STARRY NIGHT - RaeWhit.doc

http://www.walkingtheplank.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=2644

http://www.walkingtheplank.org/archive/viewuser.php?uid=150

Starry Night

by RaeWhit

Summary: It's been over four years since the end of the war, and Harry honestly doesn't know what he wants. Fortunately, someone else does.

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.

Pink Floyd's Time

Harry sauntered down the hallway, then into the lift, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He whistled tunelessly as he waited for his floor, then stepped out and headed to the right. He'd been here before, and had a feeling he knew what was up. Or at least who was about to be up.

At the very last doorway, where "Department of Magical Estates" was printed in bold black letters on the frosted glass, he stopped and lifted the latch. The three occupants looked up from their desks, the last of them indicating a private office at the far end of the room.

"She's waiting for you," the man said as he pointed, then returned to his stack of parchments.

"Thanks," Harry said, then moved to the door, rapped twice, and let himself in without waiting for an answer.

"Pansy," he said as he nodded with a slight smile, once again unable to contain his slight horror at the disarray that was her desk.

The woman stood and moved from behind it, then motioned the two of them to a group of overstuffed chairs set off to the side.

"Thanks for coming up—figured it'd be easier than me trying to pin down when you'd be free," she said apologetically as they both took a seat.

"Yeah, you're right," he admitted, thinking to himself that Pansy hadn't turned out half-bad. Considering what she'd been like at school, he could scarcely make the connection between this courteous woman and the Slytherin he'd known.

She leant forward in her chair. "It's about the Malfoy estate."

Harry sighed. "Again? Yeah, I figured. But I thought you got that sorted out when he was here."

Pansy made a face. "He was here for the day and disappeared straightaway. I didn't want to bother him at the funeral—planned to wait a few days. Who would've thought he'd up and go that quickly?"

Harry shook his head. "Snape was surprised he even showed."

Summoning a parchment, Pansy handed it to Harry. "Well, Narcissa died intestate." When Harry raised an eyebrow, she clarified, "No will—she never did one after Lucius died. So without it, Draco's got to claim his property within ninety days, or the lands and vault will default to the Ministry and Gringotts, respectively."

"That hardly seems right," Harry murmured as he scanned the document. "What about other relatives? Andromeda and Teddy?"

Pansy shrugged. "This is the law when the heir apparent fails to act. I can't imagine what Narcissa was thinking, leaving it to chance this way, especially since she hadn't seen Draco in so long."

"Maybe that was why," Harry said, looking up and handing her the parchment. "You knew him fairly well at Hogwarts. What do you think about him—the way he's been since the war?"

Suddenly, Pansy's eyes filled with tears. "Did you know we were engaged?" When Harry shook his head, she added, "After they took his father off to Azkaban, Draco told me he had to leave." She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Harry'd offered. "Said he was sick of himself, sick of everyone, and he had to go." She looked up at Harry, then added softly, "I asked him, 'What about me?' and you know what he said?" When Harry shook his head, she finished, "'What about you, Pansy?'"

Harry sat wordlessly, watching as the woman composed herself. Handing Harry's handkerchief back with a nod, she told him, "We have two weeks to find him; owls come back undelivered, so it's down to Snape again. He's the one who found him last time," Pansy reminded him. "Trouble is, Snape isn't answering my owls either—I know he's getting them, but I've not heard a word, and he refuses my fire-calls at Hogwarts. So, I was wondering, would you mind? I know the two of you…" She flushed as she paused.

Harry knit his brows together. "The two of us…what?" he asked.

"Oh, c'mon, Harry. Everyone knows."

"Knows what?" he demanded, scandalized.

"Well, everyone assumes. It was on the front page…that kiss at the Ministry Ball…."

"That was over three years ago! I was pissed and so was he. It was a one-time thing!"

