Bad Faith

BAD FAITH

Chapter One : Uneasy Gratitude

It was a miserably wet London afternoon, damp and dank, and the sidewalks were covered in salty slush. Harry breathed in the soot and air that smelled of cheap fried foods, before wrapping his coat around him tighter and sinking deep into the scarlet warm folds of his scarf.

He had grown accustomed to wearing sunglasses no matter how dark it was outside, in order to avoid suspicion. He saw his picture in the papers with dark, heavy warnings printed below it far too often, and his eyes were unique enough to warrant a second look. Through them, he could see the wet brick and brownstone boxes rising from the street, decorated with a scattering of gargoyles and long lamplights that threw funny shadows.

A light snow was falling. Harry wished it would stick for once into that gloriously white layer but as soon as it hit the pavement, it melted into slush. He watched a few snowflakes fall onto his dark coat. It was warm and expensive (that sort of thing seemed to come in pairs) not that Harry would have known or cared. This little item had been filched out of a boutique in Knightsbridge. He enjoyed strolling through the lingerie shops but that had grown tiresome after a while and the coats on the rack at Connolly's had looked rather tempting.

He could easily have removed the security tag but had wanted to have some fun. He had strolled out of the shop, the buzzing of the alarm leaving a pleasant ring in his ears. It was a petty thing to do since he could easily have afforded to buy all the clothing in the store but a cheap thrill was necessary, every once in a while.

There was a tramp on the street, huddled up into a ragged little ball. Harry took some change out of his pocket. The Christmas spirit could kiss Harry Potter's arse but occasionally he felt the need to repent for his sins. The priest would die of old age before he finished listing them, anyway. Maybe it was the slush, or the fog, or the coat he had got away with, but he made his charitable donation of the year. He leaned over and tapped the tramp on the shoulder. The head rose up from its fetal position like a long necked turtle.

The man's face was unshaven and smudged with grime. There was a tired, resigned look on his face, as if he was being forced into an arranged marriage. His face was made up of a few clean lines, the quick strokes of his jaw and the set of his mouth. The hair was thrown about in salty stiff shocks of blonde, some of its length tucked into the collar of his clothing.

"All right?" Harry started. "Merry Chris-" he stopped mid-meaningless phrase.

He had seen those eyes somewhere. They had once been cold and arrogant and gray as the winter sky. It couldn't be.

The hand in his pocket fingering his change went limp. Everything told him it was impossible, completely impossible. He was imagining this.

But his mouth seemed to open and speak of its own accord. "Draco Malfoy?"

The gray eyes automatically registered an instinctive animal fear that all creatures drew on, if nothing else - the one emotion that all beings shared. "Who the fuck are you? Look, I didn't do anything. He made all those crackpot stories up. You have to believe me." There was a desperate whine in his voice, and he wore a helpless look that his face was not made for. Had never been made for.

***

The chip shop was warm, if greasy like all the rest. The walls were decorated with cheap tinsel and plastic Santas and the tables were cracked. Draco stared carefully at the plate in front of him before savagely spearing a potato.

"So," Harry feinted. "How've you been?" He had opted for coffee instead. He loosened his muffler.

"Shit, you?"

Harry did not answer. He studied Draco carefully, running his gaze up the fine line of his jawbone covered in stubble, the cheekbones so sharp they looked like they would cut through his skin, the fine white arches of his eyebrows. His hair was greasy, dirty and in oddly placed strands, reeking of onions and sweat. Draco shifted uncomfortably. He seemed to have lost the arrogance in his speech and some of the Malfoy confidence but he still had his trademark drawl (somewhat polluted with the hint of Cockney in his accent) and the defiant sharp glint in his eyes.

The smell of vinegar and salt was making Harry salivate. He went up to the counter and his knees felt weak. He rested his elbows on the countertop, where there was a matronly woman with hard blue eyes wiping the formica clean with a pink washrag.

"Wot would ya loike, dear?" She looked up from her work. He could taste the vinegar already. He felt faint.

"Another order of fish and chips."

I'd forgotten how good this stuff is, he thought, munching his food and washing it down with his drink. The coffee was abandoned while he and Draco settled into a neutral silence. Harry's mind went blank on what to say, nothing was graceful enough for the thoughts he was thinking and the questions he had bottled up. Realizing it must be difficult to be in Draco's position, the champion liar for once was quiet.

"How've you been?" said Draco through a mouthful of fish, choking slightly. He was shoveling down the food in staccato bursts of a world-class eater. Specks of pinkish gray splattered the table. "Sorfy," he mumbled.

"Not too bad, really. Where are you staying?"

"Oh, you know, here and thereabouts." Draco made vague motions with his hands, punctuated with swallowing sounds.

