Remember?

Scenes from a Hat

1.

It had been years since anyone had seen Harry Potter. It had been years since anyone came looking for him. He had become more a myth, more of a legend of a person, than a person at all. When asked about him, parents got a bit of a dreamy look in their eyes, and told of a boy hero that was brave as anything, invincible, that never appeared scared or was defeated. Those that were at Hogwarts with him relieved brushing arms in the hallway, hoping maybe a bit of his greatness had rubbed off on them, never bothering to think maybe a bit of their mediocrity had rubbed off on him. Sure, the ministry claimed that they were trying to find him, so they could properly thank him, as they put it. But if one looked closely, they would see that no employee had been assigned anything to do with Harry Potter in the past ten years. No one really wanted to ruin their image of a hero; after all, it was easier to believe something perfect when you could not see its faults.

Draco was sure, positive, that he could recognize Potter anywhere; he had spent so much time studying him, the lines of his face, the curve of his shoulder, the angles of his collarbones, the depth of his eyes. First, it had been in loathing, watching for his weaknesses and mulling over them, finding ways to exploit them. Slowly, steadily, he had come to know him better than anyone, Weasley even, until he could tell how he was feeling each morning just by looking at where he positioned his hands. Potter had been so predictable like that, never breaking his elaborate pattern of patterns. And somewhere along the lines Draco had come to appreciate those patterns more than anything, and very much against his will Potter became his savior as well, being steady and predictable while his life turned into a tornado of discrepancies. Potter was always there, and if he pushed the same buttons Potter did the same things, and every time he punched him Potter would punch back, and when he insulted him, Potter would insult back, and somewhere, somehow, when Draco kissed him, Potter would kiss back. When Harry disappeared, Draco had the longest way to fall out of anyone.

So when Draco noticed the server behind the counter at the small wizarding café in northern Switzerland, he didn't believe his eyes. He blinked several times in quick succession, because it wasn't like he didn't see Harry everywhere anyway. But usually only after a large amount of scotch or vodka. He was suddenly completely self conscious, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles on his robes, brushing off imaginary dirt, reaching a hand up to fix-

"Your hair looks fine, Draco," Harry purred behind him. Draco felt like he might pass out, the only sound he heard was the blood pounding behind his ears, it was almost deafening. He reached a hand out to the table to steady himself, and audibly gasped when it met warm, soft skin that he had once known everything about. Now it felt foreign.

"What's the matter? It looks like you've seen a ghost," Harry said quietly, gently steering a complacent Draco in between tables and chairs and through some doors and down a hall and up some stairs and Draco had no idea where he was and then he was in a small apartment, and Harry was gently helping him sit on the sofa, and it clicked. Draco froze mid-sit.

"Harry," he said, watching for his reaction. Here was one button he had never pushed, never seen a reaction to. Harry just smiled, and touched a hand softly to the side of Draco's face.

"You know, I always figured if someone was going to find me, it would be Dumbledore. When he died, I thought I was safe. But I should have known about you. You were always relentless," he said. His eyes drifted away from Draco's face, running unashamed over his body, almost like he remembered it as well as Draco remembered his. To be honest, Harry did think of him. Once, he had drunkenly called a partner Draco by accident. He had looked at him strangely and commented on what a funny name that was. Harry had thrown him out half dressed in rage, Draco was not a funny name, it was beautiful, Draco was beautiful, and where was Draco when he needed him? That had been what Harry had come to think of as one of the 'bad nights' where he cried and his heart seemed to shatter, and he wished that none of this had ever happened to him and that he could just go home to his cupboard and hide there. But Draco was here.

The next thing Draco could remember was Harry slipping a warm mug into his hands, wrapping his limp fingers around it. Draco was unable to thank him; his jaw was frozen in shock, all he managed was a muffled "glumph".

The tea seemed to sooth him, he soon regained his motor skills and was, after a while, even able to speak in coherent sentences. The two sat on the couch, talking softly, sipping their tea, unnaturally aware of where their thighs touched and the sparks when their arms brushed together. They talked about Hogwarts, of what each had done since then, of politics, of everything, almost. And early in the morning, when Draco finally rose to leave, Harry caught his hand, automatically, remembering fantastic nights of almost ten years ago, and told him that he could stay the night here, since it was late, and well, he was sort of lonely, and it was bloody cold out there and...

Draco didn't even bother answering, just pressed his mouth to Harry's, remembering his taste yet it felt foreign slightly, ten years can change someone, he supposed, but not too much. Not too much, he hoped.

Harry tensed when he felt Draco against him, he hadn't been touched like this, kissed like this, held like this for years now, but he soon melted into his body, remembering the curves of his back and the sharp angles of his shoulders and the soft feeling of his stomach.

They stumbled backwards, Draco pushed them through one of the doors, and was surprised to find Harry mumbling no, and pushing him back.

"What?" Draco panted against his neck, smelling the sweaty musty smell of him and inhaling it, inhaling him. What was Harry playing at?

"This is the bathroom, love," he murmured back, steering them through the door and into another, and then Draco was on his back on a big red and gold duvet, crazy Gryffindors, they couldn't decorate for shit, but Draco found he didn't mind one bit when Harry was doing that thing to his ear, or his jaw, or oh my god. He was mildly aware of the ripping sound associated with the removal of his expensive shirt, but he didn't mind that either. Harry was doing something incredible with his tongue on his chest, he was writhing and thrashing beneath him, and Harry moved lower, and lower, and oh my god.

Draco's brain temporarily left his body, floating around in ecstasy, and when it returned, a slick, sweaty, Harry was collapsing on top of him. He pressed a kiss to his temple; Draco would have reciprocated, he was sure, if he was capable of breathing properly.

"I had missed that more than I remembered," he whispered quietly.