Pansy gave him a small smile. "All right, if you say so. But you're the only one who's ever stood up to him, so…I thought it'd be easier for you to ask him for something." She held out her hands imploringly. 'Please, Harry, you know how to talk to him. I'm scared to death of going up there, only to have him slam the door in my face. Besides," she paused as she straightened her shirt, not looking at Harry, "I want to do this for Draco. I'm certain he doesn't realize how much he's about to lose. I'd…I'd like for him to have what's rightfully his."

Harry studied her, then asked soberly. "Still love him, don't you?"

Pansy shot him a rueful smile. "I'll always love him, but no, that's over. I'm married now, but I still owe Draco—things you'd never understand, not being a Slytherin."

Stalling a moment longer, Harry thought to himself, Oh hell, why not? What do I have on my plate here anyway? Same old boring stuff. And I've not seen Snape in a while. He looked up at Pansy. "You'll clear this with my supervisor?"

Even Harry, sitting two feet away, heard the sigh of relief. "Of course. In fact, I already have—he said there wasn't anything pressing, and I could have you for as long as it took, if you were willing."

I bet he did. "Oh well, that's settled then. You said two weeks?" he verified, already thinking of when he might be able to leave.

"Two weeks from Friday," she confirmed as she stood and held out her hand, which Harry shook firmly.

Stepping to the door, Harry nodded. "Off to Hogwarts in the morning, then. I'll keep you informed." He hesitated, then couldn't help the question. "Can I ask? Are you happy?"

Pansy looked startled for a moment, then her face softened. "It took a while, but I think I am. Four years is a long time, Harry."

Shooting her a lopsided smile, Harry said, "I'm glad for you—I really am."

***

For appearance's sake, Harry had to offer up a token resistance.

"You could've at least asked me if I'd be willing to go," he told his supervisor accusingly, who, not a stupid man, wasn't having any of it.

"Harry, this is Ministry business; she needs someone who's had some experience dealing with the man, and we're not busy at the moment. Besides, I think it'll do you good to get out of the office for a few days." He eyed Harry meaningfully. "Give you a chance to think some things over."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, hating himself momentarily for playing this game with the man.

The senior Auror narrowed his eyes. "I think you should finally decide if this is what you want." He leant forward, his hands on his desk as he lowered his voice. "No crime in finding out that you'd rather do something else. Your heart hasn't been in it…for a long time. The only reason you're still here is because of who you are."

Harry glared at him for a moment, then realized he had no reason to hold this against him—he was only being truthful. Running a hand through his hair, Harry nodded. "I'm sorry. You're right. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Coming around the desk, the man put a sympathetic hand on Harry's shoulder as they headed for the door. "Take a few days, clear your head—figure things out. You deserve to find something that makes you happy. Not everyone is cut out for this." At the door, they paused, then the man added, "My regards to Snape."

Harry grinned wryly. "Oh, he'll be thrilled, I'm sure."

***

He didn't go up to Hogwarts until the next day after suppertime, and he certainly didn't send an owl to alert Snape that he'd be there either. No sense giving him a chance to send a tersely worded warning for Harry to save himself the trouble and time.

Snape still was the master of the dungeons, feared Potions professor, celebrated double agent of the Order of the Phoenix, snatched, as he'd been, very literally from the jaws of death by his own uncanny intuition and consequent dabbling in antivenins.

Instead of mellowing, now that the greatest intrigue with which he had to deal was students snogging in the garden, he'd become even more difficult, more vindictive, so it seemed, making Harry wonder, not for the first time, if the man hadn't thrived for so many years on living at the brink of disaster, and now had no idea how to act in the absence of melodrama.

He was revered by the wizarding world, yet feared and loathed by his students. Harry smiled to himself as he headed for the dungeons.

Raising a hand and pounding on the door to Snape's quarters, Harry sighed out loud when the irritated, "Enter," reverberated in the corridor. He felt an involuntary shudder of dread, along with a shiver of anticipation…no, not just a shiver, but a…thrill.

All's right with the world, he thought to himself. Well, at least for that night.

***

Harry sat stiffly on the edge of the armchair, nervously toying with the glass in his hand. "You know where he is."

