The Pub
Harry gratefully slumped into a chair. It had been a draining morning, but even a rushed half-hour of lunch with Ron and Hermione could cheer him up immensely. And hopefully dispel the dark cloud of Tom hanging over his head, and get last night’s strange conversation with Draco off his mind.
“You look grim,” Hermione observed, sitting down next to him with her cuppa and obscenely vegetable-ridden sandwich.
“It’s because I’m contemplating that monstrosity you’re eating,” said Harry. “If that’s the consequences of being vegetarian, count me out.”
“Your lunch is vegetarian too,” Hermione pointed out.
“I’m a cheese and pickle man,” said Harry stolidly. “There’s no harm in that.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. Ron joined them, sliding his plate onto the table and not even pausing to greet them before stuffing his croque monsieur into his mouth.
“How you ended up married to him I’ll never understand,” Harry observed to Hermione.
“It was his intellectual prowess that drew me to him,” Hermione deadpanned.
Ron swallowed his food, then grinned. “You love me.”
“That I do,” said Hermione. Ron’s face lit up like that of a puppy who had just been told he was a good boy, while Hermione took on the distinct expression of the cat who had got the canary. Harry couldn’t help but be happy for them, and did his best to bury all thoughts of Tom in favor of basking in the moment.
“So, mate,” said Ron, turning to him, “how’s your morning been?”
Harry frowned. “Difficult,” he admitted. “There’s this girl, I think she needs to be removed from her home, but her aunt--”
“May I speak with you?”
Surprised and a bit miffed at being interrupted, Harry looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing above him. He could not have been more astonished. Of course Harry knew Draco’s office building was only a few doors down from his, but it might as well have been a world away. Draco was the sort to be reminded by his secretary that he had to attend a three-martini lunch with visiting dignitaries, rather than simply popping over to Pret for a sandwich and cuppa after crying in a cubicle all morning, as Harry had. He looked out of place, too, in his Armani, surrounded by plebs like Harry (who wore discount Burberry at his fanciest, and then only when Hermione bought it for him).
Harry held his gaze, eager to keep Draco looking this uncomfortable for as long as possible.
“Harry had a long and taxing morning of doing his civic duty,” said Hermione pointedly, “and he needs this time to recuperate emotionally.” Harry tried not to roll his eyes. Hermione was wonderful and he loved her, but she utterly lacked subtlety.
“Forgive me my ignorance of the folk rituals of the middle classes,” said Draco, “but the matter is urgent.”
“Look, mate--” Ron began threateningly, but Harry quietened him with a wave of his hand.
“It’s all right,” he said lightly. “The curiosity will kill me if I don’t humor him. Watch my sandwich carefully, will you? That woman with the salad looks peckish, I don’t want her getting ideas.” With that Harry got up to follow Draco out of the restaurant, imagining how Ron would grin at his comment and Hermione would don her usual fondly exasperated look.
“This is far enough,” said Harry when they had stepped out of earshot of the cafe tables outside the doors. “What is it?”
Draco huffed and muttered, clear as a bell, that Harry was uncivilized to keep him standing out of doors like this. Then he said, “I have taken pity on a poor orphan boy. I have the photo.”
Harry eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”
“Indeed,” said Draco. “I’d like you to come to my pub to collect it, as I don’t fancy risking my neck to visit whatever slum you frequent.”
“What? Haven’t you got it now? Just give it here and we’ll have done with it, yeah?” said Harry, a bit desperately. God, he was tired of sounding desperate. When would he be able to put this whole mess with Tom behind him?
“I don’t want to give it to you now,” said Draco.
“Why not?” Harry demanded. “What do you want?”
Draco gritted his teeth, his expression pained. “I’d like to talk with you.”
“What about?” asked Harry, nonplussed.
“Tom,” said Draco.
“Absofuckinglutely not,” said Harry. “That would put a distinct kink in my plan to forget that the bastard was ever born.”
“You climbed his fire escape last night,” Draco pointed out.
“To get the photo.”
“Well then?” said Draco, “Do you want the photo or not?”
“Are you blackmailing me?” asked Harry, astonished.
“I’d say it’s more along the lines of light bribery,” said Draco.
