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Forget Me Not	By : dark_raven4426 Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2089 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Forget Me Not
- 2-Part 2
- 1
- 2
Forget Me Not

Part 1

Hermione Granger frowned, her brow thoroughly crinkling as she peered up at her boyfriend and roommate of five years through the thick steam that was wafting around their bathroom.

"Why do you think we should do something like that?" she asked, sitting up slightly in the lukewarm water that drifted around her slim frame, scarcely littered with rapidly popping bubbles. The scent of lavender filled her nostrils and mixed berries breathed from her freshly washed hair.

"Look, I just think it's time we told him." Ron replied, shifting awkwardly from his position on the blue painted toilet seat, which, incidentally, was making his rear end rather numb.

"I heard you, but why?"

"Well, think about it. What's going to happen if one day he looks in the mirror and sees that he doesn't look nineteen anymore?" Ron clasped his hands before him, as if he were pleading with her to see the logic in his statement.

"We'll have to deal with that hurdle when we come across it." She answered, relaxing back again into the bath and running her fingers through her slick hair, breathing a deep sigh and relishing in the cleanliness of the natural aromas.

"But why can't we tell him? He has to-"

"No. Ron, you leave this alone. It's best for everyone this way!" Hermione sat bolt upright in the bath, completely forgetting her nakedness in her moment of passion while she was trying to portray her point to her sometimes fat-headed boyfriend. "Let me put this in terms you'll understand because I don't want to have another argument about this tonight.

"If we tell him about this, firstly he won't believe us and then, after about an hour of convincing and explaining, he'll finally believe us. But, because of the very definition of his…illness, won't remember a thing we've said the next day. If it worked out, that's three hundred and sixty-five hours a year we'll spend explaining things to him.

"When he's older and can see the difference in his appearance, fair enough, we'll tell him every day like the good friends we are, then it'll be humane. In fact, when it gets to the point that he's bedridden with it, at say seventy, we'll even give him the diaries so that he can be doing something with his days. But until then, Ronald, you will not say a word. End of discussion. Full stop. You do not talk to him about this. We carry on as we are. It is our duty to make sure he always wakes up in his own bed and not out on the street because, come morning, he won't know where the fuck he is. Am I being clear enough?" She didn't even wait for an answer. The second her firm, controlled speech was finished she leapt from the bath, grabbing the fluffy towel as she passed and fled from the bathroom, afraid Ron would see her tears if she lingered.

Draco strolled into the suburban pub without a care in the world. He paused momentarily on the threshold to appreciate the tepid blow of welcoming air puffing down from a vent and warming the entire room. The place was almost empty, most people being still stuck in their offices or wherever it was they spent their days.

A couple sat in the corner, both strawberry blondes, petting each other affectionately and reciprocating intimate touches as if no one else existed. Another man sat at the bar, a shot on its way to his mouth, the next in a long line judging from the number of glasses laying pitifully beside him. One last person, a young man in his early twenties was huddled into one of the booths looking regretful and lonely, as if he were wishing for excitement. Draco doubted he would be of much interest but he didn't much feel like being alone that particular night so, shoving a hand into his dark overcoat and grasping for his wallet, he headed for the bar, where a portly man was swiftly wiping over the wooden surface, attempting to rid it of its years of piled up grime and stickiness while the mirror behind him emphasised the growing bald spot on the back of his head.

"A pint of bitter," he drawled out, slapping a five-pound note down on a relatively clean patch. The barman grunted and turned away, searching for a glass in which the dirt was invisible to the naked eye. "Who's that?" he asked when the man swivelled round, drink in hand, and caught his eye.

"What, Potter?" he said, throwing his head in an odd gesture towards the corner. Draco nodded as earnestly as he could manage without laughing. "Harry comes in here most nights, alone, 'til his friends come and get 'im. That's three-fifty change, mate." And before Draco could ask about the man again, he was scuttling off towards the other end of the bar.

Draco seated himself onto one of the bar stools, which were too high and too spongy for his taste but he was only planning on staying on it for a minute or so while he examined his newest prey. His shoulders were hunched, folding in on themselves in a lack of self-confidence that was somehow endearing. Shaggy hair draped casually around his face, not framing but not invading into the space of his firm jaw and high cheeks. His nose was uncommonly straight, a characteristic of his features that Draco appreciated greatly due to its being evidence of good breeding. Despite his large clothes that fell loosely around him to pool on the ugly maroon corner bench, Draco could tell he had a small build, one that would be pliant to his wishes when he got the man into his bed. He was the perfect quarry, appearing vulnerable and insecure. A few well-placed compliments were all he would need to give before the man was eating from the palm of his well-manicured hand.

