Art by Lauren.
2 February, 2004: Monday
“Harry Potter?”
Harry blinked. A woman with short dark hair and a paper cup of Starbucks in hand was peering at him over her clipboard.
He blinked again, shaking off the dizziness he felt, and nodded.
“On behalf of Virgin Portkey Services, welcome to New York . Passport control is down the hall to your right. You'll need to fill out these–” she handed him several small sheets of paper “–forms and have your wand and baggage ready for inspection by the customs agent. Continuing on to...?”
“Um... San Francisco .”
She nodded. “Just follow the signs to departures once you've cleared customs.” She smiled brightly before turning away and studying her clipboard again.
Harry took a deep breath – an effort to calm his roiling stomach. He'd never liked traveling by portkey, and even the idea of a transatlantic trip had been unnerving. Not that he'd had much time to think about it.
He started down the corridor in the direction the woman had indicated, rucksack slung over one shoulder. The air stirred against his cheek, and he was surprised that he could still feel the wetness of Hermione's kiss there, given only a minute before.
Of course, it was only three hours ago that he'd been sitting at his desk, stomach pleasantly full of tikka masala from that fantastic little Indian place on Farringdon, around the corner from the Ministry offices. It had been a good Monday up to that point, and he'd been looking forward to going out with a group of friends to check out a new bar that evening. His inbox was already empty, and he felt in control – a great start to the week. Then he'd found out he was to leave immediately, to travel halfway around the world to look for someone who most likely didn't want to be found, least of all by Harry Potter.
There weren't any quills to be had within ten meters of the passport kiosk, so he had to ask a grumpy-looking witch if he could borrow hers. She hovered nearby as he filled out his forms, narrowing her eyes when he fumbled with his little-used passport to locate the number. She scowled when he finally handed the quill back to her with a mumbled “thanks.”
The passport control line was mercifully quick. The immigration officer squinted at him for a moment before rifling through his empty passport; Harry hadn't even been out of the EU before. “State the purpose and length of your visit,” the officer said. The word “purpose” had sounded like “poi-puss” through the man's heavy accent.
“Business, for the UK Ministry of Magic. I'll be here for a few weeks.” Harry swallowed, hoping he didn't sound nervous. Or like a terrorist.
“Return ticket?”
He fumbled through his pockets before producing the slip of parchment stating that he had indeed paid the return fare.
The officer examined it, then stamped the papers and handed the lot back to Harry. “Welcome to the United States . Please enjoy your visit. Next!”
“Thank you.” Feeling unusually awkward, Harry gathered his belongings and proceeded to Customs, where a large woman wearing a uniform several sizes too small held out her hand for his stamped form. At her request, he opened his rucksack and handed over his wand. She cast a registration spell on it after inspecting it. He tried not to look uncomfortable when she gave it back to him.
“Welcome to New York ,” she said, gesturing towards the doorway behind her. Harry offered her a tight-lipped smile before proceeding.
The portkey terminal of JFK was a lively place on a Monday morning, full of witches and wizards and children of all ages, dressed in strange combinations of Muggle clothes and wizard robes of a style Harry hadn't seen before. Many people had charmed their baggage to float along behind them, and the air was filled with trains of bags weaving after their owners like obedient pets. Two large trunks crashed into each other in the middle of the corridor as Harry passed, spilling their contents everywhere. A loud argument broke out between the two owners of the bags, but Harry didn't pause to listen.
He continued walking down the wide corridor, past gift shops selling “I love New York ” shirts and mugs, at least three Starbucks coffee shops, and a sports-themed bar with television monitors depicting quodpot games from around the country, as well as a few quidditch matches. Harry paused for a moment to catch scores from around the world.
A child begged her mother for treats in front of one shop, while another zoomed in circles on a small broom nearby. The exasperated mother lost her temper just as Harry passed. “Justin, don't make me come over there!” she hissed, her tone making Harry wince instinctively. “I'm gonna whup your tail if your feet so much as leave the ground again before we get to Grandma's.”
The boy on the broom settled to the ground, chagrined. Harry mouthed the word “whup” a few times, trying to wrap his tongue around the accent.