“Or a hostage situation.”
“Well?”
Harry sighed, defeated. “All right. Though I don’t know what’s your neighborhood pub.”
“I’ll have Gerta email you the information.”
“Right, here’s my card; let me write down my email…”
“No need.”
“You already have my email? How’d you get it?” Harry demanded.
“Honestly, Harry,” Draco scoffed, “it’s public record. And even if it weren’t, Gerta would find it.”
“This woman sounds terrifying,” said Harry. “Are all secretaries this terrifying?”
Draco merely responded with a wolfish grin.
“Six-thirty,” he said, and walked away.
“What was that?” Ron asked as Harry slumped back down into his seat.
“I think You-Know-Who’s plaything wants to talk feelings with me,” said Harry, caught between hilarity and despair.
“Malfoy?” Hermione asked, clearly astonished.
“Seems that way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ron scoffed. “Posh types like him don’t have feelings any more than they drink bag tea. It’s been bred out of them, like.”
“S’pose I’ll find out tonight,” said Harry glumly.
“You’re not going?” Said Hermione.
“It’s a hostage situation.”
“You don’t mean--” Ron started.
“Oh, Harry, you didn’t,” Hermione interrupted. “Not only did you go back, you actually spoke to him?”
“Not to...He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” said Harry quickly. “Draco made an unexpected appearance on the balcony.”
Ron snorted.
“What?”
“Not exactly unexpected, I’d say.”
“Ron,” Hermione scolded, “there’s no need for that.”
“I have to agree with Hermione,” said Harry. “I don’t need any further reminders of how stupid I’ve been, thanks.”
“Harry, mate, I didn’t--”
“It’s all right,” said Harry. “Listen, I’ve got to go. You know, got some kittens that need saving from trees.”
Hermione winced as Harry got up and left. She hated when he quoted Tom.
~
Draco’s pub was the paneled, polished sort of place that had sconces and didn’t carry Seagrams. Harry felt instantly uncomfortable on walking in. Then he reflected that this had probably been Draco’s intention, and decided to spite it. So he held his head high and strolled up to the bar, hands shoved into his pockets, to order an overpriced but admittedly very good scotch.
He was late, the bastard. Probably wanted to give Harry time to squirm. Well, fuck him. Harry swigged his drink and ordered another. Harry was just wondering if Draco had actually been planning to drive him to drink, when the man himself walked in, still immaculate in his slate grey business suit. He nodded to the bartender, said, “usual,” and then gestured to Harry to follow him to a booth in the corner. Harry, who had not yet received his second drink, glanced at the bartender, who waved him away. This, he supposed, was the way one behaved when they were actually raised with their wealth on hand. He supposed the bartender would bring their drinks to them. How horrible.
“You were right,” said Harry conversationally, “Kensington is quite a trek from my neck of the woods.”
“And where is that?” asked Draco, sneering faintly.
“Chelsea,” Harry grinned. “I believe it was an entire fifteen minutes’ walk.”
“Droll,” said Draco.
The bartender did indeed bring their drinks, placing a martini in front of Draco before setting down Harry’s scotch. Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Rugged.”
Harry snorted. “Elegant,” he said sarcastically, eyeing the martini, which Draco was lightly sipping, barely disturbing the drink’s placid surface.
“Well,” said Draco after setting down his glass, “now that we’ve established our mutual disdain, shall we begin?”
“Begin what?” Harry asked. He couldn’t help it--through his resentment, he was amused. It was so satisfying to see Draco out of his element, overpriced pub aside.
“The interview,” said Draco, glaring at Harry when the other man laughed. “I have some questions for you.”
“Sounds delightful. Have at it then.”
“Why did Tom give you the locket?” Draco asked, leaning in slightly, betraying the intensity of his interest.
“He didn’t,” said Harry, puzzled.
“You wore the hideous thing over your cut-rate Benetton for months,” Draco snapped. “There’s no need for evasion, Potter.”
Harry gritted his teeth, trying to swallow back the venom that seemed to well in his mouth at hearing Draco call him by his surname as if they were at school again. That was decidedly not what this meeting was about. This meeting was about avoiding pissing Draco off long enough to claim the photograph back so that he could walk away and, god willing, never see the toff or his psychopath fuck buddy ever again.
