Seven Days in June

June 21^st, 2005

It seemed fitting somehow that Harry should end his holiday the way he'd begun it: with a day of aimless wandering through the inner city of Vienna. He had no particular destination in mind; he just followed the winding streets of the first district wherever they took him. Occasionally, he would check with Hermione's guide book when he noticed something that looked vaguely interesting, but most of the time, he was satisfied to keep drifting.

It wasn't the best day for a city walk; the weather was hot and oppressively humid. Perhaps, Harry thought, there would be a thunderstorm later in the day - and wouldn't that be fun during his flight home. He had been looking forward to flying the Muggle way for the first time, but he'd quickly found out that being locked up in a cramped metal cabin while he was in the air made him extremely uncomfortable. He preferred being the one to do the steering when he flew, even though it meant getting soaked while passing through the clouds. Still, there was no way to avoid another flight in order to get back home, since Apparating was impossible in and around Vienna. To the best of his knowledge, the nearest international Apparition point was Prague, which was a five-hours train ride away.

Yet Harry was determined to make the best of his last day in Vienna; it might be a long time until he got to enjoy this kind of blessed anonymity again. He fleetingly wondered what the papers back home had made of the fact that he'd gone on holiday alone; perhaps the Prophet had run another tearful article about the traumatised war hero who'd had his heart ripped out by the horrors he had lived through. They'd come up with that not long after the end of the war, when their constant rumour-mongering about a possible Mrs Potter-to-be had turned out wrong time and again.

Ron and Hermione had been outraged on his behalf, but Harry had been quite pleased with the concept. Ever since, he had quietly encouraged press speculation that he was too damaged for a relationship; so far, it had kept them from starting to speculate about his sexual orientation. He wasn't ashamed of being gay, but he didn't even want to imagine the field day the wizarding press would have with the fact that Harry Potter was into men. For that reason, all his past flings had been Muggles with only one exception, who had been equally keen on keeping quiet about it.

Harry wasn't even sure whether Ron and Hermione knew. He had never seen a reason to tell them, although he suspected that they'd both caught on by now - they never asked him any questions about his love life and always managed to distract Mrs Weasley when she began needling him about marrying and having a family of his own. He didn't feel inclined to come out to Molly and Arthur; they'd never said so, but Harry was convinced that they were still secretly hoping he and Ginny would get back together one day. Ginny, however, was the one person he really didn't want to know. He couldn't help fearing that she would take it personally somehow, and knowing Ginny's nasty temper, he'd rather not find himself on the receiving end of it.

Better not think about it when he didn't have to. He had one more day without a care in the world, without people relying on him, looking up to him or expecting him to live up to some impossible standard. Today, he was just a nameless face in a crowd of people who wandered the beaten touristy paths of the first district and walked into each other's photographs.

Tomorrow, he'd be back at his desk, where he would keep valiantly doing nothing of any consequence for the greater good of wizardkind while everyone patted him on the back and assured him that he basically held the wizarding world together single-handedly.

He didn't want this; he never had. The sad thing was that he'd be hard-pressed to say what it was that he did want instead.

Or rather, that he would have been hard-pressed to say it until - what, four days ago?

This was ridiculous.

Chiding himself for letting his thoughts wander into dangerous territory again (as if there hadn't been enough of that last night), Harry began to pay closer attention to the shops he passed by since he still needed to buy souvenirs for the whole Weasley clan. It made for a welcome distraction; an hour later, his bag was considerably heavier and his mood somewhat lighter when he tried to imagine how his goddaughter would like the doll in a dirndl dress and what Arthur would say to the minuscule music box that played the Blue Danube Waltz.

He'd also bought a huge package of the infamous Mozartkugeln, spherical chocolates filled with nougat and marzipan, which Hermione had requested specifically. She had assured him that they were delicious, yet he couldn't bring himself to try them since she'd also mentioned (with a very un-Hermione-like snigger) that the name meant 'Mozart balls' in translation. Harry supposed it was something of an in-joke among the natives and regretted not having asked Draco about it.

Which brought him right back to the one topic he was trying not to think about.

+++

One thing that Harry had realised during his time in Vienna was that he seemed to have a thing for huge squares. The winding streets of the inner city were nice, but what he liked most about them was the way they sometimes led up to a wide, open area that sported trimmed trees, flowerbeds, or statues. It felt like a breathing space in the hustle and bustle of the city, a place where the sky overhead wasn't blocked out by looming buildings weighing down on him from either side of a narrow street.

The square in front of the Imperial Castle was probably the biggest Harry had seen so far in Vienna. A part of it was covered in grass and trees, with park benches placed strategically among them; the rest of the space was taken up by the huge statues of two men on horseback who faced each other over the street that cut across the square. Grateful for the opportunity to rest, Harry settled down on a bench in the shade of a tree and dug out Hermione's book again. It informed him that the Heldenplatz, the Heroes Square, was named thusly in remembrance of Austria's two most important military leaders, Archduke Karl of Habsburg and Prince Eugene of Savoy.

