Seven Days in June

June 16^th, 2005

Harry found out rather quickly that he wasn't any good at being a tourist. It didn't come as a big surprise; this was, after all, the first time in his life he'd ever left Britain, and the idea of going to a place for no other purpose than looking at it still seemed - strange somehow. For as long as he remembered, there had been things that needed to be done: cooking, cleaning or weeding the garden at number 4, Privet Drive, studying and avoiding being killed at Hogwarts, then the time of planning, plotting and fighting that had been the war. And afterwards, his desk at Auror Headquarters which always seemed to be overflowing with paperwork.

Now, for the first time, he had nothing to do but to - how had Arthur Weasley put it? - have a good time. However he was supposed to go about that.

After his little foray into the Viennese underground yesterday, he'd spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the streets of the inner city, looking around and trying to connect the things he saw with the information which Hermione's battered guide book provided. It had been interesting for a while, but he got bored eventually, and when his feet started to hurt, he'd returned early to the hotel that Hermione had helped him pick out. The first evening of his very first holiday had been spent with NBC and CNN, the only TV channels in English that the telly in his sterile, impersonal hotel room would provide.

Harry realized that he had totally underestimated how unused to the Muggle world he was by now.

So after breakfast today, he'd finally caved and asked the concierge if he had any recommendations about how to spend seven days in Vienna when one didn't have a clue where to begin. The man hadn't seemed overly enthusiastic about the request, but he'd still been helpful, handing him a whole pack of maps, leaflets and folders and recommending a guided tour through the inner parts of the city. Obviously, there was a regular schedule of guided city walks, and the concierge had looked it up for him and suggested a tour that was going to start at 2 p.m. today. He'd marked the meeting point on one of the maps he'd given Harry and wished him a nice day, obviously relieved to be finally rid of him.

Therefore, Harry was standing on the square beside the State Opera building now, looking around to see where the tour was supposed to start. This was clearly one of the more touristy spots, given the amount of people with cameras and strange headgear wandering around between a couple of men in some kind of 18^th century outfit who were advertising upcoming concerts. Finally Harry spotted a burly woman in her fifties holding up a sign that read "Wiener Stadtspaziergänge - Vienna City Walks".

At two o'clock, at least fifty people had gathered around the woman. Frowning, she dug a mobile phone out of her bag and made a call before addressing the crowd. First she spoke a few words in German; then, to Harry's relief, she switched to English.

"Welcome to today's Vienna City Walk which will take us to the main sights in the first district. This tour was supposed to be in German and English, but since there's such a huge group today, we'll have to change the plan. May I ask how many of you want a tour in English?" When about thirty people raised their hands, she nodded briskly. "We'll split the tour, then. I've just called my colleague who will await us at St Stephen's cathedral to take over the part in English. Now if you'll please step up to me to get your tickets?"

After they'd started walking along a pedestrian area that seemed to be one of Vienna's posh shopping lanes, the constant switching between two languages - one of which he didn't understand - was soon beginning to grate on Harry's nerves. He was therefore quite thankful when the street opened up into a huge square that was dominated by the looming gothic spire of St Stephen's cathedral which, Harry mused, would have been a sight to behold if it hadn't been half-hidden by scaffolding. A young, dark-haired man was waiting for them beside the cathedral and took over the English-speaking half of the group with a nod to his colleague.

When their new guide began to talk about the cathedral, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The woman had spoken with a thick accent, but this fellow's drawl was unmistakeably British. Harry guessed that he should be content to get the city's highlights served on a silver platter now - but something was off. Something seemed to be nagging at the back of his brain since the man had first opened his mouth, an unease that Harry wasn't able to place although it felt strangely familiar.

Harry frowned and took a closer look at the guide. A slender man in his mid-twenties with a pale, angular face, broad cheekbones and a pointy chin, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses, long, black hair tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers; nothing that seemed out of the average in any way. Yet, Harry's unease grew with every minute he listened to that voice which he could have sworn he'd heard before.

