not paying any mind if they'd known him or had worked closely with him before. "No, none of you matter to me now," thought Harry, who'd turned the fur collar up on his coat as he stepped into the elevator. "The only being that ever mattered is nowhere to be found, and unfortunately, the only man from whom I can figure out anything is that insufferable Hermes Biconus." Harry also theorized that the ministry appointed Biconus to Malfoy as a parole officer on purpose. There has never been a more notoriously corrupt officer, and Harry despised him then and even more so now. 

Finding the parole office, it was not at all difficult to find Biconus's, for his tumultuous voice could be heard from the elevator cabin. Harry moved surreptitiously through the corridor, his eyes fixed on the carpeted floor, hoping almost feverishly that not a soul would utter a word to him. Finally, and without interruption, Harry made it to Biconus's office door and stepped inside. There had been three other officers there, all of whom stood around Biconus, wearing haughty clothing and laughing at what Harry assumed was a mildly offensive jest at one of their clients. 

 

"Ah! What a surprise!" Biconus turned to Harry, displaying his perfectly straight, pearly teeth. "What brings you here, Mr. Potter? I dare say you've grown to hate the ministry; it's been ages since anyone's seen you loitering about."

 

"Loitering," Harry scoffed, not at all willing to match Biconus's frivolities. "I've merely come to inquire about one of your clients, Draco Lucius Malfoy."

 

"Ah!" Biconus assumed a light-hearted tone and picked up a rather thick file that lay open on his otherwise empty desk. "Malfoy, huh? We were just speaking of him, weren't we?"

 

The other men in the room chortled, glancing at one another like children do when they've partaken in a naughty ordeal. 

 

"He's been evicted from his garret on Lacewing Lane," Biconus said. "But it seems he's taken up residence elsewhere..."

 

"Where?"

 

"Somewhere on Sleepless Street. Here." Biconus handed Harry a map, very similar to the one he used to have at school.

It showed Malfoy's foot prints pacing back and forth, and Harry suddenly remembered his sixth year at Hogwarts; he used such a map to track Malfoy's whereabouts, and the latter would pace in agitation much like now. Upon studying the map closely, he'd realized that Malfoy had been residing with Luna, who'd been living in a small flat above Misty. "That is where I must go," decided Harry. 

 

"Has he given you trouble? Must I file yet another complaint about his conduct?" asked the officer. 

 

"Another complaint?" 

 

"Ah, yes. His landlady claimed his very presence damaged her reputation, which is why she'd taken to charging him additional fees. According to her, there had never been a greater sign of pure evil! Disguised in a lovely figure lurks the most diabolical young man. Now, to be fair to my client—and to avoid paperwork—"several of his friends laughed, "I concluded she'd been irrational and stricken with hysteria—which is rather common among women her age. She'd claimed he'd been a prurient young man, selling himself and smuggling goods. Of course, that is not true, so we could not put him in Azkaban for such a thing, could we?"

 

"I'd spoken with him recently; he is harmless, and he may even be contributing to some good," said Harry with subtlety. "His being will not be without reproof, but I look forward to speaking in his favor at his hearing."

 

"Has Malfoy given you a discount, Potter?" Biconus gave out in amusement, earning boisterous laughter from his friends. 

 

"Do not jest, Biconus. To speak of your own client with incriminating words, I find you may earn yourself a little talk with your head. Malfoy has done nothing of the sort, and surely you know that much. I hear you've been keeping a close eye on him, more so than your other clients." These words impetuously came from his lips; he'd not even prepared to threaten Biconus, but he'd done so as if it were his very nature. 

 

The officer paled at his words, clearing his throat and managing to give Harry a wavering smile. "My goodness, Mr. Potter, do not refuse a laugh! Laughing is healthy!"

 

"Do not laugh at him," said Harry sternly. He felt a blush appear on his face; the color never left his cheeks until the moment he left. "I will never refuse a laugh; the reason for my silence is your lack of humor. Have a good day, Biconus." With that, Harry turned on his heel and left the silenced room. 

 

With disagreeable haste, Harry made his way towards Misty. Being that it was rather early, not yet three in the afternoon, Sleepless Street had been populated with cafe-goers and whomever it employed. The entire way, Harry carefully constructed his offer to Malfoy in his head, for the latter was liable for passionate refusals of anything. "Let it be like this: Malfoy, I have an urgent request that needs to be fulfilled! Play the piano for a banquet I am hosting! No, that is much too vociferous, and I don't wish to seem as if I am bragging by adding the fact I am hosting it. That much will be assumed," Harry thought. "Malfoy, I have a favor to ask of you. I am in dire need of a musician, so let me be in debt to you and play for me on Saturday." Harry decided against it. He'd resorted to slowing down his walking to allow for more time to construct the perfect request. 

 

"Harry!" Luna, who'd been standing outside of Misty's entryway, lit up upon seeing him. "A bit early for your being here!"

 

"Yes, I know," said Harry, glancing at the small window above Misty. "I've received some intelligence that you've received an unexpected advent."

 

Luna raised her eyebrows and gave him a knowing smile. "Why, yes, I have."

 

"Is he well?" Harry asked abruptly, with the necessary determination. "Luna, why are you smiling at me? You'll drive me mad if you do not answer! Is he well?"

 

"He's got a roof over his head, but he's agitated," replied Luna. "You know how he is, don't you? It was I who begged him to stay with me. He merely came to ask for two weeks wages in advance, his pockets empty and all of his savings in his two palms. Draco was beside himself, but I believe he's calmed down now."

 

"Do you mind if I speak to him? I've got a very important question for him, and if he refuses me, I'll go madder still."

 

Luna tilted her head. Concerning Harry's question, she inquired innocently, "Do you mean you are to ask for his hand?"

 

Harry—ever since reuniting with Malfoy—had become liable to paroxysms of intense emotion, and upon hearing the very implication of his asking for Malfoy's hand, he sent his heart into hysterics. "N-no," stammered Harry, perfectly aware of his reddened face. "Nothing of the sort!"

 

Luna studied him but did not inquire further. She beckoned Harry to follow her and led him into the wall opposite Misty's entryway. Luna's flat was of a modest size and, just like Misty, oddly furnished with questionable taste. She'd explained to him fervently that she had two bedrooms; Harry surmised she'd been especially proud to have two bedrooms. Luna pointed at the door at the far end of the flat. 

 

"He's taken up there," she whispered. Harry nodded, and she left him there in the flat alone. 

 

There had been an odd sort of nervousness that pervaded him in that moment—the same feeling he'd felt the first time he'd attempted to speak to Malfoy. "Well, the stakes are the same. He's agitated, and I'm liable to be dowsed with a drink. Perhaps he's drinking tea today," Harry thought, knocking gently on the door. 