Snape nodded moodily, not even making an attempt to hide his scrutiny of the man seated across from him. "You know I do, or you wouldn't be here."

When he offered nothing further, Harry tossed back the rest of his firewhisky, then set the glass on the table between them. "If he doesn't come back in time, he'll lose it all."

Shrugging, Snape Summoned the bottle, watching as it poured the two of them a second glass. "Perhaps he doesn't care."

"The point is he doesn't know," Harry disagreed. "And if he doesn't know, well, then it'd be a shame for him to lose it all. If he's told and then doesn't care, I can live with that," he finished firmly, then took up his glass.

"Still with the MLE?" Snape asked him, seeming to completely ignore what Harry'd just told him.

Harry pursed his lips. "Yeah, I am. You can stop asking, Snape. Nothing's changed since the last time we talked."

"Can't say I'm surprised. In spite of the fact that you despise it," Snape said pointedly, "yet there you remain. You're risk-adverse."

The protest was just at his lips when Harry bit it back. True, he'd killed Voldemort, but stepping away from his life as an Auror was a risk of a different sort, and somehow Snape knew Harry well enough to deduce his quandary, which unnerved Harry a bit.

"I'm here about Draco," he reminded the man. "Will you do it or not?" He stared intently at Snape, until the Potions master sighed and shifted in his chair.

"I wrote to him weeks ago, when Miss…Parkinson or whatever her name is now first owled me that she needed to reach him. He's not replied," Snape said shortly.

Harry frowned. "But he's getting the owls."

"No, no owls. I contact him by Muggle post—he's cast a concealment charm so that owl post is useless." Snape smirked grimly. "He doesn't want to be found, Potter, and he's smart enough to know how to make that difficult. Directly after the war, it was a matter of survival, and now…now he just doesn't want this world to collide with that one, plain and simple."

Harry decided that the only thing to do was to dig in his heels and wait the man out. After all, if Snape thought he knew a thing or two about Harry, the shoe fit on the other foot as well. He knew that Snape wasn't about to let the Malfoy fortune revert to those who had no right to have it. So Harry smiled vaguely as he sat back in his chair, resting the half-filled glass on his thigh, prepared to take as long as was necessary for Snape to step up and help. He refused to ask for more information or demand a location; Snape would expect this of him, and if there was one thing left in the world that Harry truly enjoyed, it was surprising Snape.

The two of them sat there silently, neither speaking as the clock ticked away the minutes. It was the first month of term, so it was relatively quiet for a Friday night, the students still flush with excitement and dedication to the new school year.

Snape stared into the fire, while Harry did his best to study Snape surreptitiously. He looked like he always had: stern, impassive, his hair still not showing a bit of gray, but then he was only in his early forties, Harry calculated. The sole difference that Harry could find was in the slight downturn at the left side of his mouth, the vestiges of nerve damage from Nagini's attack. It served to give him a slightly odd look when he smiled—as if it were a half-smile, or that he couldn't decide if he wanted to smile, not that this presented much of a difficulty for Snape, because how often did the man actually smile?

The thought of which made Harry smile slightly, and prompted Snape to scowl outright.

"Well?" Snape finally asked as he stood, eyeing Harry compellingly.

"Well what?" Harry asked innocently as he followed suit, so they were facing each other with only the small, low table in between them.

There was an almost imperceptible change in Snape's eyes as they took on what Harry decided was definitely…finally…a hint of vulnerability. "Well. It's been over a month since you were last here," Snape said shortly. "You expect to show up whenever you like, and just like that," he paused as he snapped his fingers once, "I'll take you to bed?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat, delaying his answer for a moment.

"I…" He was going to lie, going to say he couldn't get away, tell Snape he'd been busy, that he'd wanted to come, but he was prevented, but then…this was Snape. "I couldn't. I don't know why—I wanted to come, I really did, but…" Harry shook his head. "It's almost as if I need a reason or an excuse…doesn't make sense, I know, but there you have it." Harry felt suddenly ashamed of this confession, and of the behavior that had sparked it.