Harry drained the rest of his bitter. He felt much better and cheered up somewhat, even though Christmas decorations usually irritated him and he had urges to deck the perverts in Santa suits. He studied Draco's clothing carefully, noting the stains and tears. The Draco he had known was immaculate, precise. The Draco he had known was calculated with all the Slytherin cunning of 7 years in a boy's body. He had never questioned it or tried to change him, it was as much a part of Draco as Voldemort was part of Harry.

And now Draco was here again, within touching distance, footsy distance, groping distance for fuck's sake. Draco was here in a tattered jumper that vaguely resembled a chewed up Molly Weasley original, and his once eerily perfect hair (which had still managed to look perfect in its imperfection after coked up encounters) was long and shaggy.

"What have you been doing since..." Harry didn't want to finish the sentence.

Draco shrugged. He had finished the last few crumbs and the last drops of his meal. He began to look shifty again, his foot hitting the chair legs as he swung it back and forth. "Odd jobs and such. Still got my wand." He grinned wolfishly, a lean and hungry smile he had obtained from hard living. "What's the fabulous Mr. Potter been up to?"

"Business."

"What sort of business?"

"I do some dealing here and thereabouts." He mimicked Draco's gestures.

Draco decided to drop it.

"Look, why don't we go to my flat for the evening to catch up some more?"

"Dinner?"

"Peanut butter and mango sandwiches. But we can order out for Chinese if you like."

"Say no more."

***

Somebody was prodding her.

"Ermph," she said sleepily. She was in a field of wildflowers, wearing a gingham frock and skipping lightly through the grass.

"Ms. Granger, wake up." Somebody was shaking her shoulder with a quiet urgency. Her eyelids cracked open a fraction of an inch. There was a soft gold-green light shining (sadly, not the sun beaming down on her daisies and dandelions) - the emerald desk lamp Niall had given her for her birthday. Along with Tiffany diamond earrings.

"Shit," she swore softly. The fuzzy numbers on the clock swam into view. They couldn't be right, they simply couldn't. She checked her watch and shook it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I didn't want to wake you up but I knew the report was due..." said Neville apologetically.

You really shouldn't have woken me up. Would Niall understand? It wasn't as if this was the first time she had stood him up. She felt a migraine setting in, a harsh buzzing in her ears. Hermione rubbed her temples clockwise. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Coffee was no longer helping her much due to the huge amounts she already drank like youth elixir.

"Open the blinks- I mean blinds," she croaked. Neville did so, twisting the metal rod with his palms. She got up out of the chair. It creaked, the unoiled mechanism groaning. She liked the chair; its cracked red faux-leather seat reminded her of different days.

It was black outside. The dark clouds smothered any starlight that might have been seen and a howling wind ripped through the street signs and occasional tree. The windowpane shuddered as Hermione leaned her head against the cool glass. One fingertip lazily traced circles on the window. How different it was outside. How free.

"Ms. Granger?" Neville coughed nervously. "Did you finish the report?"

"Fuck the report."

"Excuse me?"

"Is there a Time Turner around?"

Hermione had turned around. The color had come back into her cheeks like expertly applied rouge and the imprint of her sleeve on her cheek was fading like yesterday's memories. Even with her hair frizzing up at the ends and her eyes pink-rimmed with fatigue, she looked oddly vibrant and triumphant with a few loose strands flying about her face.

"A Time Turner? They're in a safety deposit box, number 54, I believe. But you need a few small forests of release papers to-"

"Get me one."

There was a pause. "Er-"

In a few quick strides, Hermione was standing very close to him. He could see the silver cogs and wheels turning behind her eyes and smell the black coffee on her breath and oozing out of her pores as she breathed in rapid-fire bursts. She pushed a strand of hair impatiently out of her eyes. Neville stared, transfixed.

"Do. Anything. Just. Get. Me. One."

He nodded dumbly, later wondering what lapse of sanity had caused him to do so.

Hermione burst into a smile. She started laughing, spinning on the heels of her pumps. "Really?" Her eyes were sparkling as if he had just told her a good joke and she was on her second glass of champagne. But coffee was Hermione's hard liquor, and it was Neville's job to supply the addict with whatever she needed. And what she needed was caffeine. Gallons and gallons of it.

Hermione dropped onto her seat, spinning freely around on the chair. It made a predictable creak, creak sound. She placed her elbows on top of a stack of papers.

"You must think there's something wrong with me."

Neville shook his head. You might find her occasional moods a little odd, a gossipy assistant had told him. Just be quiet and ride them out. He shook his head again. It was a programmed reaction. He scuttled away to procure the Time Turner, already thinking of looking a new job over his raspberry Danish and herbal tea the next morning.

Half an hour later, Neville had filled in the forms (albeit, messily) and was standing in front of a green box that resembled a filing cabinet with the number "54" inscribed on its surface. He attempted a number of spells.