The first name meant absolutely nothing to Harry; the book told him that the archduke had won a battle against Napoleon (at least that was a name Harry was familiar with, although he didn't know much more about the man than the fact he'd been French), but overall, his military career didn't seem that impressive. Prince Eugene was another matter; the book held almost a page of gushing about his military triumphs and his love of the fine arts, which finally helped Harry remember where he'd heard the name before. So this was the man who had the Belvedere built as his own fairy tale palace and party hall in one, who everyone had held in such high regard that he'd been able to spit in the face of propriety without any repercussions. The book merely mentioned his "unconventional lifestyle", but didn't go into the sort of details Draco had mentioned. Ugly, frail, gay, and into drugs - yet here he was, bigger than life on his prancing horse with the Imperial Castle nothing but a backdrop to his statue, at his feet a plaque dedicated (according to the translation in the guide book) To the wise counsellor of three emperors.

Harry squinted against the bright sun and tried to make out the prince's face that was barely visible under a huge hat and a long, curly wig. It wore a vaguely smug expression, which probably stood to reason - Harry supposed that he'd look smug too if he'd been able to get away with just a few of the things this man had.

With a sigh, he stuffed the book back into his bag and threw a last glance at the statue. "You were one lucky bastard, mate, do you know that?"

Prince Eugene, with his proud pose and his eternally superior expression, seemed to agree.

+++

By the time Harry returned to the hotel one last time to pick up his luggage, the heat was stifling, and the sky was covered in dark clouds. It was quite obvious by now that a thunderstorm was brewing, and Harry felt a vague sensation of dread at the thought that it might hit right during takeoff. After this flight, he was determined never to fly the Muggle way again.

There was a taxi waiting in front of the hotel to take him to the airport. Wien-Schwechat, the Vienna airport, was situated well outside the city, and it was quite a long drive, along green fields and hedges and right across a huge industrial park, until Harry found himself in front of the departure area. The driver, who had been spectacularly grumpy before, became very friendly once Harry had paid him - he probably had given him three times the usual tip, but since he had no further use for his remaining Euros, Harry didn't mind overmuch. The man hauled Harry's suitcase out of the boot and wished him an enjoyable flight in broken English. Harry just smiled and nodded; for more than one reason, "enjoyable" was probably the last thing this flight was going to be.

It was just past seven p.m.; his plane was leaving at 9:50, which left him plenty of time to get his bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings of an airport. Once more, Harry found himself reminded that he'd make for a pathetic Muggle by now; he felt like a visitor to an alien culture, not like someone moving through the world he'd grown up in.

He managed to check in his suitcase without incident. Before he went through passport control, he stopped by the nearest restroom to change his wand into a pen and store it safely in the breast pocket of his shirt. He hadn't tried such a complex spell since his arrival in Vienna, and although he was used to the draining effect by now, he was still surprised by the effort it took him until the wand was finally transfigured to his satisfaction.

He didn't feel like more shopping, so he gave the duty-free area a wide berth. It took him a while to find out where he was supposed to go - the airport was much smaller than Heathrow, but it was still a maze. After some searching, he finally managed to find the correct gate and sat down to wait in a spot that offered a nice view over the runway. The sky outside was completely black by now, and it was a bit alarming to see the bright lights of the airplanes being swallowed up by the dark clouds just a few seconds after takeoff.

People were hurrying past without paying any attention to him; in the seat next to him, a young Japanese woman was reading a guide book about London and bookmarking half the pages with brightly coloured post-it notes. Harry watched her for some time while he did his best to look forward to coming home again, but he just couldn't bring himself to muster up any enthusiasm. Yes, it would be nice to spend time with Ron and Hermione again, and he did look forward to giving Bess her present, but still, he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't much of a homecoming that awaited him - mostly it meant an empty, messy flat, a desk piled high with useless paperwork, and a public that wanted their share of the resident hero whenever they felt like it.

He caught himself wondering whether Prince Eugene would have put up with this. Somehow, Harry didn't think so; the prince would probably have flipped everyone the bird and gone off to snort some coke - or whatever it was they did instead back then. Opium? He'd have to ask Hermione about it, although he didn't think she knew much about historical Muggle drugs.

Pity he couldn't ask Draco any longer.

With a groan, Harry buried his head in his hands; the Japanese woman gave him an alarmed look and quickly turned back to her book. Harry didn't look up for a long time; he thought about cages, and a squirrel that had wandered around unnoticed while people were gaping at the animals behind the bars. Draco's mocking sneer surfaced unbidden in his memory; Harry couldn't help feeling that he was being laughed at, although he wasn't quite sure for what reason.