During the whole time it took the group to walk around the cathedral, Harry was racking his brain to no avail. Realization came when the guide led them into the cathedral and took off his sunglasses to reveal grey eyes that seemed even paler in contrast to the black lashes and eyebrows.

Harry stopped dead, not caring that the man behind him bumped into him and then shouldered past with an irritated mutter. It wasn't - couldn't... but he had seen these eyes hundreds of times, although they had been fringed by lashes of the palest blond then, and always shining with hatred -

The guide had turned towards him, and when he saw Harry standing frozen on the spot, he gave him a sneer that was all too familiar. "Well, well," he said in a tone that, even after all these years, was the equivalent of a nail on a chalkboard to Harry, "long time no see, Potter."

+++

Two hours later, Harry was once more standing at the square beside the State Opera, wondering whether he had just had a very strange sort of hallucination.

Malfoy, of all people. Draco Malfoy, the mean, cowardly brat who had gone out of his way to make Harry's life at Hogwarts a living hell. Who had subsequently disappeared without a trace eight years ago after fleeing from Hogwarts with Snape on that horrible day of Dumbledore's death.

The heir to one of the most snobbish and racist pureblood families, then just one step away from following his father's footsteps, was working as a tour guide for Muggles in a city without magic. Harry looked back over his shoulder to the spot where a few people of their group were still gathered around Malfoy, obviously bombarding him with questions and handing over tips which he accepted with a perfectly polite smile. Harry shook his head. Appearances be damned, there was no way in hell this could really be Draco Malfoy - no more than Flitwick would give up teaching in favour of a career as a night club bouncer.

Still, Harry kept watching from a distance until even the most curious tourists finally ran out of questions and left. When he was alone at last, Malfoy turned towards the Opera building where a young, blond woman who had been standing under the arcades for quite a while was waving at him. He walked over, kissed her on both cheeks and then, an arm draped around her shoulders, wandered off with her. Harry stared after them until he lost sight of them in the crowd.

+++

Another two hours of aimless strolling through winding, cobbled streets later, Harry finally decided that he would not let the strange encounter with his least favourite schoolmate ruin his holidays. Whether it had really been Malfoy or not - and Harry had to admit to himself that not was a very unlikely option - he was here to enjoy himself, not to hunt down the last remnants of Death Eater families. Besides, to the best of Harry's knowledge, Malfoy junior had never actually become a fully-fledged Death Eater, albeit not for a lack of trying. Harry had forced himself to make his peace with Snape - he would never forgive the man for killing Dumbledore, but he had come to realize what it had cost him after Snape had proved his true loyalties in the final stage of the war. Compared to that, ignoring the fact that Draco Malfoy was in the same city shouldn't be too hard.

Also, he'd be damned if he'd spend another fine summer evening watching CNN. On the underground, he had overheard two American girls gush about the State Opera - "Oh my God, it's totally gorgeous, I'm going every evening while I'm here, it's so worth waiting in line for a standing room ticket, and they're so cheap, can you believe it?" and had realized that he'd never heard an opera in his entire life. Now seemed a good time to change that.

After a bit of asking around - those fellows in 18^th century gear were good for something, after all - he found the back entrance of the opera house where a lot of people were queuing. Harry realized quickly that things were done rather differently here - there was far more jostling and shoving going on in the queue than he was used to, and here and there newcomers were squeezing themselves in between other waiting people, claiming they had been here before. This soon led to raised voices and arguments until the uniformed employees interfered and ushered the most obvious queue-jumpers back. Right in front of Harry - who was watching the hubbub with growing fascination - a petite young woman was shooting a man twice her size who tried to squeeze himself into the line a glare of Snapeesque proportions until he backed off. When she turned around to make sure that the offender was actually returning to the end of the queue, Harry involuntarily took a step back - and bumped into someone who was standing right behind him.