"Alohomora." He pulled on the handle. It didn't budge.

"Antomara." It was a breaking-in spell of Hermione's own invention, one for more difficult locks and a thousand times trickier to perform.

"Got it open yet, Neville?" She had appeared noiselessly and seemingly out of nowhere. Most wizards Apparating announced their entrance with a small pop like an opening of a Coke bottle.

She pointed her wand at the lock and closed her eyes. Her brow furrowed up in concentration. "Antomara," she said quietly and the door swung open. Neville was hardly surprised. He took out a miniature hourglass on a fine golden chain. Hermione snatched it from him. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Careful, Hermione," he warned, dropping his formal front for once. But he found himself just speaking to the wall. She was gone as noiselessly as she had appeared.

***

There were little white cartons that had once held their dinner littered around the room. Draco burped appreciatively.

"How do you eat so much?"

He shrugged, a gesture he had taken a liking to. "When you don't eat very often and most of your meals a rat wouldn't touch, you learn to take it as it comes." He looked at the leather sofa he was sitting on, seeming to notice it for the first time. "Bloody posh flat you've got here, Potter."

"Thanks." And then he added, through no anticipation on his own part, "You can stay for a while if you like."

Draco sat up. In the firelight Harry had conjured up so effortlessly, he could see something like surprise and hope on Draco's face. It softened his features. "Really?"

"Yeah, we'll go shopping for some decent clothes for you. No one in my flat wears dirty knickers." It was Harry's weakest attempt at a joke thus far, but it didn't seem to matter.

"Thanks." Draco flopped back onto the couch. He wasn't sure how to express all the things he was thinking but Harry seemed to understand. He always did.

"Wait until you see what you have to do to earn your keep here, though, you might not want to stay."

"What? Be your sex slave?" Draco smiled at his own joke. Harry hit him over the head with a maroon cushion that shed feathers on him.

"I'll tell you in the morning."

"...after I have ravaged you..."

"Tart."

Draco shrugged again. He looked like an old rag doll, but even through that, there was something distinctly Draco about him - the slight curl of his lip or the way he raised his eyebrow 2.7 degrees when making a joke. Harry used to call him Snowman because he was always so pale, but his face was even bonier than before (if such a thing was possible) and he had a ruddier complexion accompanied by a hungry, starved look, as if there was a large cut of meat hanging in front of him that he couldn't quite reach.

There was a half empty bottle of scotch on the mahogany coffee table. Draco poured himself another glass. Harry noticed his hand shaking. Draco had never been able to hold his drinks for all his boasting, Harry remembered. He felt relaxed now, a rarity.

"So, Malfoy, what have you been doing since Hogwarts?"

With their tongues loosened and their shoes off, Draco settled into a wobbly narrative account.

"Well, Lucius and Narcissa were under Crucio for a bit too long and they're in St. Mungo's now." Draco waved away the sympathetic noises Harry should have been making, not seeming to notice that he wasn't making them. "And on account of them being Death Eaters, those fucking Ministry wankers decided to seize all our money and properties to help pay off their shitload of legal fees from all the wizarding families that were suing them, and to pay off the other victims to keep them from suing," said Draco bitterly.

"So ol' Malfoy Manor is overrun with Ministry pinheads shagging penny whores against the marble statues, claiming to be conducting 'official Ministry business'. As for me, no one seemed to want to hire a Death Eater's son that those Auror sonofabitches hadn't managed to lock up in Azkaban. Got a lot of doors slammed in my face." Draco drained the last of his scotch and poured himself another half glass.

"So, I did some errand work for Big Bads who wouldn't have cared if I had three dicks and the rap sheet of Voldemort. Delivering bodies, shredding documents, the usual shit. Paid okay, enough to rent a rat infested flat in Camden, to get hopped up on acid and hash once in a blue moon and to get good and plastered every once in a while."

His words were slurring. The flickering firelight played across his features and Harry waited for him to continue.

"Soon they figured out I knew a few tricks. I could still do some magic with my wand, remember. So I started to move up in the world, did a few Crucios and some Imperios. That was their favorite - I made some blokes do an Irish jig or two for their amusement and it kept them happy. I thought I was getting pretty valuable."

Draco's face darkened at the memory, as his fingers traced the scars on his cheek and his ribs seemed to draw in from the remembered pain. "Well, things didn't work out too well with the assistant pillock, a shifty little weed with five bodyguards even during sex. Not that he got much."

Draco lit up a cigarette with some difficulty (Mayfairs, Harry noticed, a brand he wouldn't have touched) and took a deep drag, then calmed somewhat. "He ran to the Head, made up a few stories, and the next thing I knew, I had a team of hitmen after my skinny arse. Almost got me, too. I managed to work enough magic to get myself out of that tight spot before they blew my brains out and had my testicles for lunch." Draco took another deep drag, blowing smoke at the ceiling in a blue-gray nicotine stream. He was silent for a few moments.