He continued walking, soon leaving the small family far behind. Business travelers around a newsstand were scanning newspapers from all corners of the wizarding world. Children laughed and ate ice cream. Reuniting friends squealed when they caught sight of each other. Lovers kissed goodbye.
Harry stopped looking after that, and instead focused on finding departure lounge 18. Just inside the door, he handed his ticket and passport to an old man behind a counter. “Potter, going to San Francisco ,” the man said, fingers tapping against a hidden keyboard. He scanned the monitor, and Harry saw old-fashioned green-on-black type reflected in the man's glasses. “Your portkey will be activated in 15 minutes, Mr. Potter. Have a seat in the waiting area and we'll call you when it's time.”
Harry chose a seat by a window looking out over the international terminal of JFK. Airplanes taxied about, ferrying Muggles to their destinations, all oblivious to the fact that there was a much quicker mode of transportation. He figured the portkey terminal here was shielded from Muggle view; the one at Heathrow appeared to be a cargo terminal to anyone who wasn't looking for it. A large plane with Arabic writing on the tail taxied past the window, and Harry wondered what it looked like inside. He'd never been on an airplane. In fact, he'd only been out of Great Britain a few times.
He turned away from the window to see a middle-aged woman smiling at him, a copy of the Wizarding Times folded neatly on her lap. A photo of Howard Dean was waving energetically from the front page.
“Where are you headed today?” she asked.
Harry suppressed a groan. He really didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment. “ San Francisco ,” he said, and added for politeness, “and you?”
“Going home to LA,” she said. “You're from England , aren't you? I can tell by your accent. I've been to London , but it was years ago. Is it still foggy all the time?”
“Ummm...” Harry began.
“I was born and raised in California , and I thought I was going to go nuts after a week of no sunshine! Well, I'm sure you'll feel right at home in San Francisco . Foggy all the time, just like home. Going to visit someone?”
Harry gritted his teeth, wishing he could think of an excuse to sit elsewhere. “No, I'm here on business.”
“Oh, what kind of business?”
“Just business. Nothing terribly important.” He smiled faintly at the memory of Director Bass and the Minister for Magic dropping by his office that afternoon to ask him – personally – to take this assignment.
“Oh, I'm sure you're being modest. My son travels all the time, and he always says...”
It was remarkably easy to tune the woman out while appearing attentive. He hadn't spent all those years in History of Magic class for nothing. What Harry really wanted was a moment to stop and think, something he hadn't had a chance to do since Hermione had apparated with him to Heathrow that afternoon – now morning – a half an hour ago.
“Now don't do anything stupid,” she'd said, straightening his collar. “I doubt he wants to be found.”
“I still don't understand why I'm the one who has to go,” Harry had grumbled, pushing her hands away when her mothering became annoying. “I'm not an auror anymore. And what makes Fallin and Bass think I have a chance of convincing him to come back? I haven't spoken to Malfoy in years.”
Hermione had sighed then, and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I wondered that myself, to be honest. Perhaps it's because Malfoy knows you. If he's really defected, you've as good a chance as any of the active aurors to get close to him.” The warning chime had sounded then, and Hermione stepped away. “Harry, I know you know how to use a telephone, so call me from–”
And then he'd enjoyed his first transoceanic portkey. He shivered a little at the memory, and wondered if the next leg of his journey would be so disorienting.
“–all because of this homeland security nonsense,” the woman was saying. “Might as well make us wear gold stars on our coats, if you ask me.” She made a face and shook her head in disgust. “Ever since Bush made that facist Andrew Holland the Secretary of Magic, it was only a matter of time before they started worrying about magical terrorism. And we're all guilty until proven innocent, of course.”
Harry caught up with the conversation at last, and struggled to think of something safe to say in response. “I suppose you'll be voting for the other fellow, then?”
“Won't have much of a choice, will I?” she scoffed. “At least Dean has ties to the magical community, with his cousin being a witch and all. But Kerry–”
“Passenger Potter, your portkey is ready for departure,” announced a woman's voice. “Please proceed to the gate.”
Harry jumped up and slung his pack over his shoulder. “That's me, terribly sorry.”
“Have a nice trip!” the woman called after him.