Nodding his head, Snape said simply, "Well, it's the truth at least." He looked toward the bedchamber. "Are you staying or not?"

Harry used his foot to slide the table to the side, then found himself pulled fiercely into the strong arms before he could even form an answer.

***

So. Harry had lied to Pansy about him and Snape. He hadn't felt the slightest bit of remorse; 'it was no one's business' had become his personal mantra shortly after the war.

It wasn't the kiss at the Ministry Ball that'd been the shock, although Harry could appreciate that for most of the wizarding world, that had been shock enough.

No, for both him and Snape, the shock had been what had happened immediately afterward, when Snape had Apparated them both away. Even three years later, just the thought of that night and what they'd done during it never failed to make Harry flush and his cock twitch.

The physical side of their relationship sorted out, it'd taken them months, though, to deal with the 'rest' of their past history, preconceptions, distrust and insecurities, until at last, they'd settled into an uneasy truce, where the past was no longer discussed or cited, but neither was the future either, a taboo subject of which they never spoke.

Harry lay in bed, in that semi-stuporous state just after orgasm, his face buried in the crook of Snape's neck, his upper arm loosely draped over the man's shoulder, while he drew lazy circles on the sweaty skin of Snape's back.

He realized that tonight, in a sense, Snape had broken the taboo about the future. Not directly, but he'd crossed into uncharted territory with that mild accusation that Harry should perhaps plan ahead, that he, Snape, resented the fact that Harry'd been away for too long. Or had he just been miffed that Harry'd turned up unannounced? Neither of which had been problems before. They'd never been a couple.

But here was something new: expectations. It made Harry uncomfortable, at the same time that it made him feel inexplicably…happy. This couldn't be right, he thought: best to let it go, but even as he thought it, he was opening his mouth to speak.

"Were you serious, what you said about me just showing up?" he asked, then mentally slapped himself for even bringing it up.

"What exactly do you think I said?" the voice at his ear muttered.

Harry thought. Oh. Now that he replayed the conversation, Snape hadn't actually said very much. Rather, he'd asked a question.

"Well, I think what you were telling me in so many words was that you didn't appreciate me showing up like that, expecting…this, especially since I hadn't come up for so long."

"I said no such thing," came the immediate reply. "I asked you if your behavior was an accurate reflection of your expectations. Nothing more."

"Oh." Harry swallowed as he got it. "And I answered that. I think."

Snape pulled away, allowing Harry's head to thump abruptly on the mattress. Coming up on an elbow, he rested the side of his face in his hand as he scrutinized Harry. "You did; but I doubt you understand your answer."

Face turned toward Snape, Harry said, "And you do?"

"Absolutely."

"Then maybe you could explain it to me," Harry coaxed him. "Because…I'm confused."

Snape smiled thinly. 'Oh, that you are. But it's time you sorted out something for yourself, instead of having it handed to you on a silver platter."

And although Harry acted immediately, straddling Snape and fixing his hands to the bed, threatening him with all manner of sexual scenarios, Snape only laughed and told Harry, "Give it your best shot."

***

"What do you mean, you won't go? I thought you said you'd help?" Harry asked Snape, setting his tea cup down.

"I said I'd help, not that I'd go. No, you can go," Snape said irritably. "I have classes, and no desire to lark off to the south of France. It's frightfully hot this time of year."

"South of France," Harry echoed, chagrinned. "But he won't listen to me! That's why you need—"

"All that can be done," Snape interrupted him emphatically, "is to lay the facts before him. He can either come home and claim what's rightfully his, or forfeit all right to it by doing nothing. It's a simple choice. Make certain he understands. Then bring him back with you, or leave him." He shrugged. "An idiot's errand."

Harry snorted. "So that's what you think of me."

Snape lowered the Prophet. "You've no idea what I think of you; if you did, you wouldn't be…" He stopped, then shook his head. "No, never mind."