Draco swigged from his beer, swilling the golden liquid in his mouth approvingly, not of a high quality but better than he had expected from an establishment that couldn't be bothered to repair its half fallen sign. He hopped from the stool, a bounce in his long stride, and headed directly for the booth and where the innocent boy was waiting for him.

He was greeted by a pair of unearthly green eyes, peering out from under an unkempt fringe. Draco got the eerie feeling that he was being inspected but the spontaneous glint in those eyes reassured him that he had made the right decision.

"Mind if I sit down?" he asked, first impressions were always lasting of course and there was a high possibility said impression would ultimately decide whether he would be going home alone that evening or whether this peculiar creature would be draped on his arm when he waltzed out.

"Would you listen if I said no?" Draco despised it when people answered questions with questions, that wasn't how a tradition conversation was meant to work out. And they made him second-guess himself, which was never a good thing. Over time, he had learned that his first instincts usually had the knack of being right and that he should follow them without question.

"I wouldn't be able to deny any wish from such a beautiful stranger," he said extravagantly, well aware that he was being entirely theatrical but if complements were what was going to get this bloke into his bed, as his instincts had informed him, it was best that he started from the word 'go.' He smiled dazzlingly down at the man, hoping that his charm would pull through and get him the seat.

"Why not? No one else is likely to come over." It was at that point that Draco realised just how deeply the man's depression stretched. His thoughts were governed by curses and pleading, comprised of the feelings that this had better be worth the trouble. Which basically meant he was thinking, 'this guy had better be a good shag.'

He slid as smoothly as he possibly could into the booth opposite the stranger, already planning his next move; more compliments were in order. Once he had seen a smile he could tone it down to a believable level. First the come-on, then the gentle flirting that would entice him.

"So, what's an angel like you doing in a rundown place like this?" he asked leaning back to watch him from under lidded eyes, which he knew from a trusted source made his face look even more dashing than it already was. The effect was immediate and the stranger tipped forwards unconsciously to gain back the intimate distance that Draco had shifted. Draco almost laughed aloud, at least this underlying attraction would make the entire process simpler.

"It's not that rundown." Potter replied, plucking at his sleeve.

"When the glasses shine more than the mirror you know it's rundown." He allowed one of his gracious smiles to surface for a moment, perfectly calculated of course.

"I often come here. Get out of my friends' way."

"Surely they wouldn't want to be rid of you. If I was blessed enough to have a friend like you I'd want to spend every waking moment with him." He thought about tagging an innuendo to the end but exiled it swiftly, it was too soon and he didn't want to frighten him off.

"They're just moving in together. Lot's of organising. I don't want to be a bother. They'll come and pick me up later." He gave a timid smile, one that made Draco feel exactly like a cat that had gotten the full-fat cream. He grinned back at him, all pearly teeth and flashing eyes.

"Do you always come here?"

"Most of the time. How can you be so casual? You don't even know my name," Potter suddenly stated and Draco was momentarily stumped by the lightning quick shift of control.

"Barman," he replied shortly, trusting that Potter had enough intelligence to at least piece together his meaning, before diverting the conversation and regaining jurisdiction. "Wouldn't you rather be doing something other than sitting in a corner?" he asked, flicking his eyelashes over his soft cheeks in a half flutter. He was well-known in 'his world' for his ability to allure and fascinate with simple gestures and it was something he prided himself on, always using it to his advantage where he could get away with it.

"I like a solitary environment." He gave a bitter smile that intrigued Draco. In fact, much to his ire, Draco found himself being intrigued by many of the things Potter did. Like the little tugs on the threads of his clothing, or the way he would sometimes blink furiously to get a dangling hair from his eye, or the way he often glanced down at the pine table as if the answers to Draco's questions were written in the beer stains. And then the epiphany hit. If he wanted to continue on with his current lifestyle, he needed to leave right now because once he had wooed this creature and taken him into his bed, there would be no turning back. He would be completely mesmerized by him, trapped without an escape. And for the first time in a long time, Draco totally ignored his instinct's warning and carried on an interaction he would not walk away from whole.