 

The door flew open, and Malfoy stood there dauntingly in the frame. Upon seeing Harry, he paled and seemed intolerably offended by his presence. The pianist seemed agitated indeed. His eyes were dark—an indication he'd been ailing the entire night before—and his entire physiognomy evidently had undergone intense stress. "Potter, what are you doing here?" 

 

"I have something to ask of you," he began. Like dense fog, a sense of dread settled upon him. Harry began to realize that the possibility of rejection was greater than he'd anticipated. 

 

Malfoy stood motionless, staring at Harry, imploring the words from his mouth. 

"I need a musician—more specifically, a pianist—to play at a banquet this weekend. And I don't have any other pianist who's playing that I laud more than yours. Please, Malfoy, utter the word 'no' and I'll throw myself onto the floor and beg you until you say otherwise," Harry blurted. Then his own eyes widened; he'd been horrified by his own desperation. 

 

"You put that so skillfully," laughed Malfoy. "Are you mad? Have you had a drink already?"

 

"I'm perfectly serious, Malfoy."

 

"I don't think so, Harry. The public doesn't take too kindly to me. I don't know if I will be received—even if I am providing a service—by high society. They'll see me, and your poor banquet will be stained with my bloodied hands," said Malfoy with a note of self-condemnation, but oddly enough, there seemed to be a glitter in his gray eyes. "Thank you for the offer, but clearly you haven't given it much thought. Don't waste my time, go." 

 

"Then let it be a masquerade! Even if it means your lovely face will be concealed! I don't care what I must do, but you'll be there! And if anyone dares to even look at you with distaste, I'll have them thrown out. I am hosting the banquet, Malfoy. Nobody will lay a nasty look upon you in my home," promised Harry, sick with confidence. "Please, Malfoy..."

 

"Goodness, have you a fever? Have a seat; you've begun to sweat!" Malfoy grabbed Harry's shoulder and flung him down on a wicker chair in the room. "I'll play the piano for you if you'll handle the trivialities that my being there will cause. And I ask that I am paid, this is not a favor. I cannot afford favors! Harry, you've got to drink water!" Malfoy scolded him, his own face reddening too. 

 

Harry, who'd indeed felt excessively warm, had been silently declaring himself the happiest man on earth now that Malfoy had accepted his request. 

"Thank you, thank you," whispered Harry, unable to conceal his smile. While Malfoy had been meticulously opening the windows and ridding Harry of his coat, Harry had been picturing it all as if it were happening for the second time. He'd begun laughing out loud, aware of how crazy he must have seemed before Malfoy, who'd been staring with increasing anxiety. 

 

"Luna," Malfoy gasped and grabbed her arm—she'd been in the doorway, watching with odd amusement. "Get him out of my room, he's agitating me! Do give him plenty of water! He who can afford the entire apothecary is unwell, and if he should be here a moment longer I'll ruin my good record! Maybe I'll hit him! Stop smiling at me, Potter! Why do you look at me with that intoxicated look! Get him out, Luna!" 

 

"Come, Harry," laughed Luna, assuming a nonchalant air despite Malfoy's seriousness. "Let's go." Harry walked out of Malfoy's room with Luna, the two of them laughing at Malfoy's agitation. "I see he's answered in your favor."

 

---

 

Harry's home had been cleaned and lavishly decorated for the ball. The guests had slowly begun to arrive, and the general merriment was nearly twice as lively as at the minister's home. The gates of his home were open, with ornate carriages lined up, generously filled with wealthy women and men. Harry's ballroom, being only used once before, was the room he'd received everyone in. On the wooden tables, Harry made sure to have several samovars of boiling teas and cocoas. Beside it is a tower of crystal glasses. On the opposite side was a stack of pastries, cakes, and other delicacies for the guests he could hardly care for. And because Harry had been sponsoring Ron's business, he'd also placed a table of their own goods at the entryway, so it'd be the first thing the investors laid their eyes upon. 

The guests swarmed in, bowing at Harry, giving him lengthy praises for his home and his decision to host. The ladies whispered and laughed gaily among each other, teasingly pushing their shyest friend or sister in Harry's direction. But Harry's heart beat and he trembled in anticipation for the arrival of one being. In front of the towering windows, Harry had placed the grand piano, for it was the quietest place in the room without any dessert table nearby. He'd been hoping he could take the pianist out onto the veranda, away from the crowds, for a private conversation. 

 

"Sir," Harry tugged on his butler's sleeve. "Will you announce to me privately if my musician arrives? You'll watch for him, will you? He's tall, thin, and his hair is white-blond."

 

"Of course, sir," he bowed. "Shall I ask for his name?" 

 

"You must ask if he's from Misty. If he says yes, then he is my pianist. If not, you've got the wrong man. You wouldn't miss him; the moment you lay your eyes on him, you'll be entirely captivated, for he will be the handsomest person in the whole house."

 

"I-I'll try my best, sir." His butler bowed once again and hurried towards the entryway, already meticulously scanning the crowd for Malfoy. 

 

"Harry!" Hermione and Ron quickly maneuvered through the crowd toward him, wearing looks of awe and immense joy. "Would you look at this? You've done amazing; I couldn't have fathomed a banquet to have exceeded in all aspects." 

 

"Yes, yes. I'm glad you enjoy it," whispered Harry hurriedly, his eyes darting at every being who entered the ballroom. "I take it the investors have begun meddling in your affairs."

 

"Yes," Ron said, shooing off a stout man with a pince-nez. "But you're not at all satisfied, aren't you? After all, your half of the deal has yet to be satisfied."

 

Hermione's eyes lit up, and she joined Harry in scanning the room. "Ah yes! I have not seen Malfoy in over a decade! Naturally, I'm a bit curious to see how he's turned out."

 

"Nothing will prepare you for his presence," whispered Harry. "The moment I lay my eyes on him, I am inclined to wholeheartedly give myself up for him."

 

His friends stood, directing a curious and concerned gaze at him. "And you're sure he will come? Surely, you didn't scare him off with any of these eccentricities..." Ron wondered. 

 

"No, he will come."

 

Suddenly, as if scripted, the butler hastened towards Harry, his face red and glistening with perspiration. "Mr. Potter, your pianist is here. I told him to remain in the foyer; shall I call on him?"

 

"Yes! Yes, make haste! Why haven't you brought him first?" Harry sent the butler racing back towards the foyer, wearing a joyous and rapturous smile. He clasped his hands together and held on to his breath. "At last!"