“I meant, said Harry tightly, “that he didn’t give it to me, not really. It was a loan, not a gift. He made that plain.”
“Yes, well, Tom doesn’t give gifts,” said Draco, waving that concern away.
“I’m aware.”
“Nor does he loan his things,” added Draco, “which brings me back to my question. Why you?”
And that...Harry was like to drown in the undertow of that memory. He had been sitting up in bed, ready to go wash up and make his exit a bit early, as he had an early home visit in the morning. Tom had slung the locket around his neck without warning, pulling him back down onto the pillow by its chain, cutting off his airflow slightly as he kissed him.
It was frightening and wonderful. He was feeling a bit light-headed by the time Tom let go. Harry had tried to reach up to feel what was around his neck, but Tom had taken his wrists and pinned them above his head, rolling on top of him.
“It’s my locket,” said Tom, sensing his questions. “You’re going to be wearing it for a while.”
Harry had grimaced, trying to get free. “Am I?”
“You are,” Tom had growled, lowering himself so that his lips brushed Harry’s when he spoke. “I can’t have you wandering around without everyone knowing whom you belong to.”
Harry didn’t get a chance to object, as Tom was on him, around him, in him, before he could take another strangled breath. And Tom was tangling his free hand in Harry’s hair, pulling slightly, and whispering in his ear, “stay here tonight.”
Returning to the present, Harry blinked at Draco.
“It was a collar,” he said after a moment. “A sign of ownership.”
“Why?” Draco repeated, longing leaking into his voice.
“I don’t know,” said Harry, “but trust me, Draco. You don’t want him like that. You don’t want to pay that price.”
“I didn’t ask you for advice,” said Draco nastily.
“Didn’t you?” Harry asked.
“I asked for information.”
“I don’t have the information you want,” said Harry. “Only--only he does.”
“Afraid to speak his name, Potter?” Draco taunted.
Harry responded by catching his eye with an open, frank look. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”
In his surprise, Draco dropped his mask for a moment. Harry had to admit that, when he relaxed slightly, Draco was beautiful. With mussed hair and a sleepy smile, he would be something astonishing to behold. He wondered, vaguely, if Tom understood the value of what he was throwing away by treating Draco as he did.
Of course he didn’t. He hadn’t understood what an overwhelming love he had poisoned in Harry--why would he suddenly comprehend what Draco was offering him? Harry felt a sudden and sharp pity.
“I know how you feel,” said Harry. “I wish you’d believe that. I’ve been where you want to go, and I can tell you--it’ll never be enough. He’ll never give you enough.”
Draco’s eyes flashed. “I think you’re mistaking me for yourself, Potter.”
“I doubt that,” said Harry. “I didn’t bother with anything as nice as you’re wearing even for Uncle Albus’ funeral.”
“Well, he hadn’t the taste to notice,” said Draco.
At that, Harry slammed his drink down and stood.
“You of all people should know better than to insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me.”
“Go then,” said Draco. He was nearly snarling. Harry put on his coat and stormed out of the pub.
~
It was only hours later, when he had stomped back to his own flat and brooded for some time, that Harry realized he’d left the photo behind. He cursed aloud and started pacing.
“Meow,” said Hedwig. He looked down at the fluffy white cat.
“Sorry, girl, I’ll get you your dinner.”
While he was in the kitchen spooning cat food from a can, he fumed. He just wanted the fucking photo. Why was that git making him jump through all these fucking hoops? For his own twisted satisfaction? Harry shouldn’t’ve agreed to meet Draco at the pub. He should’ve just tackled him and wrestled the photo off of him right there. Now how was he going to get the photo back? He only had one other of his parents: the one that sat on the side table by his couch, of them laughing together, bundled up, in the snow. Thinking of the image, he slumped over the counter and put his head in his hands.
Hedwig meowed. He put the food down on the floor and petted her as she ate.
“Your human is a fucking trainwreck,” he said.
~
Harry needn’t have worried. When he got to work the next morning, he found another email from Draco’s secretary, requesting that he meet Draco again at the same pub the following week.