"Do you like any sports?" he asked out of the blue, swerving disturbingly far from his usual and original plan; more evidence that this was different. Potter wasn't just prey; another surname to add to the list. He was Harry. He was special. So, they talked about everything and nothing, from arguing about tennis and rugby, apparently Harry worshipped the older players, enough to not even notice the newer ones in the game, he denied ever hearing of them. They discussed their changing environments -"I have to be considerate, they're moving in together and I can't get in the way." They complimented each other on their school achievements and compared humorous stories from their upper high school days, contrasting their two different upbringings and laughing along to old fashioned lyrics that came on the radio that was turned on about three and a half hours after their meeting. When Draco glimpsed his watch while Harry was waving the barman for another round, he saw that it was almost nine O'clock.

Draco's mind was sufficiently addled by this point, as was Harry's judging from the dazed look on his face and vacant stare that sometimes occupied his eyes. The room had filled out suitably by this time, people milling around and chattering and even in his intoxicated state, Draco knew this was the time to make his move. The move that would change everything he knew.

"Hey, Harry?" He received an uncomprehending groan in return. He gulped, suddenly nervous although he didn't know why, he'd done this hundreds of times, literally. He carefully traced his shoeless foot along Harry's calf, not entirely sure when said foot had actually lost said shoe, and tilted his body forward. "Do you fancy getting out of here?" he asked, inserting a manufactured timidity into his words as he lightly traced further up Harry's legs until his toes were firmly wedged between two warm thighs as Harry slammed them shut to stop his wandering limb from travelling further.

"I need to be back here by eleven for my friends to pick me up ," he said with such an important note that Draco didn't even think to argue or question him.

"I'll have you back," he promised sincerely. "Can we just go? Please?" Never would he have pleaded with anyone else and if he hadn't had so much alcohol in his system he probably would have been disgusted with himself. But self-loathing could wait until he had claimed his prize.

"Why not?" And Draco was out of his seat before he even had time to be annoyed by the question-answer. He snagged Harry's hand, fleetingly marvelling at his faint blush, and dragged him into the crowd, weaving them between the heaving mass of bodies that were just standing there pointlessly, as if they were only there to be in Draco's way.

It wasn't difficult to hail a taxi. The difficult part was keeping his hands respectfully to himself while the cab transported them to his flat a couple of streets away. It was during this time that Draco realised he was still missing a shoe but he was quickly distracted by the street lights dancing evasively in Harry's hair and lighting his eyes strangely, making them glow in an inhuman way. He paid the driver in cash and leapt past Harry out of the door, grabbing his slightly sweaty hand back into his own while the other was already searching through his pockets for his keys.

They stumbled up the flight of stairs to his door and by the time his keys were out of his pocket their lips were already locked and he was pressing Harry forcefully into the wood. Apparently, he wasn't built to multitask because it took God knows how many attempts to slot the key home and twist the correct way, by which point his free hand was frantically scrabbling at the baggy overcoat. They fell through the door in a tangle of limbs, tumbling to the mercifully soft, carpeted floor. Draco managed to kick the door shut savagely with his boot and hurl his keys somewhere other than in his hand, before his needy fingers descended on obtrusive buttons.

Fingers were twisting in his hair, teeth were knocking against his own and scratching his invasive tongue, heels were digging into the small of his back desperately but he didn't care. That was exactly how it should be. With the energy of adrenalin gushing through his veins, Draco hauled Harry upright and they began the long journey to his bedroom, managing to knock over every lamp he owned and stumble into all his furniture but he really couldn't have cared less. All that mattered was that their hands had to keep up their attempts to pierce through the material barrier and that their lips remained in contact at all times and that as much of their bodies were pressed against each other so that just that little bit of satisfaction from that small friction could suffice until they reached their destination.

And then Harry was beneath him and he was marvelling at the thick spread of hair on his pillow and the reddened mouth and the wanton eyes and the yielding body. Draco yanked the remaining arm of the overcoat from Harry's body and chucked it unceremoniously off somewhere to the side, not much caring where it went. He then proceeded to rip the loose fitting t-shirt over his head, not even deigning to notice what colour the thing was.

He was so busy inspecting the bare torso beneath him with keen eyes that he didn't really notice his own shirt being unbuttoned precisely with nimble fingertips until the cold air hit his chest, making his nipples rise. And then the heavenly glory of a heated mouth was arching up to latch onto his bared neck and he was shifting downwards to gain more precious contact. The brush of blunt nails skimming over his hips was the only warning he received before fingers were brushing against his clothed erection as they scrabbled to undo the button of his trousers with an uncoordinated desperation that Draco found all the more endearing, serving to push his lust into new heights or maybe that was the flurrying friction of the rushing hands, he didn't know or care either way.