 

Hermione and Ron were silenced, possessed by an unnatural amount of intrigue, and stared ahead at the entryway beside Harry, who'd begun to tremble with anticipation. 

 

The butler soon came around the corner, holding the arm of Draco Malfoy. Harry felt his entire being lifted, and he'd become infinitely happier the second he laid his eyes on his dear pianist. Earlier that day, he'd sent him clothes to wear: a waistcoat appropriately tailored to fit his figure and underneath a rather coarse white shirt that was long enough to compensate for the man's long arms; a frock coat, slacks his size; and a new pair of shoes so that Malfoy did not have to fold his feet inward with shame. With the entire ensemble, Malfoy's confidence improved greatly, and that had been the loveliest part of the entire thing. Malfoy's gray eyes fell upon him, and his face gave out nothing but extraordinary handsomeness that struck Harry in a very sensitive way, as if he'd already seen it in a dream, but he was reliving it now. During the entirety of his adulthood, there had never been anything or anyone that had produced such an effect on him. 

 

"If he denies me, I'll go mad," Harry soliloquized, his entire being trembling now.

 

Malfoy looked upon Hermione and Ron with surprising indifference, as if he felt no shame before them. With cordiality, he bowed and directed a good-natured smile their way. Then he turned to Harry, and his expression changed from politeness to immense displeasure. "You! You insolent man! Sending a carriage for me in the middle of Sleepless Street? Goodness, they've all begun begging me to stay; they've taken it in their heads that I've been arrested, cursing your poor coachman! Have you not a brain in your head, Harry? A carriage?" 

 

Harry laughed loudly, his spirits higher than ever, despite Malfoy's reproaches. "They'll be grateful for your return then."

 

"Beside the point, Harry," scoffed Malfoy, crossing his arms in vexation. "Lonnie Mint had been reduced to tears, no matter how many times I told him I wasn't being arrested. He's even turned on you; by the way, he's convinced himself this is your doing!"

 

"Well, he's not wrong," said Harry. "But you're here, and I could hardly care for Mint. In this moment, I'm entirely captivated by you."

 

A rose color appeared on Malfoy's face. He'd dropped the displeased expression and adopted a more relaxed look, his eyes glittering with a discreet sort of bliss. "I-I suppose I should take to the piano now." Malfoy whispered, looking again at Ron and Hermione. He bowed once again and hurriedly made his way to the grand piano. 

 

"Harry, he's in love with you," said Hermione. "I'll answer for it! I'm certain!"

 

Harry shuddered at the very thought. "Don't say anything of the sort, Hermione."

 

"I don't usually agree with Hermione on these matters, but there's something odd in the way he looked just then. He blushed like a child!"

 

"Ah! Don't trouble yourself with this," Harry gasped, blushing dreadfully now. "Go, go! There are investors waiting to put a pretty galleon in your vault!"

 

Ron and Hermione linked arms and made for the group of older men who were flocked together by the dessert table. They'd given him teasing grins, laughing at his expense as they left him, just as they used to when they were children. 

 

Harry flung himself on the sofa nearest to the piano, watching as his pianist had begun a lively waltz that heightened the merriment of the crowd. Malfoy seemed to have lost himself entirely in his playing, his winsome face swallowed by a shadow of serviility, but he'd seemed that it was his very duty to continue on. Ron and Hermione seemed in good spirits, and Harry was glad of it as well. Many gentlemen who Harry knew to have money showed great interest in Ron's words, raising their noses in the air and nodding in approval. And his dear Hermione kept looking at Harry, smiling at him knowingly, gesturing for him to speak to the pianist. But Harry didn't dare interrupt Malfoy, even if every cell in his body produced a need for the latter. And so he'd forced himself to wait a while. 

 

"Why don't you speak to him?" Hermione finally approached him, fussing over the stubborn wrinkles on her dress the moment she seated herself beside him. "Present him with a drink. A musician needs a break." 

 

"Yes, I am perfectly aware. I intend to present him with a drink and pull him onto the veranda. If that is a success, then I can only hope for a long conversation."

 

Hermione looked upon him with a motherly expression, smiling gently. "Harry, I see you are yourself now. And I can only surmise it is Draco that's saved you from your misery. I desperately hope all goes well in your pursuit, but let me remind you that if it does not, Ron and I will never leave your side again. There had never been more deep sorrow in our lives than when we lost you to high society. So tread lightly with Draco; his heart is fragile, I can tell."

 

"I will tread lightly," promised Harry. "Even if he refuses me, I'll continue to love him for the rest of my life from a distance. I will be a jealous man, so jealous that I'll begin eavesdropping without it weighing on my conscience. Ah! It hurts even now; could you imagine him in the arms of another?" Harry sat up; his heart had indeed felt a sudden tightness that frightened him. "Hermione, I'll be miserable, but I will still be myself after all the degradation I may endure. He's a cherub! And I want to kiss him and hold him tightly!" 

 

Hermione burst into a childlike laughter, covering her face as she herself had flushed with a second-hand embarrassment. "Then kiss him! And I'm confident he will accept!"

 

"No, he's a fiery sort. He bowed at you because he felt no shame before you. It is only towards me he is agitated with. It's odd, isn't it? Did you know he slammed a door in my face after I'd offered to help him? Yet he'd begged Luna for wages in advance! Have I become so rotten that those like Malfoy could sense my pride? Even if I haven't any? You should have seen it, Hermione; he'd scolded me for my kindness!"

 

"Harry, you're stupid," Hermione laughed. "He is humiliated before you because he is in love with you. Would you beg for his aid? Would you allow him to see the state of your clothes, which seemed to imply your inferiority? In him, there's still a proud man, and he wishes that you may only see that and not his lack of propriety."

 

"Do you really think so? Surely it must have something to do with our past rivalry."

 

"No! If that were the case, why would he bow to Ron—who he used to ridicule for his poverty—with indifference? Malfoy hasn't that sort of care for Ron; amends are amends, so he may move forward. But with you, there are no amends, because he dares not to lose a feeling I believe he's had for a long while."

 

"Don't be ridiculous." Harry's eyes widened; he'd turned to her completely. "You mean to say you believe he's loved me before his Azkaban sentence?"

 

"I don't know, Harry. Ask him when he accepts your kiss," she said, smirking. 

 

"Do me a favor, Hermione. I will ask you a question, and despite knowing the right answer, I wish for you to answer precisely this way: one hundred and fifty. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes," she agreed. Hermione stood up to resume her position beside her husband. Before leaving, she turned to Harry once again and said, "There's not a cloud tonight; I dare say the sky needs to be looked at with two pairs of eyes."

