When you are in trouble, people who call to sympathise are really only looking for more details- Edgar W. Howe
I am shame
That walks with Love, I am most wise to turn
Cold lips and limbs to fire; therefore discern
And see my loveliness, and praise my name.
In Praise of Shame - Lord Alfred Douglas
In the kitchen, Hermione was up and about and preparing breakfast. Sean was sprawled over one of the sofas, his mouth open and snoring gently.
"I found this," Hermione said to Harry, motioning to the black t-shirt she was wearing this morning. "Is it ok if I wear it?"
"Sure," Harry said, sitting down next to the table, "what's for breakfast."
"Pancakes," she said cheerfully, doling out generous helpings onto five plates. There were general sighs of appreciation and gratitude from those assembled.
"Granger, I think I'm in love with you," Draco said sleepily, and he, Harry and Hermione all froze simultaneously.
"What did you just call her?" Ginny asked curiously. Draco issued a silent plea with his eyes to Harry, who was as much at a loss as he was.
"Just a joke they shared earlier," Harry said quickly. "I don't understand it either." Ginny gave Draco a funny look and sat down. Draco successfully disguised his blush by pouring honey onto his mound of pancakes.
"Thanks for this, Hermione," Harry said, trying to change the subject. Draco grunted.
They ate quickly and when they were finished, Ginny got up to help Hermione wash the dishes.
"Watch it," Harry hissed at Draco, "you keep doing that."
"I know," Draco was studying the table.
"Someone's going to suspect something," Harry went on, more than a little annoyed at Draco's slip of the tongue. His senses were on high alert after the warnings Hermione had issued them, and he was increasingly wary of betraying anything that might lead Death Eaters to them one way or another. It was for this reason, then, that he took Draco's apparent nonchalance with such bad grace.
"I know," Draco replied.
"Like Hermione said, we could be in danger if anyone finds out about this."
"I KNOW!" Draco snapped so loudly that there was the tinkle of breaking glass from the kitchen as Ginny dropped a cup in surprise. Their two heads peered round the corner as they looked at Harry and Draco, glaring at each other across the table. Without warning, Draco got up with a start and stalked out. Harry cast Hermione and Ginny an apologetic look before following him.
From the corner, Sean woke up with a start.
"What did I miss?" he asked.
Harry followed Draco into the bedroom, where the blond leaned heavily against the windows looking out onto the world.
"What's wrong with you?" Harry asked.
"Nothing, Potter," Draco barked, "just leave me alone."
"No," said Harry stubbornly, "not until you tell me why you're in such a foul mood all of a sudden."
"Because I'm sick of this!" Draco whirled round. "I'm sick of having to pretend we're fucking each other, sick of not knowing what to say in this fucked up future, sick of pretending to be friends with those fucking Gryffindors."
"Did you just use the word 'fuck' three times in one sentence?" Harry asked, trying to placate Draco who was talking easily loud enough to be overheard.
"Sod off," was the only answer he got.
"What?" Harry said. "Do you think this is easy on me?"
"You seem to be getting on ok," Draco said sullenly.
"Oh stop being stupid, Malfoy," Harry said, quite angry now at Draco's petulant manner. "I don't like this any more than you do, but unfortunately, we're stuck here for the time being, so if you could just refrain from being a class-A git, that'd be great."
"Me?!" Draco sputtered, turning round to face Harry, his grey eyes clouded with anger. "You're the one who keeps having a go at me for making mistakes!"
"Because it's dangerous!" Harry yelled. "You've got to be more careful!"
"I don't care any more!" Draco yelled back. "I just want to go home. I don't want to wake up with you sleeping on me, I don't want to have to shudder every time I think about what my future has turned into, I don't want to be having a relationship with you." Harry recoiled, stung. For a moment there was a distinct ruefulness present in Draco's eyes and he made a movement as if to grasp Harry's forearm, but Harry shook him off sharply.
"Fuck off, Malfoy," he spat acidly, before storming out of the room and slamming the door hard in Draco's face.
He stormed back into the living room where Hermione, Ginny and Sean were sitting, looking at him nervously.
"What?" he said coldly, and threw himself down on the sofa and turned on the TV.
"Everything ok?" Ginny asked tentatively but Harry ignored her. He was at a complete loss with the hundreds of channels that they seemed to have on this television. He looked at the remote control and the little 'sky' button at the top. What the hell was that? This was nothing like the remote control at the Dursleys'. Throwing it down impatiently, he sat, staring at the wall with a irritable expression on his face.