He nearly jogged to the gate, relieved to be rid of his impromptu companion. An attendant double-checked his ticket and passport before directing him into a small room, where he was handed a thick plastic disc with the Virgin logo on it.
“One minute to departure,” the attendant said.
Harry struggled not to fidget. He hated this part: the waiting. At any second, he would feel the tug behind his navel, the sickening twist of his guts as he was pulled along with the portkey across a continent.
“Thirty seconds.”
He fiddled absently with the ring he wore on his right hand – a nervous habit – then closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. He should have taken Hermione up on her offer of a stiff drink. She knew how much he hated portkeying.
“Ten seconds.”
He couldn't help but count down in his mind; too slowly, for he felt the pull when he was on “two.” After several gut-wrenching minutes of being battered about, he felt the universe settle down around him again.
“Welcome to San Francisco , Mr. Potter.”
He opened his eyes to a sunny room, with a view of a blue bay in the distance. A woman stood in front of him, looking so remarkably like Cho that his heart skipped a beat.
“This is your final destination?”
He nodded, throat still dry. “Yes.” She held out her hand and he stared at her for a moment before realizing he was still clenching the plastic disc. He handed it to her.
She gave him a cheery smile. “The San Francisco Portkey Station is located in the heart of the city. Take the elevator to the ground floor and exit to your left. You'll find a taxi stand there. Thank you for traveling with Virgin Portkey, and we hope you'll keep us in mind for all of your domestic and international travel needs.” She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and gestured towards the door.
Harry started for it, then paused and turned back to her. “Sorry, but can you tell me the time?”
“ Eight a.m. ,” she replied.
Harry winced.
The taxi stopped in front of the Inn on Castro, at which Hermione's assistant Peggy had made Harry a reservation. “The brochure says it's a charming little B&B,” she'd said. And it was close to where Malfoy was last detected, which was a plus.
Harry paid the taxi driver, making a mental note to thank Hermione for having Peggy change money for him at Gringott's as well. Harry's position in the Investigative Services office didn't warrant a personal assistant, but Hermione had always been generous with Peggy's services. It wasn't Hermione's job to look after Harry, but she'd taken it upon herself to do so during the last few months.
As the taxi pulled away, Harry stared up at a well-maintained two-story Edwardian building. Despite the dire prediction of the chatty witch in New York , the February sky above him was blue and clear. A crisp wind blew, though the sun was warm, and he wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck.
The foyer of the Inn was homey and comfortable. The proprietor flirted with Harry during check-in, and prattled on about the nightlife and local entertainment as he showed Harry to his room. Harry was well aware that this was the city's famous gay district, but he didn't mind the man's presumption. Harry was open-minded, after all, and since this was where Draco Malfoy had allegedly been hiding for the last seven months, it might prove useful to understand the local culture.
Finally alone, he flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes. It couldn't possibly be 8:30 in the morning, not when his body was telling him it was late afternoon. His stomach grumbled, and he opened his eyes.
Thanks to the CIA's registration spell, Malfoy's magical signature had been detected repeatedly at an address approximately five streets from the Inn , at a place Harry assumed was his current residence. He had no other information, but Malfoy was an auror, and so it was impossible that anyone else was here using his wand.
The wand protection spells were some of the first they'd learned in auror training. Harry had been shocked when Malfoy had turned up the first day – he'd been pulled out of Hogwarts early in the seventh year and had apparently finished his education through private tutoring. Hermione had been displeased to hear Malfoy had earned just as many NEWTs as she had done.
But Malfoy had neatly avoided Harry during those six months of training, only acknowledging his presence when they were forced to partner for an exercise. Malfoy had finished at the top of the group, besting Harry in every area. By the end of the course, Harry had begun to gain a modicum of respect for his former school enemy's abilities. He'd even come to accept the fact that they'd likely end up working together, and then Malfoy had taken a position in New York . Everyone had been surprised he hadn't stayed to work for the Ministry, especially with war looming on the horizon. That was five years ago, and Harry knew nothing about what Malfoy had done since. He hadn't even known Malfoy was missing until a few hours ago.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry headed out of the Inn and down Castro Street , wand tucked securely inside his jacket. People were bustling about in the morning sun, and they largely ignored him as he walked along. As he neared 21 st Street , Harry ducked into an alleyway and cast a concealment spell on himself, feeling a little thrill as he did. He hadn't been in the field in nearly three years, and he'd forgotten how exciting the cloak-and-dagger sorts of missions could be. He found an unobtrusive place to stand across the street from the Victorian building Malfoy was apparently living in, and settled in to wait.