 

Harry blushed and smiled with idiocy. After waiting another while, he'd grabbed two drinks from the table—many women who loitered there let out pitchy giggles at his being there—and made for Malfoy, who'd been playing with continued vehemence. 

 

"Hello," said Harry, giving him a smile. "I think you need a break. You've been doing phenomenally all evening; the least I can do for you is permit this."

 

Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, but a man, whose face was red with drunkenness, stumbled towards the both of them. "Why'd you stop playing, Death Eater? I'll have you thrown out!"

 

"Do not speak to my pianist that way," scolded Harry, his complexion darkened with anger. "Speak that way again, and I'll have you thrown out in such a disagreeable fashion that you'll never wish to be seen in public again."

 

The drunk stumbled back, as if he'd not realized Harry had been there, and disappeared into the crowd with great shame. Malfoy stood suddenly and turned to Harry, highly incensed. "I am not your pianist. I am a pianist. You mustn't claim me in that way."

 

"Am I not paying you for the evening?"

 

"You are."

 

"Then you are mine for tonight."

 

At this, Malfoy's face paled, and there had been a physical display of unwilling submission that Harry almost felt guilty for. "For tonight, I am yours. Merely as a musician. May I take my break as you wish?"

 

"Yes," Harry said, handing him a drink. "Will you spend it with me out on the veranda?" 

 

"If you wish, Mr. Potter," Malfoy replied with a bitterness that was half playful and half serious. 

There had been not another soul out on the veranda, for Harry had ensured all knew that being here would mean immediate expulsion. He'd been planning his moment all evening, to be unseen by all, alone with his dearest pianist. Harry would have gone through the trouble a thousand times for just one minute alone with Malfoy. No private audiences, no curious onlookers. Just the two of them. 

 

Malfoy leaned against the column and looked up at the clear sky. His gray eyes softened, and he assumed a fragile air. It was all somehow beautiful. It was a sight he vowed he would never forget: the warm glow from inside, the chiaroscuro of the man's fragile expression. Harry watched with burning intensity. 

 

After a small silence, Malfoy spoke: "You must find it awfully lonely to live alone in such a large home. Why haven't you taken a wife?"

 

"I had yet to fall in love," whispered Harry. Briefly, their eyes met, but Malfoy looked away quickly. 

 

"When will you be free, Malfoy? When is your hearing?"

 

"So, the savior doesn't keep tabs on the Azkaban watchlist, does he?" Malfoy sighed.

 

"No, I don't. I don't know the details, even when I have been working."

 

"They'll allow me my inheritance when they deem me rehabilitated. My court hearing is at the end of the year; if it goes well, I will get what I am due. If not, they'll send me back to Azkaban for another five years."

 

"Another five? I heard nothing of this," said Harry, rather bewildered. "I was there at your first hearing."

 

"I know," Malfoy whispered. "Some things change, I suppose. I'm trying to be on my best behavior, Potter. I ask that you grant me that opportunity."

 

"Of course, I wish, more than anything, for you to inherit what you're owed." There was another silence. "I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for what happened to your parents; if I could have done more, I wish I could have."

 

"There was nothing you could have done. I am already immensely grateful for your efforts towards my family and me," Malfoy whispered, his eyes distant.

 

"Of course, even if I didn't know you much then, it was no secret to me that your heart did not rot among the rest."

 

"Do you believe you know me now?" Malfoy asked tremulously with a winsome expression.

 

"Yes," Harry whispered. "Not as one may know their truest friend or their mother, but I see you for all that you are, for all that you have been, and for all that you will be."

 

"And does this version of me that you claim to know suffice?"

 

"More than that, I wish to never be without you."

Malfoy nearly turned away from him entirely in a desperate attempt to hide the sudden smile that took hold of his previous stern expression. Color rose to his pale face as he continued to struggle to maintain a semblance of calm. "You're a fool," he whispered, smiling still. 

 

"Maybe so, but I'll answer for what I've just said to you. I'll answer for it in front of the world."

 

With a steadfast gaze, Malfoy raised his eyes to meet Harry's own. "And do you suppose I have been reborn in the cells of Azkaban?" 

 

"Goodness, no. I don't think Azkaban rehabilitates anyone," Harry admitted. "It is merely punishment for those who we deem a danger to the general public. The term rehabilitated is comical."

 

"And you have sent many dark wizards there yourself," said Malfoy, his tone somewhat accusatory but not at all vexed. "You send only those you deem unable to be saved?"

 

"No, I believe all can be saved. But to give them the chance and to grant them the necessary freedom, I couldn't risk the lives of innocent people at the expense of one."

 

At this, Malfoy thought for a while. "I disagree. I don't think everyone can be saved, no. Even in the darkest cells of Azkaban, one can hear the joyful cheers of a man who murdered his children. He will boast and laugh over his child's dead body. I sometimes hear his voice still today, and how grateful I was for the building they locked me in."

 

"Grateful for Azkaban while in Azkaban; that must have been a paradoxical experience."

 

Malfoy laughed quietly. "Yes, very much so."

 

"And you? Did you believe you deserved to be there?" Harry asked with growing interest.

 

"Yes," he nodded. "Perhaps not for ten years, but I was glad for it for the first five. I'd have ruined myself. You must understand the onslaught of nihilism that pervaded me in the moment my father was sentenced to death; goodness, I was in such genuine terror for myself that I was glad to be locked away and watched," Malfoy blushed, and immediately he finished his drink. 

 

"And that terror lasted for five years? For the next five, wasn't that sheer torture for you then?" 

 

"Yes. It seems I have lived a thousand years in ten. Azkaban is truly dehumanizing; it strips you of your dignity and forces you to behold the ugliest parts of your soul. To exit Azkaban with some sanity, well, you'd have to be able to tolerate yourself. It's difficult, but I have you to thank for that. I clung to the very fact you testified for me as a child clings to the hem of their mother's robes. I desperately tried to convince myself that, despite everything, I was worth saving."

 

Harry looked at Malfoy, and a conspicuous vulnerability materialized before his eyes. It unearthed an overwhelming desire to shield this man from any woes that may come his way. Even if it were merely rain.

 

"Your certitudes about blood status have changed, I assume. That was before Azkaban?" Harry wondered.

 

Malfoy laughed, taking Harry by surprise. It was the last thing he had expected Malfoy to do. "Blood purity," he smiled, shaking his head as if remembering a foolish memory, "is the sort of thing you learn to value when your parents incessantly claim you're worth something because you're pure. Yes, I believed him. I believed him wholeheartedly. It wasn't until those ideas were put into practice that my predicament became apparent. It is one thing to realize your parents are corrupt and depraved. I knew their conduct had been malicious; I heard of their wickedness, but it seldom vexed me. But my God, to realize your parents are wrong—most terrifyingly wrong. It was as if I had been deceived in broad daylight. And the daylight showed nothing but the shadow of who I once was, and I spat on it. I suppose you understand; I take it you weren't immune to surprises in your youth." 