"And then I found you?" Harry prompted. Draco cocked his head to one side and squinted, trying to focus on Harry's face. He used to be so readable, thought Draco sadly. Was bloody horrible at poker. I could have drowned somebody with the Galleons I won off him. Harry's face was like a mask, even with his bloody sunglasses off. Silly things, why does he wear them?

"Not quite. I slept in a few parks during the summer and when the cold nights on the street hit, I found a shelter or two, ate stale bread and watered down soup. Did a little begging when I could be arsed, along with some pick pocketing. You'd never guess what people keep in their purses. I sometimes got more than five quid for my efforts. Every fucking person's got credit cards nowadays, I'm not stupid enough to use those." Draco sighed. He held his hand in front of his face, watching the long trails of pluming color. It was the last thing he remembered before passing out into a blissfully empty black.

***

It was late morning when Draco woke up to the worst hangover since Tony Blair had been elected. Last night's events were giant, vague ideas that were floating away from him into an alcohol abyss. He felt like somebody was squeezing his temples with a vise and his jumper was crusty with vomit. He groaned, wondering how many drinks he'd had. Harry was nowhere to be seen, just a dent on the seat cushion. There was a biting chill in the air and the cinders were dead gray.

Draco staggered up. "Bloody fucking hell," he said hoarsely, rubbing his temples and wishing for a cold compress. What time was it? He pulled himself toward the window drapes, opening them a fraction of an inch before snapping them shut. The sun was blinding and he automatically raised one filthy arm to his eyes.

"G'morning," said Harry.

Draco turned around. He did it too quickly and the world spun out of control again, as nausea rose up his throat in sour lurches. Harry had those goddamned sunglasses on again. Draco squinted, trying to readjust his eyes to the dim light.

"Just wake up?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

Harry yawned, raising his arms above his head and pulling his hands down his face. He was already dressed in a designer tracksuit and trainers. Judging from his flushed face and the glistening sweat that clung to his nose and forehead, Draco would have said Harry had just gone jogging.

"Wait a sec," said Harry, disappearing for a few moments. Draco heard a door slide open and the jingle of clothes hangers. Harry returned with a bundle of white cotton in his hands. "Take off your jumper," he commanded brusquely before tossing the bundle to Draco, who caught it with a great deal of fumbling. He pulled his top off and poked his head through the neck of the shirt. It reminded him of spring breezes and the hum of warm dryers.

"Incendium," Harry pointed his wand at the grubby wool heap on the Oriental carpet. It went up in flames and burned in a contained fire, the flames eating and licking away at it until all that was left was gray ash.

"Hey!" yelped Draco with a rather indignant look on his face. "That was my only jumper!"

"I can tell."

"But- but-" he spluttered. "My jumper!"

Harry sighed. "Look, if you liked it that much we'll stop at a charity shop on our way to Compton."

"Compton?"

"Mmm. For clothing. Knickers. Novelty leather items. Remember last night? Never mind, you were probably too pissed to remember your own name."

"I was not!" Draco sighed in defeat. "Alright, I was."

"Bloody right you were. I have to run a few errands first. Care to tag along?"

"I'm game. Could you bung me a jacket, if it's not too much trouble?" Harry disappeared again, and came back even quicker than before.

"Wear this - it's cold outside." Draco wasn't sure why he was being treated so kindly but he took things as they came and didn't question people's motives. That was his philosophy. The jacket was a little worn, but excellently cut, and it smelled like Harry, a scent that sent little shocks of delight through him, piercing through the hangover like breaths of air to a drowning man. He had memorized this smell like the fading photographs shoved in his trouser pocket. Like Menthols and soap and old leather. There was something else too, like - no, it couldn't be.

"You really need a fix, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question.

Draco looked up. Harry had pulled his own jacket on, a leather one that could easily have concealed a number of unsavory things. Harry smiled nastily at the color rising in Draco's cheeks. "No need to be embarrassed." Harry jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Come on, we're taking the lift." Fuck, he needed a smoke.

A woman in a cashmere sweater with long, varnished fingernails was outside, holding a bag of groceries. "Hey, John!" she cried, smiling widely.

"All right, Victoria?" Harry replied. Draco turned to Harry with a questioning look. John? What the bloody hell was going on? Harry just gave him a silencing glare. Victoria, more astute than appearances gave away, said, "What's wrong? Who's your friend?"

Harry morphed into Mr. Gracious. "So sorry, this is Draco, an old mate from Eton. Draco, this is Victoria, who lives across the hall." Victoria rebalanced her bag to one side and shook his hand quickly, with a funny look on her face. There was a flash of recognition, confusion.