Intrigued, Harry pressed, "No, you can't leave it at that. I wouldn't be what?"

Staring at him for a long moment, Snape told him, "You wouldn't be wasting my time."

Harry smiled slowly. "That’s not what you were about to say." He waited, watching as Snape raised the paper and turned a page. Not about to give up, Harry chose a different tack. "All right. I'll bite—what do you think of me?"

From behind the paper came a muttered, "If I tell you, will you leave me in peace?" Snape lowered the paper a fraction, and at Harry's nod, then folded it and set it aside. "All right, this is the short version. You're an unhappy man because you refuse to take responsibility for your life." He lifted his chin up and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Harry asked, outraged. "You've got to be joking. I've been responsible for my life since I was…was…" he stammered, "eleven! Ever since then!"

"So you say. But I think you've always lived a life planned for you." He swiveled in his chair, then stood. "Point in case, you tell me you wanted to come sooner, but were prevented because you couldn't find a reason or excuse to come. Pathetic," he sneered. "I'm surprised you're able to manage your Auror duties at all." He nodded as he took in Harry's shock. "You think I don't know how unhappy you are, but allow me to let you in on a little secret." He leant forward, thrusting his face in front of Harry's. "Everyone knows, Harry. Everyone but you."

***

Later that morning, Harry sought Snape out in his lab, where the professor had fled after their tense but candid conversation.

Snape had written out travel notes and directions for Harry, and was instructing him on some particulars.

"After you arrive in Avignon, you'll have to find the local Apparation point here." He pointed to a place on the street map. "You'll Apparate to St-Rémy, using the coordinates provided. Once you're in St-Rémy, follow this route to the outskirts of the town, taking the D5 towards Maillane, about two and a half kilometers; you'll see the sign for the GEC work camp in the scrub, off to the right. Turn there, and walk until you see the buildings." He cast a sideways glance at Harry. "Are you with me?"

"I think so," Harry murmured. "You've been there before," he accused.

"Of course I have. Every summer since he's been gone. At least for an overnight, usually longer," Snape told him as he folded the map and handed it to him.

"You never said."

"Why would you care? There was no love lost between the two of you."

"I still don't get it—Draco in a work camp," Harry said, shaking his head.

Snape shrugged. "He's not in a work camp; he's employed there. This particular camp is for troubled youth—he's a counselor, from what I understand."

"This is so…surreal. Draco counseling anyone," Harry said mockingly.

Making a moue of disapproval, Snape told him, "Save your judgments for after you've seen him—then decide. You'll be surprised. I was," he said soberly.

Harry'd already made a trip to his flat and packed an overnight bag, leaving a message for his supervisor that he might be out of the office on Monday and why. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Harry patted his pocket. "Pound notes, identity card, maps, flask, and a partridge in a pear tree." He grinned at Snape.

"A partridge? Why in the world—"

"In a pear tree. It's a thing in a Muggle…" He stopped and considered the look on Snape's face, then finished, "Forget it."

After another disbelieving look, Snape stood and pointed toward the door. "You'd best be off. The last London to Paris Floo leaves at five sharp."

Harry looked at his watch. "I'll be all right. Hogsmeade to London Station at three—I'll have time enough to get some euros." He turned toward the door, then looked back, feeling suddenly awkward. "Listen, what I said about not coming when I—"

Holding up a hand, Snape stopped him. "Save that for when you return. For now, au revoir." He waved a hand, then turned and headed for his lab.

"Au revoir…au revoir? I'm going to have to speak French? Snape?" he called, but the man was already gone, and Harry wasn't certain, but he thought he heard him laugh.

***
By six that evening, Harry was walking along a crowded street in center city Avignon. He stopped to look at his map only once, then followed the crush of pedestrians as he made his way westward. He knew he was near his destination when he caught sight of the large bridge spanning the Rhône. Harry wasn't to cross it, though, but located the narrow street that veered off to the right just a short distance from the river.