 

Harry shook his head and thought deeply about what Malfoy had just said. It was clear that even on the other side, innocence ceased to exist; it died and decayed, discriminating against none. It is so easy to stand on the winning side, or the side one deems inherently superior, and point at your opponent and declare them villains! God, even the children, were declared villains, children who had yet the opportunity to become individuals of their own will. Instead, those with noble intentions and shining morals robbed the children of the opportunity to challenge their character. And to think of it now, it was absurd! How could the ministry preach morality after they've stripped a child of their natural freedom due to inevitable circumstances? How can they preach generosity and compassion as they incarcerate a mere eighteen-year-old for his inability to leave his parents' side?

 

"I don't think you deserved it at all," whispered Harry. "There was not an ounce of evil in you, and it troubled me deeply that you'd been held to the same scorn as the rest. I never thought you deserved it—not then and definitely not now. And I could give the ministry every earthly reason for your innocence, but they'd spit on it because of their preconceived hatred towards your family. But know this, Malfoy: you will earn what you're due. I will make sure of it."

 

"What is the meaning of this, Potter? I sense you're not being entirely forthcoming." Malfoy let out a half-serious laugh, his eyes fixated on Harry's. "You're deceiving me, are you? Is there some underlying meaning to your kindness?" Harry reached for the pianist's waist and slowly pulled him closer. Underneath the fabrics, he could feel the man's thin waist. Harry shuddered at the thought of its hidden splendor.

 

"The underlying meaning is that, upon seeing you again, I've decided that I never wish to be without you. And for the rest of my life, even if you hate me, I'll devote myself to your happiness. Let me pathetically follow you with an umbrella when it rains; let me ruin myself before the ministry so that you may be a free man; and should they decide against it, let me follow you to Azkaban, and I will cover your ears so you may sleep without hearing the evil cries of the other inmates. Merlin, I love you, Draco. Don't you see? I love you with all that I am and with all that I will be. I love you," whispered Harry hurriedly. The words flowed from him as if pulled by an invisible force. Malfoy's eyes widened; he made an attempt to move away, but Harry did not dare let go. "I cannot bear to hide it any longer. I wish for you to know, and let me know now if you feel the same."

 

"What are you playing at, Potter?" Malfoy let out a nervous laugh. "Please, you're insulting me with the position you've put me in. Pay me what I am due and leave me alone."

 

"Do you refuse me?" Harry asked suddenly, letting go of Malfoy at once. "Answer me now, and I will let you go home. I will never utter a word about it again, but I know I will feel it stronger still." 

 

Malfoy shuddered at Harry's seriousness; he seemed frightened, and it pained Harry to see it. 

"You're frightening me, Potter. Are you telling the truth? Th-that you, in all of your character, love me? Me? And in that confession, there is not an attempt to beguile me? Do you love me, really? Say it again!" Malfoy abruptly grabbed Harry's hands, his grip strong but his hands trembling as if cold and his eyes flashing. 

 

"Yes, I am telling the truth. I will never lie to you, Draco. I love you." 

 

"What shall you do if I refuse you?"

 

"I will love you anyway, and I will send you home for the night with all that you're due and maybe more," said Harry. 

 

"And if I answer in your favor? What will you do then?"

 

"Whatever you wish me to do."

 

"Will you kiss me?" Malfoy asked suddenly after a short pause, and in his voice there was an undertone of desperate anticipation. Harry nodded. Malfoy blushed; his face expressed a note of condemnation, and he was urged to strike him. But suddenly, as if the anger had released him, his blonde lashes fluttered as he looked upon Harry with a heartfelt gaze. "You fool, why haven't you kissed me yet? Kiss me if you love me, Harry."

 

Harry, his entire body burning, reached for Malfoy and pulled him close so that there was no space between them. With a gentle hand, he cupped Malfoy's face and kissed him. He tasted champagne and mint, but even more so, Harry basked in the gentility of it. Every nerve in his body seemed to be bursting with immense pleasure; his entire being was lofty, as if the entire thing had been a quixotically impossible dream. Harry dared not pull away; he'd kissed him longer, pulling the other into a tight embrace. Malfoy had been kissing him with a timid insistence, for it was clear he'd lacked experience. But such did not matter to Harry in that moment. He'd become so intoxicated with this burning emotion that tears of joy welled in his eyes and a real smile was unearthed. 

 

Draco pulled away, his eyes wide and his parted lips scarlet. Harry declared him the most enticing being to have walked the earth, and he wanted the entire world to see him in this moment. "I've just kissed heaven," whispered Harry. "You've no idea how long I've been possessed with this extraordinary desire to kiss you."

 

"I believe I've outdone you there, Harry," Draco said quietly, brushing his pale fingers over his lips. "How am I to play the piano now? I cannot so much as move to speak."

 

"Then don't!" Harry laughed. "Let me take you home! All I want is to be beside you."

 

Draco playfully shoved Harry, smiling still. "Take me home then, Harry."

 

"Come! Come with me!" Harry grabbed the pianist's wrist and dragged him back inside, where the crowd's being there had not vexed Harry at all. In fact, their happiness only contributed to his own, and he wished to allow them to stay for the entirety of their lives! "Hermione! Answer me now: How much should I pay a musician?" 

 

Hermione's eyes lit up with excitement, for she knew at once just by observing Harry's heightened spirits. "One hundred and fifty! Oh, you sweet thing! One hundred and fifty!"

 

Draco's eyes widened, and he stared at Harry, almost horrified. "One hundred and fifty galleons for one night?"

 

"Yes! That is how much musicians charge! And you are the best of them all! We thank you, don't we, Hermione? Didn't he do it perfectly?"

 

"I dare say!"

 

"Then it's settled; you've earned your wages for tonight, my dear! Let me take you home!" Harry pulled Draco down the hall and out onto the gravel road where his coachman had been waiting for him—it was usually around this time Harry would leave any party. 

 

"Surely, Harry, you're not serious," started Draco the moment they were seated. "One hundred and fifty?"

 

"Don't insult me, Draco," laughed Harry. "Am I not to pay my pianist? Why not?"

 

"I am not worth a fifth of one hundred and fifty! You're paying me as if I-"

 

"That you are not! There can never be a cost placed on someone such as you, Draco. You're absolutely right; I must be insulting you with such a small amount. What will it be? Two hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?"