"Ladies first," Harry said. Victoria looked uneasy. She smacked her forehead in an almost convincing gesture and nearly dropped her groceries, the loaf of bread teetering dangerously on a carpeted precipice.

"Oh, stupid me. I left my- er- keys in the car."

"Need any help getting them out?"

"No- no. That's okay. Bye, John."

As she turned around, Draco noticed her keys hanging from a cord firmly knotted to a loop on her skirt. He looked at them for a moment and then turned to Harry, stony faced.

"I don't think she likes me."

"Women take great stock in cleanliness. After we get you washed up, trim that hair, and drape you in Gucci, she'll be all over you like your very own lap dancer. You'll clean up well." He said this with some conviction.

"Thanks. I think." Draco's pride was substantially smaller after having had to beg during the hard spots. Oh look at the poor tramp, Lucy. Slip him some change... I don't want to touch the dirty old man... Don't be cruel, Lucy. He can't help it if he's poor. Kindness, no matter how forced or filled with disgust, was the only reason he was able to make it. Swallow your pride. But pride tasted so bitter going down.

The ride in the lift didn't sit well with him. Even with the minimal motion, he feared he would leave a regurgitated stamp on the marble floor.

***

As they drove on, the buildings seemed to grow more and more dilapidated until it seemed a heavy footstep would crumble them. The road grew warped and cracked and the pubs seedier looking. The sky overhead was still densely cloudy, a mustard gray like refrigerator remains. The wheels on the road beneath made a warm whir and the crunch of gravel underfoot. Draco had frequented this area in his criminal days, he remembered nervously. What were they doing here now?

Harry slowed down to a crawl, scanning the crowded buildings for something. A group of hard looking boys were trailing the car. Harry stopped in front of a club with The Grind in neon letters hanging above its door. The "d" was broken, so it read "The Grin". In its window, Draco could see what looked like red and blue stroll lights and another sign proclaiming "ALL TOPLESS ALL THE TIME" and from the open car window could hear an ancient 80s synth pop number playing.

In the rearview mirror, Draco saw the boys stop behind the car, the leader appraising it carefully. The group leader was a wiry looking bloke with blue inked tattoos covering both arms, his knuckles callused and scarred. He wore a tattered vest even in the winter air. Draco could see the gooseflesh covering the exposed skin from a good six feet away.

Harry opened the door and Draco followed suit. He stepped out onto the damp gravel, still feeling wobbly. He needed a meal. The tattooed leader slouched over to Harry and gave him what he thought was a menacing sneer. "Hey, big britches, nice wheels you got there, I wouldn't leave it around unprotected if you catch my drift."

From inside the car, the boy had looked lean and tough, someone to avoid when you had a car the price of a Caribbean island at stake. But standing in front of Harry, Harry easily beat him in height by a head and a half. He looked so young and vulnerable, like a sheep facing down the big bad wolf. And it was apparent that Harry's lack of reaction was unnerving him. He was used to some sort of expression - fear, annoyance, reaching into a bag for Mace. With the feeling that the power balance was grossly unfair, the boy carried on foolishly.

"My gang and I could watch your car," he offered, "for a price." There was still no reaction on Harry's part. Harry was biding his time carefully, waiting for the right moment to speak. The boy's eyes narrowed and the tendons in his arms stood out like embedded electrical wires waiting to short circuit. Losing his cool, he poked Harry in the chest with his index finger. "Look here, you fucking overpaid arse, I could take apart your car in 30 seconds flat. How would you like that?"

"Mmm," said Harry, noncommittally. The boy's gang reluctantly gathered around him in a loose circle. Feeling that he'd won somehow, the boy grew cockier.

Draco, meanwhile, was watching from under the overhang of The Grind with a terrible sort of fascination.

Harry was standing there, tall and groomed. Even with Harry's ubiquitous sunglasses, Draco could almost see the cold amusement in his eyes. "Now, let's not do anything rash," he drawled, an impressive imitation of the old Draco Malfoy. With a strangled cry, the boy jumped on Harry, his fists flying. He caught Harry square on the jaw and his left hand swung at his nose, as he bit and spat and kicked.

Harry caught the boy's wrist (his right hand held a jagged switchblade produced from his trousers) and tackled the boy to the ground. He quickly kneed Harry in the groin. Draco winced inwardly.

The leader took the opportunity to escape from his grasp but Harry recovered quickly, grabbing one ankle and pressing on the knee on the same leg.

The boy hit the pavement with a gasp. Harry straddled him and with a painfully efficient twist of the wrist, the switchblade clattered harmlessly to the ground. Harry rolled around so the boy was lying on his stomach, grabbed the boy's right arm and twisted it in a full rotation. The boy screamed, his arm breaking with a satisfying sound like a splintering stick.