He didn't have to wait very long. Less than ten minutes later, the door opened and a young man stepped out onto the street. He certainly looked like Malfoy. His sandy blond hair poked out from underneath a knit cap, and he wore a sherpa coat over black trousers with a red scarf wound around his neck. The man walked up the street in the direction of the Inn , with the purposeful boredom of one in a routine. Convinced he'd found his man, Harry began to follow.
The slope was fairly steep, and Harry soon found himself panting in his struggle to keep up. They passed Harry's hotel and continued up Castro, finally veering right at 15 th Street . The man wound through several tree-lined residential streets and disappeared into a coffee house set in the center of a block of Victorian buildings. Harry settled on a stoop across the street and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, he assumed Malfoy – if it was Malfoy – was taking his time having his morning coffee. Perhaps a scone, or a pastry as well. His stomach rumbled, and he remembered he hadn't eaten since his lunch in London , hours ago.
After half an hour, he began to worry that Malfoy had discovered he was being followed and slipped away, perhaps through a back door. Harry clenched his jaw. It had been far too easy, of course. His plan had been to follow Malfoy for a few days, get to know his life and routine before confronting him. Had he blown his cover already?
He crossed the street and peered inside the windows of the café, but he couldn't see the man sitting at any of the tables. A young woman walked by him and entered the café, and he slipped in the door behind her. The café was warm and cozy, and surprisingly full of people. Everyone seemed to have a laptop computer – a small sign by the door indicated the café was a free wireless internet hotspot. The walls were covered with drawings that looked to have been made by customers, and the large menu was hand-written in colorful chalk. It was one of the most unique cafes he'd ever seen.
He made his way across the room carefully. The concealment spell would hide him from the Muggles, but a trained auror like Malfoy would be able to see through the spell if Harry made any sudden movements.
A pair of women sitting at a nearby table gasped. Harry turned to face them, afraid for a moment that the spell had broken and he'd been spotted. They were pointing at the screen of a computer, though, not at him. He exhaled.
“Where does this order go?” he heard a voice behind him say, much too close. He moved out of the way of the server, but backed into an occupied chair in the process. The person he'd hit cried out, and for a frantic moment, he wondered if he should try to maintain the spell, or should end it altogether. With all this commotion drawing attention, it was likely Malfoy would see through the spell at any moment – and that was probably worse than anything.
He slid to the floor, whispering “ finite incantatum ” under his breath.
“Oh, god, I'm sorry! I didn't see you, I–”
Harry sat up, making a show of dusting himself off. “No, no, my fault really.” He looked up, and found himself staring into the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
It really was Malfoy, though he looked older than Harry remembered. His platinum hair had been streaked with reddish-brown lowlights, and he was dressed all in black – save for one silver stud in the lobe of his left ear. Even his apron, bearing the logo of the coffee shop, was black. But his face was just as pale as Harry remembered from school, and the scowl forming on his face was all too familiar.
Harry clenched his jaw. He'd hated Malfoy so much back then. Why should he expect anything to have changed between them?
They stared at each other for a long moment. Malfoy's eyes narrowed at last, and he straightened his posture. Harry decided he ought to speak first. “Hullo, Malfoy,” he said.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed even more, and he glanced around before turning back to Harry. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“To talk to you.” Harry climbed to his feet, as casually as possible.
Malfoy took a step back. “I'm working, in case you hadn't noticed.”
Harry tried not to let his surprise show. “When do you have a break?”
“I usually don't take one,” Malfoy replied through gritted teeth.
“What, need the money?” Harry quipped, unable to help himself. Malfoy only glared in response. “When do you get off, then?”
“Late,” Malfoy replied, and walked away. Harry watched him deliver a pastry to a table in the corner. His hands were shaking, and he didn't look at Harry as he returned to the counter.