 

"Stop, stop! I'll take the one hundred and fifty!" Draco blushed, his hands on his face, in awe. "Harry, I adore you, but you're insufferable."

 

And the carriage pulled away from the house. Harry, marveled at the man in front of him, smiling stupidly the entire way to Diagon alley. Suddenly, unable to control himself, he took Draco’s pale and kissed it repeatedly. 

Chapter 6: In The Rain

"Quiet, Harry, the walls are plenty thin," whispered Draco, pulling Harry into Luna's flat and towards his room. "You'll be wishing to return to the party, I presume. But I'll be glad to receive one more kiss before you do."

 

Harry, who'd been burning with emotion ever since the kiss they'd shared on the veranda, nearly stumbled over his own feet upon hearing Draco's request. "I dare not return," he told him. 

 

"Have you any obligations elsewhere? If not, will you stay with me a while?" Draco asked. He'd begun striking a match to light the oil lamp on his desk. 

 

"I'll stay."

 

The small oil lamp allowed for a feeble light, but not enough to reach the corners of the cramped room in which the shadows were denser still. Harry sat himself on the desk chair and studied the many loose leaf notes. Scribbled on them seemed to be poems in both English and French. 

 

On the bed was a tattered blanket that lay neatly on a pitifully thin mattress. For a pillow, the threadbare coat was bundled up at the top. Draco, who'd been watching Harry for the entire time, suddenly blushed as he'd figured out Harry'd been inspecting his state.

 

"I'm comfortable," he blurted, his face still rosy in color—though it was difficult to tell with the barely there light. "More so than I was on Lacewing Lane."

 

"I'm glad."

 

"Harry?"

 

"Yes?"

 

Draco's eyes darted to the corners of the room, and he'd been pulling on his shirt sleeve with increasing agitation. "You were not joking, were you? You haven't been intentionally teasing me?"

 

Harry stood abruptly, slightly startling the former, placed his hands on his waist, and pulled him closer. "I find it so charming that you'd even consider it. I had no idea that you'd have felt the same; I merely wished to let you know what has been on my otherwise empty mind."

 

"So you've not a clue how long I've loved you then?" Draco wondered. Harry blushed, his heart fluttering irregularly, and he shook his head. 

 

"No, not a clue."

 

"Well, I have," whispered Draco. "For most of my life, I've loved you dearly."

 

"Even when we were children?"

 

"Even then, especially then."

 

Harry slowly brought his hand up to Draco's face and brushed his thumb gently over his bottom lip. Then he gently pulled him forward and kissed him with a gentle sort of passion. With reticence, Draco's pale hands moved from his sides and slowly slid up Harry's abdomen, sending his poor heart into hysterics and every individual nerve on fire. He'd felt no thrill like this before, and he might have redone his entire life if he could relive that very moment. 

 

"You've tormented me for a long time, Harry," said Draco, in between their slow kisses. "And yet I've permitted it; even in Azkaban, my heart yearned for you."

 

Harry pulled away from him, staring at him almost in awe. He'd become terribly perplexed. "I suppose that is why you've been very vexed with my return? Did you perhaps believe I'd look down on you because of your state?"

 

The pianist tensed and turned away abruptly. "Just because I had affections for you does not mean I am prevailed upon to be cordial, especially if you had not earned the right." 

 

Harry laughed. "You're odd, Draco. I've never met anyone quite like you. Did you know I'd been suffering from a pebble in my shoe? But you've rid me of it. And I love you for it." 

 

Draco turned to Harry, his face twisted into pure confusion, as if Harry had begun to perform a degrading dance before him. "I'm sorry? Either you've gone mad or you're being much too ambiguous. Please, I've had a glass of champagne and have been drunk on emotion; I ask you not to utter strange things."

 

"It is the latter; I'm speaking of a metaphor, a poor one, I think. For the entirety of adulthood, I'd been possessed by a nagging sensation in my head. And the farther I've delved into high society, I feel it stronger still. Did you know humans are very complicated, Draco? We are completely separated from our thoughts. The way you think of yourself is by no means the real reflection of your soul. One must observe one's behavior, remove oneself from their body, and become a spectator. And if one's thoughts do not correlate with their act, then they've been living inauthentically. To be aware of one's inauthenticity is a great suffering. But the moment I laid my eyes on you, there it was: what I had been missing, what I had desperately needed! Being with you, Draco, I've lived my ten years in seven days! And I care for nothing that society may condemn me for. Goodness, I'll give everything up just to be by your side. Do you understand?"

 

"I understand," whispered Draco, his eyes fixated on Harry. "But I'm just one person who's put you in your place. There will be countless more! Who's to say you will not pull them out onto a veranda, declare your love, and kiss them?"

 

"Oh, my love, it is so sweet that you do not see from where my sentiments spawn and for what! It is okay; I have the entirety of my life to relay it to you. You'll hear of it too often." 

 

Draco smiled warmly and slowly sat on his thin mattress with a drunken air. "I am very happy, Harry. It has been a very long time since I've felt this sort of bliss. I love you for it."

 

Harry'd spent the evening in that small room, shivering, his teeth chattering. The walls were indeed thin, and when Draco had gone to sleep, he'd resorted to listening to the couple next door, who'd been arguing all evening. It seemed the man had some sort of past with her sister, and upon hearing that his affections for her had resurfaced, Harry had become a little more interested and somewhat grateful for the thin walls. But, for the entirety of the evening, he'd lay beside Draco, holding the other tightly to his chest. And occasionally, when he'd been consumed by a rush of ecstasy, he'd gently pluck Draco's hand from the bed and kiss him repeatedly. 

 

Eventually, though, Harry had fallen asleep, basking in the warmth of the frail pianist and listening to the gentle rhythm of his breathing. He'd slept well that night. No weight on his mind, no ache in his soul—it had been one of those rare, dutiful rests. And he believed wholeheartedly that something as good as this, as well as the love he felt, would surely last. But he was wrong. 

 

"Get out of my room!"

 

Harry woke with a start, his brain piecing together his surroundings, when he felt a newspaper slam onto his tired head. 

 

"You wretched man! I should have known you weren't entirely forthcoming! But against my better judgment and like an idiot, I let you beguile me!" Draco stood looming over him, getting dressed hurriedly, and on his beautiful face was a seemingly incurable shame hidden behind burning wrath. "Get out! I never wish to see you before me!"

"What are you talking about, Draco? I did not beguile you!" Harry picked up the morning's paper and stared at the blaring headlines. 