He didn't have to walk far before he saw the sign swinging in the breeze. It hung from the ancient façade of a two-storied building, the lettering gilded but faded: Trompe l'œil. Just beneath the name, in smaller letters: 14 rue des Arbres. The shopfront's paint was weatherworn and peeling, its windows so grimy and dusty that none of its interior could be seen. Harry cautiously pushed open the door, startled when a small bell tingled just above his head. Stepping in, he let the door swing shut behind him, then stood in place to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light.

"Oui?" said a voice from the counter, where Harry could make out an ancient-looking man sitting on a stool, a newspaper spread out in front of him.

One glance around verified that they were the only two in the room, a small row of dusty chairs against the far wall unoccupied. As Harry made his way to the counter, he pulled his Floo ticket from his pocket, hoping he'd not have much explaining to do. When the man saw what he held out, he broke into a smile.

"Ah, English, yes?" He took the ticket and held it up close to his face, then handed it back to Harry. "St-Rémy, so which side of city you want?" he asked Harry in more than passable English.

Uh-oh. "Well, let's see…" Harry dug in his pocket to pull out Snape's instructions, then smoothed them on the counter between them. "I'm not sure. I need to head for…Maillane," he finished as he pointed with a finger.

"Ah, D5 you need." Harry nodded. "So, we send you to northwest Apparation point, then. You speak no French?" he asked, his eyes twinkling, for a brief moment reminding Harry of another old wizard.

"Hullo and goodbye about covers it, except for 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi,'" Harry told him somewhat ruefully.

The man looked horrified for a moment, then frowned. "Ah, the foutu American song, non? Do not say these words while you are in Provence," he warned as he waggled a gnarled finger at Harry.

"No, wouldn't think of it," Harry promised, then angled his head to look at the map. "So, where will I end up?"

"We put you exactement on D5? Yes? And to go to Maillane, you must march towards the sunset? Comprenez?"

Harry smiled. "Yeah, I do." He followed when the man stepped from behind the counter and led him to a small room partitioned off from the shop front by curtains. There was a small, raised wooden dais, which creaked ominously when Harry stepped up.

"You learn some French before you go, yes?"

Harry laughed, wishing he could stay longer and talk to the delightful old man. "All right. Sure."

The old man smiled at him, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "First, to go to the loo, you ask, 'Où sont les vécés?' Very important, but bah, you can just find a shrub, eh?" he asked. He listened, eyes sharp, as Harry repeated the phrase several times.

"Très bien. Let me see, what else for a young man…" He wrinkled his already considerably wrinkled forehead, grinding his teeth together in concentration, then suddenly clapped his hands, startling Harry into almost Disapparating on the spot.

"Bien sûr! I have this!" He leant forward and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, then said warmly, "French, it is the language of love, so to tell someone you love them, you say, 'Je t'aime.'" He nodded at Harry. "You try."

Flushing slightly, Harry mumbled the words, "Jet tam."

The man guffawed. "Non, listen. 'Je t'aime.'"

"Je t'aime," Harry repeated.

Taking a step backward, the man shook his head. "Is right. But if you say this to someone, you must say with…feeling, non?"

"With feeling," Harry echoed, thinking to himself that at least he now had two of life's most important situations covered: using the loo and saying the 'L' word.

"You will be coming back when?" the man asked, taking a step backward.

"I'm not sure, maybe tomorrow or Sunday," Harry said uncertainly, realizing that he'd most likely be face to face with his problem in less than an hour.

"Store is closed at nine," the man cautioned him. "Enjoy Provence, young man. Is beautiful place."

Harry smiled and nodded, then focused on the destination coordinates in his mind. Turning on the spot, he Disapparated.

***

Harry trudged along the D5 into the setting sun. He'd landed on the western side of St-Rémy, so the town was behind him as he walked along the moderately traveled roadway. The land slightly rolled, a mostly flat expanse dotted with groves of small trees and fields of wildflowers. The few buildings Harry could see seemed to be small barns of some sort, hedged in by stone barriers instead of fences.