"I'm sor-" Harry never got to finish the apology because he had turned his head to see the person onto whose toes he had stepped.

Draco Malfoy sighed. "There's just no getting rid of you, Potter, is there?"

+++

"So this is where you disappeared to." Harry tried to speak as impassively as possible; Malfoy's expression was carefully casual, and there was no telling what he might be thinking.

Malfoy shrugged. "It isn't where I went when I left, but it's where I eventually decided to stay, yes."

"You're actually living here?" Harry realized a moment too late what a stupid question it had been.

"Well, I've got a job here, haven't I?"

"So I noticed," Harry answered dryly. He wasn't going to admit that he was rather curious now - over the years, he had wondered occasionally what had become of his former arch-enemy who had so spectacularly faltered on the last step of his way into the darkness before Harry's very eyes. Snape had never breathed a word about Malfoy's whereabouts, and to the best of Harry's knowledge, no-one else had ever heard from him again. Until now.

Malfoy smirked. "From the look on your face when you recognized me, I take it you didn't come here because of me." His tone was casual, but there was a hint of anxiety underneath, as if he wanted to reassure himself that Harry's sudden appearance meant no danger.

Remembering belatedly that they were surrounded by a crowd of Muggles, Harry raised his hand and cast a quiet Silencing Spell. The sound of chatting voices lowered, but it didn't disappear completely. Harry frowned - he wasn't very skilled in wandless magic, but he usually didn't have problems with minor spells. He tried again with a bit more force, and this time the crowd fell silent. Malfoy, his expression still carefully guarded, had watched with narrowed eyes. Harry half expected a snide remark about his charm work, but none came.

"No, I'm not here because of you. If you absolutely have to know, I'm on holiday in Vienna."

"All by yourself?"

"What does it matter to you? Afraid I might call for reinforcements?"

"I am most definitely not afraid of you, Potter," Malfoy replied in a tone that brought back reminiscences of the boy he had been a decade ago, "and given the problems you seem to be having with third-year incantations, I doubt you'd pose much of a threat anyway. I was just wondering because Vienna seems a rather strange choice of destination for you."

"And why is that?" Harry tried very hard not to bristle; he didn't want to give Malfoy a clue that he might be on to something.

"Because, Potter, Vienna surprisingly lacks two things which one would expect in a city of its size, and these are a Hard Rock Cafe and a wizarding community. Didn't you know?"

Harry shrugged. "I had no idea about the Hard Rock Cafe, no."

"I see. So you are here all by your lonesome in the only major city of Europe where the hero of the wizarding world would not be recognized. Or," he added with another smirk, "that's what you thought."

"I'd have thought it would be your reason for being here."

"It is, actually. But that's rather different - I'm an outcast, and even if your lovely Ministry granted an amnesty for all 'minor crimes' committed during the war, I rather doubt that any magical community would welcome me with open arms."

Harry gritted his teeth. "Trying to kill Dumbledore and letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts are hardly minor crimes!"

"The Ministry seems to think so, however, because I have been informed that I could legally return to Britain now."

Harry didn't need to ask who had informed him. "Then why didn't you?"

Malfoy gave a derisive snort. "I've heard what happened to those who took the Ministry's pardon. Their magic restricted, their every move monitored, shunned to the point where they can hardly make a living. You seriously expect me to go back to that? Besides, the world I grew up in doesn't exist any more; your side has seen to it. There's nothing for me to go back to."

There was surprisingly little emotion in this statement; he seemed to have come to terms with the fate of permanent exile long ago. Harry's astonishment must have shown on his face, because Malfoy gave him a lopsided smile. "I'm still a Malfoy, Potter. We're nothing if not adaptable."

"So it seems. I would honestly have expected you to hex me into oblivion the moment you saw me again."

"That would have been pretty stupid of me, wouldn't it? Do you really think I'd risk the life I've managed to build for myself over an old schoolboy grudge?"