"I don't dwell on things that just aren't possible no matter how much I might want them to be."

Wait. Had he actually bought that, when it came from a man who had built a life for himself out of nothing, and against impossible odds?

How the hell were you supposed to know in advance what was possible anyway?

Before he'd even finished the thought, Harry was out of his seat and all but ran back the way he'd come, just when a pleasant female voice from the loudspeaker announced that boarding for the British Airways flight to London would begin in a few minutes.

+++

During the most critical phases of the war, Harry had developed the ability to stop thinking about what he was doing and function on autopilot. It had been a survival skill then, because if he'd taken the time to think, he'd either have been paralysed by fear or crippled by doubts he couldn't afford. He unconsciously fell back on that technique while he sprinted through the bowels of the airport, passed another passport control and finally found himself in the arrivals lounge. There was a taxi rank right outside, and for just one heart-stopping moment, Harry was convinced that he'd forgotten the name of the street Draco lived in. He had some trouble with the pronunciation when he finally remembered, but since the driver nodded and asked, as if to confirm, "Eighteenth district?", he supposed he'd got it right. He couldn't recall the number, but he was sure he'd recognise the house when he saw it.

Thunder was growling in the distance when he got into the car. By the time the lights of the airport had disappeared in the darkness behind him, fat raindrops were hitting the windshield, and the trees beside the road where shaken by the rising storm. Harry didn't pay any attention to the weather; he sat motionless in the backseat of the car, stared out into the darkness and kept his mind carefully blank while the lights of the city drew nearer. The way back felt much shorter to him than the drive to the airport had been; in what seemed like no time at all, the driver stopped at the corner of a street Harry recognised, and he was quite relieved that he'd obviously remembered the address correctly.

When he fished for his wallet to pay the driver, he realised that he didn't have any Euros left. The man shook his head when Harry asked whether he took foreign currency, but he quickly changed his mind when Harry handed him the sum he'd asked for in British Pounds instead of Euros. Then Harry was left standing at the street corner in the pouring rain, while the thunder rolled overhead and flashes of lightning split the darkness every few seconds. It was just his luck that he'd arrived smack in the middle of the thunderstorm, but Harry hardly felt the torrential rain. He splashed through the puddles as he made his way along the street that looked quite different in the darkness; when he finally found the house with the brass bell-buttons, he was soaked to the skin.

Only now did it occur to him that Draco might not be home yet; he hadn't said when exactly he was coming back from his trip to Prague.

It was hard to read the name tags in the faint light of a nearby streetlamp; Harry finally spotted Draco's name when another flash of lightning lit up the darkness for a fraction of a second. With a strange mixture of dread and elation, Harry pressed the bell button, fully prepared to hear nothing but the sound of thunder in reply.

Instead, what he heard was Draco's voice over the static crackling of the intercom.

"Was ist jetzt schon wieder?"

It belatedly occurred to Harry that he had absolutely no idea what to tell Draco. "It's me - Harry. Can I come in?"

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line, and Harry held his breath; then the door clicked open with a buzz, and he entered, his heart in his throat.

After some fumbling in the semi-darkness, he found the light switch in the corridor. He still had no clue what he was going to say or do once he was at Draco's door, but he didn't think about it when he ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. In a way, he couldn't remember when he'd last been so utterly terrified and felt so incredibly alive at the same time.

Draco opened the door before Harry could press the buzzer. He seemed dishevelled as if he'd been asleep moments before. "Harry, what the hell - "

He didn't get to finish the question because Harry grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him.

For a second, Draco seemed frozen on the spot. Then he made a strange little sound deep in his throat; his arms came up, and Harry was certain he was going to push him away - but instead, Draco's hands were suddenly in Harry's wet hair, causing little rivulets of water to run downs Harry's neck, and then he was kissing him back.

Harry didn't feel his drenched clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin and the water squelching in his trainers any more; there was nothing of importance but the feeling of Draco's mouth on his, of his hands in Harry's hair, of his body fitting perfectly against Harry's when he pulled him closer. Harry quickly lost his sense of time; he never wanted this kiss to end, he would be happy to stand here in the corridor kissing Draco for the rest of his life...

Without warning, Draco broke the kiss at the sound of a door opening. Harry, his mind still reeling, turned his head in the direction of the sound and saw Mrs Vlk, the tiny old neighbour, standing in the open door of her flat with her mouth open and her eyes big as saucers. When she became aware that she'd been noticed, she shrank back and hastily closed the door again.

Harry felt a strange urge to burst out laughing at the surrealism of the whole scene, and to his great relief, he saw a sparkle of almost mischievous amusement in Draco's grey eyes as well.

Then Draco took his hand and stepped backwards over the threshold of his flat, pulling Harry with him.

Perhaps, Harry thought when he heard the door fall shut behind him, he was going to see the sun rise over the Alps after all.

FIN