His hands returned back to that ebony hair, pulling the mouth forcefully from his throat and slamming their lips back together, extracting a guttural groan from one of them, although he would never be sure which. Then his trousers were being yanked down and there was finally enough space between them for him to slide his hands down and return the favour.

The rest of their journey to nudity was a blur of flying clothes, tangled, clumsy limbs and half-conscious movements that naturally brought skin slipping, sweat-slicked, over skin. And then almost animalistic needs took over, forcing them to thrust and pound and contact. And, after a somewhat awkward lapse of lust in which reassurance and preparation was key, Draco found himself encased in a glorious heat where there was safety and protection and caring and pleasure.

Draco found himself captivated, as he set a slow, languid pace, by the expressions that flitted like wild birds across his partner's face. There was the wild magnificence of a newfound freedom. There was the slack-jawed rapture of bliss as he stared up with hazed, trusting eyes. There was the miniscule flickers of pain that quickly diminished into brutal flings of the head with every new angle and sudden shift. When he felt that he had memorized every inch of his skin, Draco leant back down, the strain of his body falling on his arms making them quiver, and found his face falling to rest against Harry's, his breath hot and short in his ear. He could hear the snapping words of pleasure, muffled by the puffs of exhausted lungs, in his own ear.

His actions, which were before this point comprised of a smooth plunge forward and then followed rhythmically by a steady, long glide back again, became frantic, ramming into the compliant body with abandon. He couldn't hear anything, although he wasn't sure if that was because they were completely silent or because he was in such a state of ecstasy that his senses had short-circuited.

And then there was Harry beneath him, his back arcing unfeasibly high as he sought after as much contact as he could find, and silky liquid was shooting between them, lubricating his last few desperate slams forward until his orgasm shuddered through his body with a vigorous energy that made him feel like a freshly hormonal teenager again. And he was spinning out of control, his limbs jerking and his torso pulsating as waves of pleasure washed through his veins, revitalizing them with the shivers running down his spine.

It was over too soon. What felt like moments after they had arrived, they were lying beside one another on stained, rumpled sheets wishing they had more time and energy to continue. To Draco, the glimmering silver of his patterned ceiling was far too bright for his post-coital eyes and he flung a hand at rest against his forehead. Their legs were still a tangled mess, he was practically still half laying atop Harry and his other arm was nestled beneath the delicate arch of his neck. He glanced sideways at the other man and found a contemplative expression of wonder on his face, a shimmering veil caressing his features and glazing his eyes. His lips twitched upwards every so often and his breathing was slowing. Draco was slightly shocked to feel his own mouth forming exactly the same shapes.

"Why did you agree?" he found himself asking, abruptly disturbing the silence.

"I wanted to be spontaneous for once," he replied and Draco remembered the spark in his eyes that he had noticed upon his sitting down across from this man mere hours earlier.

"I'm glad you did."

"It's half ten." This shift in mood brought tension and awkwardness, a feeling of not belonging and questioning. They didn't know each other. So why were they attempting to have a coddling, reflective pause after their exploit when it was so obviously impossible to do so naturally? The air stirred restlessly around them.

"I'll call a cab."

"I could just walk."

"No, it's late. I'll call a cab," Draco repeated, swinging his exhausted, heavy legs over the side of the bed and standing, before plodding to the door, pausing to say, "Get dressed," softly over his shoulder, trying not to sound too commanding and ignoring the way all the preciously gained familiarity had been replaced by monosyllables and brisk escapes from each others' presence.

Ten minutes later, Draco found himself holding open the black car door and waiting for Harry to look up at him from his corner. He was debating viciously with himself as to whether he should break the silence or contain himself and for Harry to do the honours. Harry shuffled a little further towards the other side of the taxi. The driver puffed impatiently through his nose, disrupting some of the tension and Draco breathed a small sigh.

"Can I see you again?" he asked, although he felt his stomach drop when Harry didn't look up at him, only shifted his chin on his fist, arm resting nonchalantly on the windowpane by the elbow.

"I'll be at the pub again tomorrow. Same time. I'll meet you there," he mumbled to the glass but Draco didn't miss the fresh flush that smattered his cheeks. His heart leapt up into his throat.