His friends scuttled off into the Tarot parlor next door.

Harry smiled. It had a full measure of loathing. "Fool," he spat. He didn't need to say anything more to prove his point.

"Weren't you a little harsh on the kid?" Draco inquired, studying him carefully for any sign.

Harry shrugged. "For his own bleeding good. Bugger will think twice before biting off more than he can beat in future."

They drifted through the smoke-filled air, not stopping to chat or to have a drink. Harry's strides were long and purposeful and Draco had to take a few quick steps for every one of Harry's. Harry opened a door at the back labeled "Staff Only. The room was cold and dusty with deserted brooms, (how it reminded him of Quidditch!) buckets, mops and half-empty bottles of cleaning solutions. They climbed a rickety flight of steps.

Draco found himself looking down a long hall, paneled in fake wood, smelling like cigarettes and mold. A few tasteless prints were hung up on nails that had been hammered into the wall, fake flowers in castaway pots set up on tables. Harry ran his fingers across the wall, stopping in front of the third door on his left. He rapped importantly.

He heard a creaking and then advancing steps. "Who is it?"

"Harry."

The door cracked open and he could see a rapidly blinking dark eye. The man on the other side of the door opened it up all the way. "Harry, what brings you here?" His voice was deeper than expected; he looked young, broad-faced and smooth skinned with a pair of dark eyebrows riding low on beetle bright eyes. "Haven't seen you since Farrington. Come in for some tea?" It was only a pleasantry - he motioned toward a tin teapot that spouted lazy tendrils of smoke.

"Oh, this is Draco Malfoy." Draco tried to hide in the shadow of the door but those black eyes rooted him out like a hawk.

"Malfoy," he seemed to be familiar with the name. "Thought Finnagen's men had got you. How'd you get away?"

"I have my ways," Draco said, trying to sound mysterious.

He harrumphed sarcastically. "I'm sure." He extended a small hand. "I'm Edwin." They stepped inside his office, a badly decorated tribute to mismatching file cabinets and chairs that had cappuccino rings on the armrests.

"Mind if I smoke?" Harry asked. Edwin shook his head. From his coat, Harry produced a fag and a dark green lighter. With it between his lips, he cupped the flame. Harry drew in deeply and exhaled. "I need you to do some investigating on a bloke by the name of Jackal. I have a lot invested in the gambling ring in Bristol, he seems to be the one running the joint at the moment."

Edwin nodded. "The usual?"

"Dirty laundry. Rep, wife, kids, girlfriend, mistress. Blackmail material."

"I'll do what I can. Sounds like your run of the mill operator."

"I don't take chances like that."

"I know. Come back on Saturday night. We'll meet for a few drinks. Like old times, if you're not too busy." There was a note of wistfulness in his voice.

"You know I'm always busy."

"I know." Edwin sighed. "It would just be so... nice. Watered down beer and long rants on politics..."

"Goodbye," Harry said firmly, holding out his hand. Draco watched the exchange curiously, feeling that he was missing something.

***

"Is your life always this way?"

Harry didn't remove his eyes from the road. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's different."

Draco could not keep his curiosity in check. "What do you do, exactly?"

Harry sighed. It had an annoyed, patronizing edge to it. "I do whores. I do wives. I do animals. I do boys. I do garden vegetables. I do a lot of things."

"You know what I mean."

Harry pulled his eyes off the road. "As far as I can fucking tell, I'm the one doing you the favors. If I ever feel like telling you, I'll tell you." His face was as unreadable as ever, the slick fringe of his hair covering up that odd scar. He might not have been Harry Potter at all.

"Mind if I ask you something?" Draco pressed on. He knew he was entering a landmine-ridden territory.

"Depends." Harry sped through a red light, narrowly avoiding a Bentley.

"How come you're involved in Muggle affairs and living in Muggle London? I mean," Draco added, "I'm self explanatory. My fucking life would be hell either way, at least Muggles don't give two shits about Malfoys. Works for me. But you-"

To Draco's surprise, Harry laughed. "You think- you think that after Ron, I would be welcome in the wizarding world?"

"You didn't kill him."

"Tell that to everyone else."

"Your little gang, they didn't believe you killed him, right?"

"No. But it wasn't the same. I could tell all they could see whenever they looked at me was Ron." It was a tiny slip but Draco could hear the pain in Harry's voice.

Harry's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the road again. The people and buildings sped by in a blur, as they skipped three red lights, turned right in a left-only lane and made an illegal U-turn before stopping again.

"Stay here."