 

HARRY POTTER LURED BY DEATH EATER? POTTER WORKS WITH PAROLE OFFICER TO PIN CHARGES OF ATTEMPTED MANIPULATION AND BLACKMAIL ON DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY. 

 

Harry read the article with immense speed, his hands beginning to tremble at its contents. Someone had seen the two of them on the veranda, standing close and sharing a kiss. Hermes Biconus, who must have suffered an injury to his pride when his invite to Potter's talked-about party did not arrive, must have used this piece to work his way into the story. Claiming Harry'd been suspicious of Draco and visiting him to learn his whereabouts. Then Biconus resorted to straight deceit in his statement that Harry'd been attempting to lure Draco into an incriminating relationship, hoping to land his "old nemesis" in Azkaban for another five years. Harry threw down the paper defiantly and grabbed a hold of Draco, who'd been shaking with rage. 

 

"Please tell me you do not believe this, Draco," breathed Harry, his grip tightening on his arms. "It's not true!"

 

"Did you go to Biconus or not?"

 

"I did, but I-"

 

"Silence! I'll hate you for it! Ah! I should have known that someone as comfortable as you would have never reduced himself for my hand! It weighs not an ounce on your depraved shoulders, but I had not deceived you at all! What a vile thing you have done, Potter!"

 

"Don't believe any of it, Draco. I have not done such a thing! I merely went to Biconus to learn your whereabouts; there's not an ounce of deceit in me, Draco. I'll answer for what I've said to you in front of the Wizengamot; you'll see!"

 

"I haven't the slightest care, Potter," whispered Draco through his teeth. A single tear fell down his porcelain cheek. "Do you think I have room for the mere possibility of your love? With the great suffering I've suffered, I could hardly care. But I don't have the time to sit idly by and wonder if you've been true to me. And I definitely do not have the security to allow myself to be loved by you." Draco pulled himself from Harry's trembling hands. "I ask that you leave me at once, Potter. I also ask that you never step foot into Misty again..."

 

"You're completely wrong, Draco. Deep down, you know I am not deceiving you. Why must you turn me away?! Don't you understand, Draco? It is you who wish for my deceit! You've taken it upon yourself to believe you do not deserve love and happiness-"

 

"Do not speak of my character with such certainty, Potter!" Tears dropped from his blonde lashes, and Harry had to hold his hands to his chest to restrain himself from drying his dearest love's eyes. "Leave me now, or I'll throw you out! I've got other obligations!"

 

"No, I will not leave you. Draco, you must allow me to love you! I am a slave to you; for the rest of my life, I will be devoted to you." Harry took his hand and kissed it. "Will you really turn me away?"

 

"Yes," Draco said quietly, his voice trembling. 

 

Harry dropped Draco's hand and took one step back. "There's a small part of my soul that rejoices in the very possibility that you know how ardently I love you. I will wait until your ailing heart heals. I will wait. Whistle for me, and I will be at your doorstep." 

 

Draco did not say anything. He stared at Harry with a perplexed expression, tears falling still, but not a sign of regret surfaced. "Goodbye, Potter."

"This is not goodbye," Harry whispered, turned on his heel, and left with a terrible pain pervading his entire being. 

---

 

Draco's being was in extreme torment. It seemed as if he were in the dampened cells of Azkaban once again. But yet, he'd felt, in this moment, infinitely worse. "What a terrible state I've fallen into," he thought, stationary still. "I am so tired of this wretched life." There had been a mirror at the other end of the room, and Draco stared at himself, repulsed by his own reflection. He still wore the clothes from yesterday—the clothes that fit him well. Suddenly he'd become so humiliated with himself that he'd hastily ripped off the clothes. Then he slipped into his old clothes and rejoiced in his physical inferiority. "Much better! I've degraded myself both socially and personally, so the world should see me as I am: a dreadfully stupid plebeian."

 

To have loved Harry as he had for so long, he'd felt as if everything he'd lived for had just slipped through his white, bony fingers. There was indeed a small part of his tortured self that believed Harry hadn't been deceiving him and that he'd actually loved him in a way that Draco craved desperately. "Am I a coward? How am I any better than him? I've crumbled under the weight of society's eyes and rid myself of my happiness! Well, if he were an honest man, that is."

 

And he'd continued on for a week in exactly this way: disgusted with his own conscience yet satisfied with the supposed security he'd given himself. The papers were still fixated on Mr. Potter's faux romance, and every morning the headlines became increasingly absurd and arbitrary; Luna had unsubscribed from the Prophet altogether. The apothecary did not wish to be associated with him, even if he were merely writing labels for them, so he'd lost his employment there. The publishing company in which he worked also decided the new controversy would injure their revenue. But Luna, bless her in her forgiving manner, allowed him to work along with her and the elves, cooking, serving, and, of course, playing the piano at Misty. And just like Malfoy requested, Harry had not once stepped foot into the pub. Even if Draco had been thinking clearly that fateful morning, he desperately wished he could have taken it back, for he missed seeing Harry sit stupidly before him, gawking like a child. It was too late. He'd made up his mind that he'd eradicate that man from his mind altogether. It would only do him good. 

 

And the weather had been terrible. The skies gray and the clouds heavy with drink; the rain had been coming down so hard it threatened to crack the window panes. It had been the evening, and Luna sent Draco back to his room, for his complexion had been pale and he'd looked ill. And maybe she was right, but he hardly felt anything anymore. He'd been hungry before; surely he still is now, but his stomach didn't dare growl, and he felt no fatigue from not sleeping. Draco sat at the end of his bed, staring at his thinned hands and chipped nails—scrubbing the uneven floors of Misty did not take too kindly on his delicate hands. 

 

He desperately tried to preoccupy himself with a thought other than Harry, but that man did not free him. His mind was possessed, it seemed. Draco dropped his heavy head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use. There he'd seen Harry's handsome face, rugged but gentlemanlike; his lauded smile; and his infinitely kind eyes. The way he'd placed his strong hands on his waist and pulled him close as if he'd been so sure he'd wanted Draco. He'd been so sure and determined to earn his pathetic heart. Draco shuddered and thought of those hands elsewhere. But then there had been Harry's thumb on his lip, so gentle and confiding. "Well, you've just rid yourself of someone who'd really care about you. All for what? Freedom? What is freedom when you cower under the pressure of the ministry?"

 

There was a soft knock on his door. Before he could answer, Luna walked in slowly, directing a wary glance his way. "Draco, are you alright?"

 

"Yes, yes," Draco said mechanically. "Is there anything you need, Luna? Shall I refill the parchment tray or soap?"

 

"No, you've done enough today; thank you." Luna looked around at his room and then decided to seat herself on the wicker chair. "You look very upset," she started. "Do you perhaps really believe what they wrote in the Prophet?"