"I'll be there," he said, promise flowing freely through his words and he doubted he managed to hide his excitement either. So much for calculation and prey. He flung the door shut and watched the taxi fly chaotically down the empty street, snorting under his breath at how right his instincts had been. He had changed. For one thing he hadn't ever had to say goodbye to someone, usually he was throwing them out of his front door and slamming it on their protests. Never before had he agreed to meet a casual fuck again, let alone felt his heart jump at the thought. This was just more evidence that Harry was not 'Potter, the casual fuck,' but he was 'Harry, the special someone.'

Ron clicked the front door shut behind him, following his best friend into his kitchen and contemplating how he was going to do this. Hermione was stuck at home for some unknown reason, which Ron took to be a sign. Harry was meant to know. And if it all went horribly wrong, he would have forgotten all about it in the morning.

"Thanks for picking me up, Ron. I know you must be under a lot of stress, what with the move and all." Ron felt a tidal wave of guilt cascade through him. He knew it was selfish but this was one of the main reasons he wanted to tell Harry, his own guilt, which made him feel all the worse just because Harry was so selfless."

"It's fine, nothing really," he said, swallowing the bile that rose with the lie in his throat.

"Everything's going well?" Harry glanced back at him innocently as he grabbed two glasses from a shelf and filled them with milk. This was a tradition of theirs, every time they visited each other. A glass of milk to wash away any sins they had committed before they parted.

"Fine, fine. Hermione's just fussing but there's nothing new there," he answered, picturing their spotless home, with its clear floors and perfectly positioned furniture. There hadn't been an object out of place in their house for five years, since the day they had unpacked the last box.

"So what are you drinking to tonight?" Harry asked, his wide eyes looked up at Ron and he felt like they were delving into his soul and breaking his heart. No, he had been wrong, the lying wasn't the worst part. This was the worst part. When Harry looked up at him with such trust in his eyes and he couldn't look away but had to lie, straight to his face.

"Untruth." Ron murmured and it was what he always said, each time snapping a little bit more of his heart.

"Been telling Hermione little white lies again? Tsk tsk," Harry giggled, nudging him playfully. And all Ron could do was laugh dryly and pretend that he too, like Harry, didn't have a care in the world. He gestured vaguely towards Harry in question. "Me. I'm drinking to…spontaneity," he said, a smile so bright it completely confused Ron to see it flashing across his face. They both took a gulp of their drinks and then Ron couldn't take it anymore. He knew he had promised Hermione but he just had to do it now, Harry would only know for a few hours anyway.

"Look, Harry, there's something I-"

"Don't you want to ask me about it?" Harry beamed, excitement evident in the petite bounces he was making on the balls of his feet, which served to befuddle Ron further.

"About what?"

"My evening, silly," Harry chuckled like a little child who had just corrected a parent for saying something incredibly stupid.

"How was your evening…?" Ron asked, frowning. This wasn't their usual pattern. This was worrying and unfamiliar.

"I was spontaneous!" Harry exclaimed, jumping towards him and somehow not slopping his milk everywhere. "I met someone. Draco. In the pub. And we talked. For hours. And then we went back to his place." Ron felt faint. Things like this weren't meant to happen. Things like this were reserved for only the most warped soap-operas. And then Harry's next words made him freeze and he could've sworn later that he had a stroke. "I'm seeing him again tomorrow." Ron zoned Harry's continued babblings out of 'how great' this was. Where was Hermione when you needed her, he thought as he slammed Harry into a panicked hug to shut him up, bid him goodnight with ridiculous expeditiously and hurled himself out of the door, only just slowing down in time to navigate the stairs before barrelling off at a sprint back towards the car with one thought running through his mind.

"Fuck!"

Draco was having a rather unusual day. For one thing, he couldn't keep his extremities still. All day he had been twiddling his thumbs, wriggling his toes, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his fingers annoyingly on his desk and the list continued. Such random, unconscious motions were most unlike him and definitely not in his character. For another, he found himself completely and totally dismissing every come-on and flirtatious remark that his co-workers made. His secretary was down right affronted by his blunt dismissals and it showed all over her pouting, pug face.

Draco glanced down at his watch, willing the hands to tick that little bit more quickly. Another half an hour and he'd be a free man. Another half an hour and he could travel leisurely to the appropriate facility so that he could order a well-deserved alcoholic beverage. Who was he kidding? Another half an hour and he could see Harry again.