Harry sighed, considering his options. His cover was blown, and perhaps his entire assignment as well. It was likely Malfoy already suspected why Harry was there: to find out why the auror had abandoned his position in New York , and to convince him to return, if possible. Harry's only hope now was to do this undercover – to gain Malfoy's trust no matter how long it might take. Of course, this was exactly the sort of mission he'd always hated. He wasn't very good at deception, preferring a straight-on duel to politics and head games.
But he didn't have much of a choice, at this point. He ordered a latte and a croissant at the counter and then found a seat in the back corner of the room. Another server delivered his order – apparently at Malfoy's request. Harry overheard Malfoy say something about a stalker and glance in his direction. The woman eyed Harry suspiciously as she delivered his breakfast.
Harry stared blankly at what appeared to be his latte, served in a pint beer glass with a Lufthansa cardboard sleeve wrapped around it. He took a careful sip and was pleasantly surprised, despite the unusual presentation. He picked up a copy of the local paper from a nearby table and pretended to read it while he ate, occasionally looking up to see what Malfoy was doing.
Malfoy ignored him, for the most part. He worked behind the counter, making coffee drinks. He delivered orders to tables. He flirted with people who seemed to be regular customers. He glared at Harry whenever he happened to glance over.
It had been years since Harry had seen Malfoy, and he wasn't certain he'd ever really watched him. Malfoy carried himself with a definite grace that spoke of his privileged upbringing, and he spoke with customers and co-workers alike in a friendly, even affectionate manner. He was thin – too thin really; the black clothing only elongated his limbs and accentuated his lithe form. His hair was styled in that trendily messy way, with bits of it sticking out in several directions.
Harry watched him turn on the charm for a handsome man in a suit, who returned his smile and asked for his “usual”. Harry felt a wave of annoyance. Malfoy had always been able to charm the right people. The powerful people, from Umbridge to Fudge to–
Malfoy winked outrageously at his customer, and Harry felt himself blush. He focused his attention back on the Muggle newspaper, suddenly wondering if Malfoy was gay. It had never occurred to him before even to question his old school nemesis's sexual orientation. Malfoy certainly seemed to fit the stereotype. Now that he had noticed, Harry was fairly certain it wasn't just a cover for his presence here. Malfoy was hiding, and he was here because he felt comfortable. Where else might a gay wizard hide but in a Muggle gay district in a big, anonymous city?
It made sense, when Harry thought about it. Malfoy hadn't really dated anyone in school. He'd always been fashionable, and seemed to care more for his appearance than any boy Harry knew. And then there was Malfoy's near-obsession with Harry himself. Harry swallowed, uncomfortable.
A glass of water was abruptly dropped on his table, and he looked up.
“I suppose you're just going to sit here all day?” Malfoy remarked, scowling.
“If need be,” Harry replied, keeping his features impassive. It was difficult not to return the nasty tone. “I only want to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you ,” Malfoy replied.
Harry became aware that they were attracting attention. Even the staff behind the bar seemed to be watching their conversation.
He decided to play the scene as best he could, forcing himself to smile. “Surely you can spare a moment out of your busy day for me ?” He traced the rim of his water glass with a finger tip, watching Malfoy's face.
“Why are you here?” Malfoy said, pointedly ignoring Harry's clumsy attempt at flirting.
“To talk to you,” Harry replied. “That's all.”
“Right,” Malfoy said, and turned away. Harry sighed, sinking down in his chair. This was going to be much harder than he'd thought. Even if he could stand to be in the presence of Malfoy for more than a few minutes, how in Merlin's name was he going to get him to cooperate?
Two hours later, Harry had ingested three cups of coffee, a blueberry muffin and a cheese Danish, and had read every word printed in the paper, including the incredibly boring descriptions of American sports news.
He'd watched Malfoy talking with his co-workers, chatting up cute men at the counter, and delivering orders to tables. Malfoy had avoided waiting on Harry again, finding an excuse to step into the back whenever Harry approached the counter. Harry even tried to smile whenever Malfoy looked his way, but got only scowls and glares in return.
He couldn't drink a drop more coffee, or his bladder would burst. He didn't care to eat a muffin ever again, and he was getting tired. It was past his bedtime back home. He was on the verge of giving up for the afternoon when Malfoy dropped a slip of paper on the table. It was a business card for the café, but on the back was written, “I'll give you five minutes.”