"Well, I almost killed you during your last year in Hogwarts."

"And I almost killed Dumbledore. If I remember correctly, you didn't hex me on sight, either. I'm certainly not complaining, but I was a little surprised."

It was Harry's turn to shrug now. "It wouldn't have changed anything that happened then if I had."

"Nothing we do changes the past, Potter; only the future. I'm glad to see that I'm not the only one who has realized that. Though your future isn't going exactly as you expected it to be, is it?"

Harry frowned. "Whatever gives you that idea, Malfoy?"

"As I said, the Boy Who's Fawned Over on holiday all alone in a city without wizards makes me wonder."

"Well, keep wondering, because I'm certainly not going to tell you anything that's not your business. I didn't come here to chat with you, but to see an opera."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Too bad you've come on the wrong day, then."

"Oh, and why is that?" The smug grin on Malfoy's face did nothing for Harry's temper.

"Because, Potter, it's a ballet they're showing tonight, not an opera. Didn't you even look at the play-bill outside before you came here?"

Feeling extremely stupid, Harry forced himself to seem unperturbed. "Well, I've never seen a ballet either, so it doesn't matter." This wasn't exactly true - the word "ballet" made him think of starving girls in tutus, which was not an appealing prospect - but he'd rather die than give Malfoy the satisfaction of leaving now.

"Well, enjoy it, then. Finite incantatem." With a wave of Malfoy's hand, the noise of the crowd washed over them again; Harry took it as a sign that their conversation was finished and turned his back on Malfoy. He didn't want to give the impression he'd let himself be dismissed - even though he had to admit that he had.

+++

After overcoming the initial shock caused by the garish décor of the opera's interior (a nightmare in gold, stucco and scarlet plush), Harry was pleasantly surprised to find out that he liked the performance after all. There was a refreshing lack of skinny girls - actually, there weren't many girls at all - and absolutely no tutus, which seemed quite logical once he had figured out that the ballet's topic was the uprising of Spartacus. It probably explained the predominance of leather costumes, too.

The standing room was packed and stuffy, but Harry was rather enjoying himself in spite of the uncomfortable surroundings and the growing soreness in his feet. He would probably have been enjoying himself even more if it hadn't been for the annoying presence of the back of Malfoy's head which partially blocked his view of the stage - somehow, the bastard had managed to squeeze himself into the row in front of Harry even though he had been standing in line right behind him. Some things obviously never changed.

Harry lost sight of Malfoy after the end of the performance when he was trying to make his way out among the crowd that was buzzing with chatter in twenty different languages. He wasn't overly fond of this kind of milling among hundreds of people, and when he finally stepped through the main exit, his head was spinning from the noise and the stifling heat of the crowded corridors.

Leaning against the wall, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, relieved breath of the balmy night air. His relief didn't last long, though, because a voice spoke up right next to him.

"Cultural shock got too much for you, Potter?"

Harry didn't open his eyes. "Don't you have anything better to do than stalking me, Malfoy?"

"Me stalking you?" Malfoy sounded genuinely amused. "Isn't that a bit rich, coming from someone who monitored my every move back in sixth year?"

Harry's eyes snapped open. "You noticed that?"

"Of course I noticed, Potter. You're as subtle as an attacking hippogriff, after all. Which you proved again today by almost fainting on the spot when you recognized me."

Harry gave him a cool look. "Can you blame me? I hadn't expected to ever meet you again; most people back home think you're dead."

Malfoy shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you, then."

"I never said I wished you dead, Malfoy."

"Didn't you?" Malfoy didn't seem amused any longer; quizzical, rather.

It was Harry's turn to shrug now. "I guess there has been too much death already."

Malfoy seemed about to answer, but at that moment, a young Asian woman passed them by, waved at Malfoy and said something in German to which he replied with a grin. Harry stared at him; he hadn't understood a word she had said, but he'd clearly heard how she'd addressed him.

"You're going by your real name here?"