 

"I don't know," whispered Draco, slowly lowering to bed again. "I can't afford to take risks and believe him unconditionally."

 

"You doubt his character, yet you've been in love with him since you were a child. No, I take it you're frightened," Luna said with surprising confidence. "How is it that you've turned out a man who you've wanted for so long? You learn of his affections, but his character and conduct are not at all new to you. He's gallant and selfless; you've told me this yourself—though it was disguised as reproaches—you said he ought not be among the high society, for his heart is too good for them and he will rot quicker than they would. Then here it is: a small issue (that can be quickly resolved with communication) arises, and you turn him out? Why is it that you're so frightened?"

 

Draco stood in defiance. "You've wholly mistaken my character, Luna! I am not frightened! Not at all! I have been doing very well on my own, and the moment he comes into my life, my conduct is besmirched! My hearing is in two months, Luna!" 

 

"You're a smart man, Draco. Yes, your hearing is in two months. But surely, a relationship with Harry would help." 

 

"You're so certain that he's an honest man."

 

"And so are you, for you're heartbroken over the loss. I can tell, Draco. I serve plenty of heartbroken people every day, and you've become one of them. You're frightened, and I don't blame you, for he did come on a bit too strong, but why have you acted so rashly? The moment someone wishes to love you, you rid yourself of it. For what? To spite yourself?"

 

"To spite myself? No!" 

 

"To spite him?"

 

"No!"

 

"Then why have you turned him away?"

 

Draco's bottom lip began to quiver, and before he could control his expression, the self-assurance he'd been desperately clinging to crumbled, and he'd begun to cry like a child, trembling all over. "Oh, you're right! I'm terrified," he sobbed, covering his face to conceal his shame. "I'd been content with unrequited love, for I'd been certain it was all I was ever good for. Should anyone ever love me now, then surely it would be for the wrong reasons. And Harry... Oh, what a man he's become! To love me from the top of the world; a long way he's fallen for  me."

 

Draco crumbled to the bed and buried his wet face in his blankets, pulling them with tight fists so that his hands would stop shaking. "And now I've lost him... I've lost him because I've been frightened!" Then Luna started to laugh. Draco looked up at her steadfastly, his eyes wide. "I know I've been a fool, but you mustn't laugh at me! Can't you see that even without a sickle in my name, I feel this loss greater than all else?" 

 

"I'm sorry, Draco. I'm not laughing at you," Luna smiled, laughing still. "Do you really believe you've lost him? Do you know he sends me letters every day inquiring about your health? I dare not lie; I tell him you've become ill."

 

Draco leapt to his feet and grew terribly dizzy. A feverish heat engulfed him, causing him to stumble against the wall. Luna gasped and caught him before he fell. "Does he really inquire after me?" Draco asked, his voice hoarse and dry. 

 

"Yes! He'd even asked if he could possibly walk by Misty just to see you from afar. With passion, he writes Draco. I know he's loved you from the moment he laid eyes on you," whispered Luna. "You're very ill."

 

Suddenly, there had been a bright red burst of light at the window, rattling the panes. Both Luna and Draco scrambled to the sill and looked out the storm-beaten cobbled road. Another red light nearly blinded them. 

 

"Draco?!" Harry shouted loudly. "Draco, open your window!" He stood on the streets below, beaming up at the two of them through the window. 

 

Without another thought, Draco shoved his desk aside and moved his notes to his bed. Then, shaking with excitement, he threw open the window and was suddenly hit by the downpour of rain, but he'd hardly a care in the world. All he'd ever wished for stood before him. 

 

"I love you!" Harry shouted. "I'll love you forever! And reject me today; I'll come back tomorrow and shout at you until I can no longer! Then I'll resort to letters! I cannot leave you alone; I cannot love you from afar! How am I to treat you the way you deserve when I cannot even look at you? Oh, how heavenly you look at this moment! That crease between your eyebrows! Will you let me love you, Draco?! Will you allow yourself to be loved?!"

 

Draco could not remain there any longer; he darted out of the room and out of the flat, throwing himself down the stairs and into the street where Harry had been standing. The two of them stood before each other in awe, and for a while neither of them spoke. 

 

"You're shaking," whispered Harry.

 

"Am I?"

 

"Yes."

 

Draco threw himself onto Harry and embraced him. The latter's strong arms held him tightly, and all that ailed Draco dissolved in the downpour of rain. He smiled against Harry's neck, kissing it repeatedly, in a feverish state. 

 

"I love you, Draco," Harry told him rather seriously. "Can I?"

 

"Please!"

 

---

 

“After full implementation of ministry policy,” began the chairman in his booming voice. “Draco Lucius Malfoy’s sentence is to be continued or discontinued should the jury believe his conduct has deemed him innocent or guilty of becoming a potential threat to our nation.” 

 

Harry’s knee bounced nervously. Draco, who’d been in fetters at the front beside the chairman, stared back at Harry. In those lovely gray eyes, there had been an odd serenity and indifference. That was what Harry found particularly striking. It was in his eyes alone that Harry was certain he’d changed greatly. 

 

The chairman opened an envelope that contained the jury’s verdict. The pause elicited whispering among the crowd. “What will it be? Will Malfoy go free?” One whispered. “Has he changed? Do you reckon he’s changed?” Another asked. 

 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy is to be a free man,” said the chairman. 

 

Draco’s eyes shut, and he’d let out a sigh of great relief and sink to the ground. With hurried steps, Harry threw himself his way, wearing a joyful, rapturous grin. He’d hardly cared; the crowd had clamored with great interest, some shouting insults at Draco and some praising him. But now, it felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Now that Draco’s fetters were cut, Harry could take him away and love him in every corner of the world! He’d kissed him with extraordinary desire, not once letting go and nearly sobbing with joy. 

 

“I love you, Draco,” whispered Harry. “With every fiber of my being, I will love you forever.”

 

Draco took Harry’s face into his hands and kissed him passionately, pulling away to give him a lovely look of yearning. “Eternally so, I will love you the very same.” 

In a little pub, at the very edge of Diagon Alley, two young men left their respective places in society for each other’s comfort. And they’ve been happy since.

Notes:

I’m kind of glad this is finished. I didn’t want to waste the story I’d half written so I’ve finished it and posted it. A short work, nothing special. I’m working on a bigger story that I’m very excited about…
Anyway, I hope this little story provided some sort of entertainment for you. This was merely me trying to figure out my style and practice writing. I know it’s not too exciting, don’t come at me 😭😭

Notes:

Let me know what you think! :)