Harry watched Malfoy exchange his apron for his sherpa coat and slip out the front door of the café. He waited for a moment before gathering up his jacket and following. Outside, he found Malfoy leaning against a tree, dragging on a cigarette. Malfoy glanced at him briefly, and then walked down the street, disappearing around the corner of the building.
When Harry rounded the corner, he saw Malfoy sitting on a stoop in the alleyway, putting out the butt of his cigarette on the cold cement. Harry settled beside him and waited. Silence stretched between them as Malfoy retrieved another cigarette from a pocket and lit it, taking a long drag.
“I don't suppose you'll tell me how you found me?” Malfoy asked, smoke escaping his mouth along with his bitter tone.
“Registration spell,” Harry muttered, staring at the ground in front of him. “The Homeland Security Act seems to have given the American intelligence agencies the authority to trace foreign wizards through the registration spells. The British government recently reported you missing, and the CIA found you.” He gestured with one hand, as if it explained everything. “Here.”
Malfoy was silent for a moment, though the cigarette smoke was continuously flowing. “Fuck,” he said at last.
“I agree,” Harry muttered. “Fucking scary, it is.”
“But how did you find out where I work?”
“I followed you from home this morning.”
More silence, accompanied by heavy smoking. “What do you want, Potter?”
Harry exhaled. He'd never been good at this sort of thing, which was exactly why he didn't do it anymore. “My assignment was to locate you and make certain you were... safe,” he said. “You went missing a long time ago, and the Ministry were worried about your safety.”
“Like hell they were,” Malfoy retorted, and took another long drag on the cigarette. “They just wanted you to make certain I hadn't gone off and joined the Death Eaters.”
Harry could think of nothing to say in response. If Malfoy had done any undercover work, he'd see straight through any of Harry's feeble attempts to gain his confidence.
Malfoy rolled up his right sleeve and held his bare forearm in front of Harry's face. “See?” he said, cigarette clenched between his teeth. “I'm fine. You can go now.” He took another drag on the cigarette before putting it out, and stood.
“All right, fine,” Harry said, mind working feverishly. “But I've come all this way. Can't we at least–” He caught Malfoy's arm as the man started to walk away, and Malfoy turned back to face him. Harry tried again to smile, in a way he hoped was endearing. “We haven't seen each other in ages. Let me take you out to dinner, at least.”
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and Harry swallowed.
“Dinner?” Malfoy repeated, clearly suspicious. “Why?”
“Why not?” Harry replied, shrugging. Malfoy gave him a long look, and Harry sighed. “Look, I know we've never really got on well, but… we were kids, Malfoy. It was all a long time ago. Can't we have dinner, talk, and enjoy each other's company for a few hours before I go home?”
Malfoy stared at Harry for several seconds, with an intensity that made Harry shrink back a bit. Did Malfoy still hate him, after all these years?
“Where?” Malfoy asked.
Harry shrugged, trying his best to appear relaxed. “Anywhere you want. I can have a taxi waiting outside your flat. Just name the time.”
Malfoy looked away for a moment, considering. Harry had no reason to expect Malfoy would agree. He wasn't sure what he'd do, in that case. Malfoy returned his gaze to Harry, studying his face. Harry tried to keep his expression as blank as possible.
At last, Malfoy's lips formed a very familiar smirk. “ Eight o'clock ,” he said, just before turning and walking away. Harry exhaled, relieved. “But it's gonna cost you,” he continued, voice echoing lightly in the alley.
Malfoy hadn't been kidding about the cost of dinner, Harry thought as he stared at the nearly-empty plate of sushi before him. He hoped the Ministry would be forgiving when they saw his credit card statement. Of course, if he succeeded in convincing Malfoy to come back to London with him it would smooth things over considerably.
The sushi chef set a platter before them, and Malfoy smirked at the distress on Harry's face. “Come on, Potter. It's sort of like foie gras .”
“I hate foie gras ,” Harry muttered, not trusting Malfoy at all.
Malfoy picked up a green bundle topped with bright orange goo with his chopsticks. “Have you ever actually tried it, or have you only had those pâtés from the grocery?”