Draco sank back in his seat, unbuckling his seatbelt, which zipped back up with a snap. The Mayfairs in his pocket were squashed but there were still five left. He found his highly temperamental lighter and willed it to flame. "Come on, come on," he whispered impatiently to no one in particular. It finally lit, the tip of his cigarette turning red gold.

The warm smoke rushing into his lungs was an unadulterated godsend, relaxation running through his bloodstream like a slow burn. He took a few more puffs before cracking open the window to let out the smoke, his other hand rifling through the glove compartment.

Maps of every major city in Britain, a pocket guide to the Kama Sutra, condoms, an unopened carton of cigarettes. He shoved the cigarettes in his pocket without a second thought. And behind a balled up cardigan and a sheaf of brightly colored fliers, his hand touched something cold and slick. He pulled it out.

Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter, what do we have here? He turned it around in his hands, and stared down the barrel (a position he had been in before), fingers passing over the trigger lightly. It read 'GLOCK 17 AUSTRIA 9X19' and a serial number was imprinted on the right side. The pistol was lightweight and about 7 inches long, fitting comfortably in the grip of his right hand. A semi automatic.

His stomach dropped. If Harry Potter kept a pistol in his glove compartment- His forehead broke out in cold sweat and he had the feeling ants were running under his skin. He felt the urge to open the door and make off with a free pack of cigs while he was still ahead but he just remembered it was as cold as a corpse's arse out there, no free smokes after this pack ran out, no more takeaways, no more nights of Bacardis. He briefly wondered what else Harry kept in his liquor cabinet. He shoved the gun back in the glove compartment behind the cardigan, hoping Harry wouldn't notice anything.

***

"How much?" He glanced at the clear plastic bag holding five grams of white powder on the table. He held out a fat wallet crammed with crisp Euro notes.

"Best I have."

Harry sighed impatiently. "How much?"

"750 Euros."

"Mmm," he remarked, not giving anything away. His eyes seemed to search out from behind his sunglasses and Cardona knew that Harry had an almost supernatural ability to root out dodgy characters on the spot. He leaned on the flat of his hands, his mind on the coffee he had been in the middle of making. The room was heavily scented with cedars and pines and the overlying fragrance of lemon cleaning solution. He was wearing a starched button down shirt with a pen clipped to the shirt pocket, a maroon one that had a hotel name printed in gold on it.

"750 Euros," he repeated firmly.

Harry gave him one more glance. "Fifty, one hundred, one fifty, two hundred, two fifty, three hundred, three fifty, four hundred, four fifty, five hundred, five fifty, six hundred, six fifty, seven hundred, seven fifty," he counted clearly, licking his thumb and putting down the stack of notes. Cardona thumbed through them, satisfied. Harry took the bag and stuffed it into one of the many pockets of his oversize coat. There was probably a holster firmly attached to his hip at all times; if there was any man who knew how to shoot a gun, it was Harry Potter. Cardona treated him more as an equal than as a customer.

"Coffee? Biscuits?" he offered.

"Maybe some other time. I have a few things I have to get done this afternoon."

He turned around, before turning back again. "Hey," he said casually, "Just wondering, you know anything about Jackal, the one who runs the ring in Bristol?"

Cardona planned his answer carefully, making sure it had a few nuggets of detail but keeping it general.

"Yeah, a bit. Met up with him a few times, doesn't talk much but not as stupid as he looks. Plenty of cash to burn. I don't think he lives in Bristol from what I've heard, more likely somewhere in Chelsea..."

Harry nodded. "Thanks." He pulled out another 50 Euro note. Cardona took it.

"Anything else you want to know, just ask."

Harry nodded again before leaving. Cardona looked at the door swinging shut behind him. 50 Euros. Not bad.

***

It seemed Harry was jumpy. His fingers drummed on the dashboard, his leg quivering. He leaned deeply onto the steering wheel until he could have steered with his chin. The car sped away from their stop, the traffic sluggish.

They kept on driving out of Hackney and continued north. Draco dozed off, his chin bobbing gently from side to side.

Harry took a hand wheel and pressed a button.

"... fire in Brixton last night left 5 dead and 15 injured. Police are still investigating the cause of the fire, so far no evidence has been found that it was anything other than an accident. The fire started in a building housing over 10 families and quickly spread to nearby buildings. Among the dead were two small boys, aged 4 and 7. In other news, police are in the process of a crime crackdown. In a statement issued by Prime Minister Roger Beckham, random checks of vehicles will be made and more aggressive penalties for violent crimes are going into effect..." The radio droned on for a while, informing him of the upcoming weather and of a lawsuit brought against a medical company.

Draco was still sleeping. Harry looked over at him, wondering if he was dreaming. He didn't have many dreams anymore and those that he did have were like surrealist paintings of color with cameos by naked Parliament members, sexy actors and football champions. In sleep, Draco looked young and vulnerable, the years stripped off his face. Good, stay that way. Harry remembered the cocaine in his coat pocket and formed a loose plan for its future.