The sound of a vase, a very expensive, antique vase, smashing was what eventually brought him from his stupor a full three minutes before he was due to leave his stuffy office. The room itself was pleasant enough, a black cabinet here, a dark wood desk there, fireplace, carpet and wallpaper - all the necessities had never needed. His father had once told him, long before his criminal convictions had come to light and their family name still had influence throughout society, that this had been his Grandfather's office where every marriage arrangement had been finalised for twelve centuries. Glancing around now, Draco didn't find it difficult to believe it had been standing that long. In fact, he though agitatedly flicking his wrist to check his watch again, he doubted the decoration had changed at all.

The second the big hand that crawled around the face clicked into the slot of o'clock, Draco was out of his seat like the Devil's whip had cracked at his arse. Parkinson attempted to approach him to review the next days schedule but he waved her off with a flustered hand and was out the door before a word could leave her ugly, plump-lipped mouth.

The six o'clock traffic, which was now proving true to the tradition of being worst on Monday, was heavy. Cars were crawling along the road. Smelly vans were lurching unsteadily between the lines as their drivers slammed their horns and tried to decide whether they wanted to endanger themselves by attempting to shunt into a different lane. The occasional lorry trundled passed Draco, grunting at the effort of maintained such a low speed, as he hurried through the mass of shifting bodies, his head ducked into the collar of his expensive coat. He hated crowds, but the wait in a car would have been worse. He didn't even have the patience to dash back to his flat and change. He needed to go, now, crowd be damned. His fresh, blissful thoughts didn't stop the scowl from adorning his face.

The public house was in a back street a ten minute walk from his office, although at rush hour it took him a little over half an hour even while skirting around the larger throngs and lengthening his stride to a strict extension. Excitement thrummed along his veins, making his body lurch forward, adrenalin flaring his nostrils and huffing his breath.

He paused at the entrance - when he was sure no-one was there to see, of course - and strategically surveyed his surroundings while calming himself. If his father could see him now…He shook his head, snapping the thought to the back of his mind. The sign was still broken, hanging on resiliently to its last hinge looking as if the slightest gust of wind would knock it down. The door was open, something which surprised Draco as he shivered at the cold air around him. A couple were coddling each other on a bench beneath a window, their closeness fast approaching public indecency. It was as the woman - her frazzled hair gave her gender away - mewled that Draco thought it best to take his leave and stepped confidently into the pub without a single indication self-doubt showing across his features or in his posture.

No wafting of air, neither warm nor cold, greeted him at the door, only the humid, nauseating stench of stale sweat, dirt and alcohol that was not uncommon in such places. It was a little fuller than the night before. A group of adolescents were conspiring in a corner, probably debating who was going to be unlucky enough to approach the stony faced barman to order their drinks, which they would not receive as none of them looked a day over fifteen. Two couples sat in different sections of the rooms; one in a corner booth half hidden by a wall and the other near the centre of the room, taking pride in the sparkling rings on their fingers. A questionable looking woman, with her thigh-high golden boots, revealing costume and layer of make-up as thick as the icecaps, was lounging against the bar, gazing at him in a rather disturbing way, as if she wanted to march over, grab him by the collar and drag him away to eat him somewhere.

And then there was Harry, hunched up in a corner in that same sheltered corner as last time, staring down at the ring marks on the table and appearing as lonely as Draco knew he felt. He looked exactly as Draco had been imagining him all day. Perfect structure. Flawless features. Endearing error-riddled hair flopping artistically ubiquitously. And eyes of newborn Spring personified. He seemed to Draco to be vulnerable, his small form huddled up against the protection of the wall and trying to blot out the blemished world around him. Draco felt his heart leap nauseatingly into his throat, bobbing against his uvula and irritating the limited contents of his stomach.

Draco sidled up to the bar in what he hoped was an offhand manner and ordered a more adventurous drink than he had the previous night; a cocktail of the house speciality. Upon receiving back a ridiculously low amount of change he strode towards Harry, barely stifling the spring in his step.

"Harry?" He murmured quietly, as if he were talking to a skittish animal that was liable to run away at any moment. Wide, innocent eyes blinked up at him. "I'm here." And for a split Draco allowed a rare smile to curve his mouth and light his eyes, a smile that - as anyone who knew him would tell you - was to be cherished as a precious gift that was unlikely to appear for another extended period of time.

Harry's lips parted, his hands coming up to cross defensively over his chest, pulling the fabric of his baggy overcoat closer to himself. His eyes enlarged, the coloured irises flickering mistrustfully between Draco's own sapphire ones searchingly. Draco read confusion and alarm and instability. And he didn't like the instincts that were sending off flashing crimson warning bells in head.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?”

Thanks for reading.

Reviews would be lovely.

Bella
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