“What's the difference?”
Malfoy scoffed. “Eat the uni, Potter. You're paying for it, after all.”
“I want more toro,” Harry said, poking at the orange goo with one chopstick. “I like toro.”
“Quitcher whining,” Malfoy retorted in an approximation of an American accent, just before taking a careful bite. His smile became exaggerated as he chewed. Harry narrowed his eyes, still unconvinced this wasn't a trick to get him to eat something disgusting. “Your turn,” Malfoy said.
Harry gritted his teeth and looked at the plate. It was only a small bit of goo. How bad could it be, really? If Malfoy could eat it, so could he. Though Malfoy had probably put much stranger things in his mouth than a bit of sea urchin, so perhaps it wasn't a good comparison. Bad mental image , Harry thought as he picked the seaweed package up with his fingers and bit into it.
His first impression was of cold, salty, slime spreading across his tongue. His second impression was even worse. He chewed, but that only made the goo fall apart in his mouth and spread everywhere . He grimaced and forced it down as best he could.
When he opened his eyes, Malfoy was laughing. “Do you always make that face when you swallow?”
“Only when I swallow something revolting,” Harry retorted, reaching for his beer. Malfoy snickered and finished off his own piece of uni. Harry shuddered, but Malfoy didn't even make a face. “Do you really like it?”
Malfoy shrugged and took a big gulp of sake. “Not really,” he said, after a moment. “But the look on your face was worth it.”
Harry tried to glare at him, but ended up rolling his eyes instead. The entire evening had been like this. Malfoy had emerged from his flat at ten past eight , not even apologizing for making Harry wait in a taxi with the meter running. Malfoy had dressed stylishly enough that Harry wished he'd thought to change his own clothes after his brief nap that afternoon. Malfoy had wrinkled his nose at Harry's jeans, but said nothing. He'd only smiled as he sidled up to Harry in the back seat, looping an arm through one of Harry's and directing the driver to the Embarcadero district. Harry had been so shocked at the sudden change in his behavior that he hadn't known how to respond. He'd simply let Malfoy lean against him in the taxi, and tried not to fidget. If Malfoy was trying to unsettle him, Harry was at least not going to let him know it had worked.
The restaurant – a trendy Japanese spot called Ozumo – reeked of glamour. The tables and bar were filled with beautiful, stylish people, all eating beautiful, stylish food and drinking sake from tiny cups. Harry was very glad he wasn't spending his own money. Tonight's bill would likely top $200, at the rate Malfoy was going. Harry wasn't sure where on his skinny frame he was putting all that food.
Malfoy clasped a piece of mackerel nigiri between his chopsticks and stared dreamily at it for a moment. “You still haven't told me why you're here,” Harry said, watching the nigiri disappear between Malfoy's lips. The expression on his face changed to one of absolute bliss, and he sank down in his bar stool, ignoring Harry's question. Harry sipped his beer until Malfoy pushed himself back up to a sitting position. “Good?” Malfoy nodded and let his eyes roll back for effect.
“More sake?” the waiter asked, leaning between them to collect empty plates.
“Please,” Harry replied, and the waiter smiled. He reminded Harry a bit of the man he'd seen Malfoy flirting with in the café, and he couldn't help but watch him walk away. He was surpised at himself, as he was usually horrible at remembering faces.
“Honestly, Potter, just ask him for his number. Or better yet, what time he gets off.”
Harry's gaze returned to Malfoy. “What are you talking about?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “ Please . You've been checking that waiter out all night.”
“I have not !” Harry willed himself not to blush, as it would send entirely the wrong message.
“You're in San Francisco , Potter. No need to be coy.”
“I'm not being–” The waiter reappeared with a new bottle of chilled sake and poured some into each of their glasses. Harry studied his own hands intently until the man left. “I hate to disappoint you, Malfoy, but I'm not gay.” Malfoy's eyebrows shot up, his sake cup not quite covering the smug grin that was starting to form on his face. He didn't say it, but Harry could nearly hear the ‘ Oh, really? ' “I'm married, for one thing.”
A look of surprise fluttered over Malfoy's face for a split second before it was replaced with a smug mask once again. “Married?”