The air was hot and dry, redolent with the smell of sod and grass and flowers. Harry squinted as he walked at a leisurely pace, his shoes soon covered with dust from the berm of the road. He could feel the sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades, so he tugged his tee shirt out and flapped it several times. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where he'd be spending the night. He turned without breaking stride and walked backwards, looking at St-Rémy in the distance. Possibly, he might have to return there to find a bed and breakfast.

It was half an hour later, and he'd just glanced at his watch when he saw the small red sign just ahead: GEC-0.5km. Turning into the unpaved lane, he saw that it veered sharply to the right and upward to a small crest. The dirt of the road was packed and rutted by tire treads, clumps of scrubby greens springing up randomly here and there.

At the crest, Harry stopped in surprise and drew in a sharp breath. Spread out before him was a lush green valley, its sides rolling slightly upward before dropping off into the horizon. There were low gnarled trees planted on either side of the lane, neat rows that seemed to go on forever, the wood of them dark and twisted, covered with knotty swirls that made the trunks seem as if they had eyes and mouths and noses.

Not very far ahead, there was a grouping of buildings, none of them very large except for the low one that sprawled in the center; as the sun was now behind him, Harry could see that there were lights on in the interior of the biggest one. As he walked closer, a small truck drove from the back of one of the buildings and started up the lane toward him. Harry stepped to the edge of the road and slowed to a stop as it approached, waiting to see if it would pass on by.

As it drew abreast of him, the vehicle ground to a halt in a screeching of gears. His arm resting along the bottom of the window frame, the swarthy-looking man nodded to Harry and said, "Bonsoir."

Great. "Bonsoir," Harry said tentatively. "Draco Malfoy. I'm…looking…for—"

"Draco. You're looking for Draco, got it," the man said with a grin. "Relax, I speak English." He laughed out loud at the look of relief on Harry's face.

"Thank god," Harry muttered.

"You just missed him. He and a few of the staff are up in Maillane for dinner—I'm headed that way, if you'd like a lift?"

***

Harry stood in the quiet street outside the Café Mistral and took a moment to think about what he was on the verge of doing. Draco Malfoy wasn't expecting him, and to boot, he'd be surrounded by Muggles, so far as Harry knew, to whom Draco had probably not explained that he was a wizard with a questionable past.

Should he be direct—take the offensive? Stroll over and introduce himself? Or should he lie back a bit, perhaps let Draco see him and give him the chance to take the initiative?

As he opened the door and squinted into the restaurant, Harry decided to take a wait-and-see approach. He followed a middle-aged man into the seating area, where a row of booths lined one wall of the narrow room, while an equal number of small, two-person tables lined the other.

He bungled through ordering something from the stained menu, then sat back, sipping his beer as he tried to casually let his eyes drift over the crowded interior.

In the last booth, just before the exit, there were four men, all about Harry's age. Draco sat on the inside, facing Harry, laughing at something the man beside him was saying. It was Draco, Harry sensed, but for a moment he was shocked by his appearance, and almost felt unsure. The hair was almost white and very short, an ear sported a stud that sparkled, the tanned shoulders and arms were attractively muscled, and as Harry watched, Draco's face split in a smile…but it was his eyes that were unmistakable—almost almond shaped, the same startling silver-blue that Harry remembered. Definitely Draco, Harry thought as he watched the man, obviously relaxed and enjoying the company of his friends.

Harry could tell by the way that Draco angled his head and was letting his eyes drift up, that the moment of truth was about to arrive. He schooled his face into a polite mask of indifference, waiting for the reaction.

When Draco saw Harry, he fumbled the glass that he'd been about to set down. As the man sitting next to him made a grab for it, Draco didn't move, his expression one of shock and, Harry thought, a trace of fear.

Inclining his head, Harry gave him the barest of nods, then watched as Draco seemed to become aware of his companions again, speaking shortly to the three of them as ...