"Where are we going?" Draco asked sleepily, a while later. Any farther and they would have been crossing north of the Thames.

"To get your hair cut."

"I need to take a piss."

"Hold it."

Draco looked highly uncomfortable. "Fuck, I can't hold it. You're going to end up with piss all over your nice leather seats."

"You're such a fucking baby, Malfoy."

"Sorry."

"Why didn't you go before we left?"

"Sorry."

"Don't fucking apologize, help me look for one of those public toilets..."

After Draco relieved himself in some unfortunate person's shrubbery, he clambered back in and they made good time across the Thames into the parts of London that weren't featured on EastEnders - nice, respectable, well to do parts. After stopping for a quick sandwich and coffee in a cheerful little café, Harry found a salon wedged between a shop that sold knockoff shoes and a magazine stand.

"Here?" Draco cried.

"Yes. You'r getting your hair cut."

"I've grown attached to it."

"Grow unattached."

"It's not that easy..." he complained, realizing how ridiculous he sounded.

"You need to look presentable."

"I am presentable," he defended himself. "I'm fully clothed. Why do you care, anyway?"

"Because I'm your only ally," Harry answered.

"Is that so? How do you fucking know I haven't got any other allies?"

"And people would be attracted to you because of what? The power you can offer them? Drugs? Sex? Money? Your personal connections with the many soup kitchens in London?"

"I can still offer sex," Draco said stubbornly.

"I know. The weedy, greasy haired type turns them on, doesn't it? Even the men can't keep their hands off your broomstick."

"Were you always this honest?"

"Only for you." Harry smiled nastily. "Get out and get it over with."

Inside, Draco breathed in the acrid smell of hair products and the whir of the hair dryers. A gaunt woman in red heels asked them if they had an appointment and made an annoyed noise when she found out they didn't. Draco picked through the magazine basket, leafing through the glossy fashion monthlies. Harry slipped her a 20 Euro note. She ushered Draco into a giant chair.

"Hello there, luv," said a woman with screaming red hair and fingernails to match, "What would you like done?"

"My hair- I-"

"Cut it off," Harry instructed her. He found a picture of a random male model clad only in pants. "Like that."

Aretha was her name, she informed him; she had two dogs and a parakeet that woke her up early on the weekends. She watched talk shows, enjoyed baking chocolate cakes and biscuits, (she was trying to cut back for her health) and had two perfectly lovely sons who never gave her any trouble. One attended Oxford (bless his heart) and the other was in France for the holidays with his fiancée, who was a wonderful girl, a perfect match. And wasn't it just dreadful about all the shootings in the papers lately?

Draco made unintelligible noises, drifting off as she rinsed his hair with warm water and massaged a pink shampoo onto his scalp and the heady scent of gardenias permeated his brain. She rubbed his hair dry and wheeled him back in front of the mirror, wielding a comb and scissors. The bright fluorescent bulbs lining the top of the mirror gave his skin a yellow tint, making him look tired and jaundiced. He looked like shit.

"So," she chirped, clipping up part of his hair to the top of his head, "What do you do?"

"What do I do," he echoed, thinking of Harry's answer. I do a wank every once in a while, he thought, feeling more pathetic than usual.

"For a living."

"I'm a traveling salesman."

"Ah, really?" Another clump of hair fell to the floor.

"I sell bathing caps," he elaborated on a whim. "All sorts. Ver popular with the ladies."

"Sounds fascinating. Is it hard being a traveling salesman?"

"Oh yes! People don't seem to realize how difficult our job is. You need to have excellent people skills. And you have to know how to handle rejection and make up a good sales pitch on the spot."

"I didn't know traveling salesmen were still around."

"We are," he said desperately. "We are a rare and dying breed of trained professionals."

"Almost done." She picked up a pink plastic hair dryer and switched it on. His ears were filled with the hot whine of the fan. It actually felt quite nice. And his hair felt clean. "You're set to go," she informed him, after telling him all about all five of her sisters and their last reunion. (A complete disaster, she said gravely, but he shouldn't be worrying himself about her troubles)

He patted the sides and top of his head gingerly, angling the hand mirror so he could see the left and right. He still had a nice, floppy fringe but the back was clipped short, curling slightly into the nape of his neck. He still looked like shit, hollow cheeked and his skin was too brown, his hair far too pale for his complexion as if he had bleached it with harsh chemicals. But he looked better, if not the face he wanted to see. He could live with it.

Harry walked over. Draco noticed that he still had his coat on, even though the salon was steamy warm. There was a pale film of vapor on his glasses, his trousers were creased from sitting down and he was holding the sports section of the paper in his left hand.

"Ready to go?"