“Well... separated, actually,” Harry admitted, though he was pleased he'd finally managed to catch Malfoy off-guard. “Getting a divorce.” He picked up the sake cup and downed its contents in one go.
Malfoy refilled it before Harry had a chance to put it back down. “Was it bad?”
Harry shrugged. “It was horrible in some ways, and a tremendous relief in others.”
“Weasley?”
“No,” Harry replied, realizing that Malfoy had truly cut himself off from British wizarding society. Harry's whirlwind marriage had caused quite a stir in the papers, and the divorce was making news as well. Harry was surprised Malfoy didn't know these details already, but he seemed genuinely curious.
They'd both had quite a bit of alcohol at this point, and Harry knew he'd probably regret speaking so frankly come morning. He didn't have anyone at home to talk to, though. Hermione was his only real friend left, and she was busy with her work and her children. Besides, if he opened up a little, maybe Malfoy would do the same.
Harry placed the sake cup back on the bar. “I married Cho.”
“Cho Chang? You're kidding.”
“Too good for me, I know.” Harry held up his hand to fend off the anticipated sarcastic remark. “She and I were assigned together, right out of auror training. We dated off and on, and then we had a few... intense experiences, right around the time that Voldemort...” Harry dropped off, suddenly realizing he'd brought up a subject that Malfoy would probably not want to discuss. Not yet, anyway.
“Yes, yes, Voldemort, my father, and the messy way it all ended.” Malfoy didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose ended is a strong term.”
Indeed , Harry thought. Voldemort had simply vanished after that horrible day three years ago. Half of Harry's friends had died in a single week. Harry hadn't even played the role everyone had expected him to – Dumbledore had done that, and had paid dearly for it. And no one knew if it was really over, or if Voldemort was out there somewhere, waiting.
He paused, realizing he hadn't thought about the war, or Voldemort, or lost friends – not for a long time. He blinked and looked up to see Malfoy watching him, almost curiously.
“Well, anyway,” Harry continued, unsettled, “Cho and I were together for a few months after that. We broke it off, and a month later, she showed up on my doorstep, pregnant.” Harry paused and sipped his sake. “It was a stupid reason to get married. I think we both wanted to build something new after all of that destruction.”
“So you have a kid?” Malfoy asked. He'd gone pale, which was remarkable considering his natural complexion.
“No.” Harry sighed, already wishing he hadn't started down this path. “She had a miscarriage. We'd only been married a month, so it was fairly traumatic. Afterwards, we thought we could still make it work, even try for a baby again, but...” He shrugged and felt the world begin to buzz around him in a light haze of sake. His mind felt strangely clear for having drunk so much.
Malfoy said nothing, just sat quietly, listening. Waiting, in case Harry decided to talk more. Harry had never thought of Malfoy as a good listener. To be honest, he hadn't thought of Malfoy much, if at all.
“We separated about six months ago,” Harry continued at last. “She moved on fairly quickly, and I've buried myself in my work. That's about it, really.” He looked up to see Malfoy studying him. “What?”
Malfoy smiled and shrugged. “So you're suffering from a broken heart, then?”
Harry winced. “Well, not exactly. That's the problem. I never really loved her, at least not in the way I'd expected to love my wife. I miss her in some ways, but it was never exactly a great relationship, if you get my meaning.” He stopped, realizing he had told Malfoy far more than he'd intended. He felt himself blush.
Malfoy snorted. “Not exactly a model for the wizarding world, are you, Potter? Married, divorced, and bitter – all by the age of 24?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Harry groaned, though his voice carried no venom at all. “What have you been doing these last five years? What has the great Draco Malfoy – sole heir to the Malfoy estate and all that – accomplished?”
Malfoy didn't take the bait. He only smiled at Harry and raised his cup to his lips. “Wouldn't you like to know?” he said, and took a measured sip of sake.
Harry stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if it was a rhetorical question.
“So, you're leaving tomorrow?” Malfoy asked.
“Erm...” Harry began, and drained his beer. “I don't have to be back for a week or so. Got some holiday time I need to use up, you know.” He shrugged, hoping he looked casual. “Maybe I'll hang around for a few days, do some sightseeing.”
Malfoy smiled into his sake cup. “Right.”