"There's no need to sound so surprised, Potter. I may be surrounded by Muggles, but I'm still who I am."

"Is that why you're living in a place without wizards? Just so you could keep your name?"

Malfoy seemed very serious all of a sudden. "That's quite a reason when your name is all you have left, Potter."

Harry shook his head incredulously. "Then why did you bother to change your hair colour?"

Now Malfoy was smirking once more. "Feeling less unique?"

"Malfoy, there are billions of people with black hair", Harry answered reasonably, "I just never expected you to become one of them."

"Well, I admit it wasn't my idea in the first place. My mother changed it when we fled from Britain; she thought I would be less conspicuous that way."

Harry grinned. "I don't want to imagine the tantrum you must have thrown."

"Yes, because I certainly didn't have bigger things to worry about at the time." The all too familiar sneer was back on Malfoy's face.

"Right." Harry fought the impulse to add I'm sorry; this may have been the longest civil conversation they had ever had, but it was still Draco Malfoy, after all. Besides, the conversation seemed to be over anyway because Malfoy was turning to leave.

"Well, Potter, pleasurable as this unexpected reunion has been, I'll be on my way. I don't suppose you'll be turning up for another of my tours?"

"No need to worry, Malfoy." Harry did his best to sound equally sarcastic. "I'm afraid I found that tourist groups are not my thing, so unless you're doing private tours as well, you're quite safe from me."

A slow, almost predatory grin spread over Malfoy's face. "Actually, I do them occasionally - but since I doubt you'll be able to afford me, I guess I'm still safe."

It was, Harry realized a second too late, the oldest trap in the world - and of course, he had walked straight into it. "Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy, how much does one pay for the dubious pleasure of your undivided attention?"

"The usual rate is three hundred Euros for half a day, five hundred for a whole day", Malfoy replied, suddenly all business. "For tours in Vienna, that is. Entrance fees not included."

Harry took a deep breath. He was so going to regret this, but he'd be damned if he didn't accept the challenge now. "Very well, then. Is there still room in your busy schedule during the next days?"

Malfoy was grinning again. "I was planning to take the day off tomorrow since I'll be working seven days in a row afterwards, but never let it be said that I'm turning down an offer from the hero of the wizarding world. I'll be asking for payment in advance, though, in case you decide to reconsider."

"Oh, and what guarantee do I have that you'll turn up tomorrow if you get paid now?"

Malfoy sighed. "Potter, as you should have realized earlier today, I'm a professional tour guide. Here's my business card, if it makes you feel better. Do you really think I'd risk my reputation in such a stupid way? If you're looking for an excuse to chicken out, I suggest you find another one."

Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He was secretly glad he hadn't had a chance yet to spend much of the money he'd changed, and therefore actually had five hundred Euros cash on him. Handing them over to Malfoy, he said as nonchalantly as possible: "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Malfoy nodded briskly. "Do you need a receipt?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so. Why?"

"Because", Malfoy replied with a smirk while he put the money away, "in that case, Karl-Heinz is never going to hear about it."

"Who?"

"The Minister of Finance."

It took Harry a moment to get the message. "Tax evasion, Malfoy?"

Malfoy, completely unfazed, grinned. "One of the big benefits of being a freelancer. Besides, it's practically a national hobby here. Although if I had asked an Austrian the same question, he would have demanded a discount in return."

"And you'd have given him one?"

Malfoy smirked again. "Most likely. That's why I prefer doing business with innocent foreigners like you, Potter. Where are you staying?"

Harry frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "So I can murder you in your bed tonight. Potter, I'll have to meet you somewhere tomorrow, won't I? Usually people appreciate being picked up right at their hotel, but if you are afraid to give me your address..."

Harry sighed. "Malfoy, we're both too old for these games. I'm staying at the Ibis Hotel, all right?"

"The one near Westbahnhof?"

"That's it. Can you be there at half past eight?"

Malfoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Count on it, Potter."