Hermione came and sat next to him.
"We couldn't help overhearing," she said and Harry suddenly fixed her with a panicked look, how much did they overhear?
Catching onto his train of thought she shook her head slightly, indicating that everything was ok.
"Yeah, well," Harry said vindictively, "he's a git, isn't he?"
"Don't say that," Ginny suddenly looked distressed, "I hate to see you guys fighting."
"Who the hell does he think he is?" Harry said to no-one in particular, just venting his feelings.
"We'd better be going," Sean said, standing up. "We won't intrude on the domestic bliss." Harry gave a short, bark-like laugh. They gathered their things together whilst Harry made his way back to the bedroom, feeling as though he should get dressed at some point. Inside, he noticed Draco twirling his wand through his fingers, and looking up when Harry entered. He looked as though he wanted to say something but the expression on Harry's face stopped him. Grabbing a pair of jeans, some clean underwear and a t-shirt, Harry vanished into the bathroom.
He took a long, hot shower that did wonders to cleanse him of some of the lingering anger that washed over his system. When he was out he towelled his hair dry and stood for a long time in front of the mirror, just gazing at his reflection thoughtfully. His eyes pierced his face like violently green emeralds, sparkling in the light. They were too bold for his face, too striking, they drew attention, upsetting the balance between his features. He wondered why he was suddenly so preoccupied with his looks; vanity certainly hadn't been a character vice of his.
Getting dressed slowly, Harry pulled on some comfortable, faded jeans, and a black sweater. Wandering out, his hair still damp, he saw that Draco had dressed as well, in jeans and a grey shirt. They retained their silence for as long as they were in the room together, which wasn't long.
"Harry," came Ginny's voice, "we're going." She stood in the doorway, looking slightly nervously at the pair of them who stared moodily back.
"Ok," Harry said,
"Hermione wants to talk to you first," Ginny said. "She's in the living room, and she looks secretive." She gave Harry a funny grin, which he returned weakly and he made his way into the living room.
Hermione was waiting for him.
"You have a meeting today," she said, with the flustered air of one who has just remembered something vitally important.
"What!?" Harry looked thunderstruck.
"With your publishing agent," Hermione said. "You're a writer."
"I'm a what now?" Harry said incoherently.
"A writer," Hermione said, glancing back down at the door where the others were waiting. "You published a novel about six months ago. Your publisher wants to meet you to discuss your most recent payment and possible future works. This is the address, it's just across the street, you can't miss it."
"Oh crap," he said, looking completely terrified, "please come with me."
"I can't, Harry, I have work," Hermione said apologetically, "You'll be fine." She kissed him. "Your mind actually has the knowledge you need to get through this. You haven't changed that much, you know, so just go along with your gut instinct and you'll be fine. Keep talking to a minimum," she advised.
"What was my novel called?" Harry asked suddenly.
"'Hunted," Hermione replied, "it was a story about a girl who becomes psychologically unstable after an accident. It's very good actually. There's a copy of it around here somewhere if you want to get a little background knowledge of it to help you."
"Can't I cancel it?" Harry pleaded.
"No, this could be your big break," Hermione said, patting him on the back. "I have to go, I'll see you later."
"What's later?" Harry groaned.
"Do me a favour," Hermione said, "check your calendar?" She was gone. The door slammed shut.
He was a writer? A writer? How the hell had that happened? From Harry's dreams he had naturally assumed that he had become an Auror like Moody or Tonks, and joined the Order against Voldemort. He wondered what had happened to induce him to make such a drastic change. And Hermione had said he was good? His essays at Hogwarts had always been abysmal, and he sincerely doubted that he could really be good enough to make a career out of it.
Now, though, nothing was surprising him.
Remembering her last words, Harry went to look at the calendar he had seen hanging in the kitchen. From the scribbles of black ink, he could decipher the words, 'Publisher's meeting, 1:00 pm' and underneath that, still on that day,'Theatre 7:30 pm'. Oh shit. Another evening out. Harry would have to see if he could cancel that one for the good of his sanity.
The flat was as clean and tidy as if last night had never happened. Hermione and Ginny had been obliging enough to tidy up the path of detritus left by Ron, Seamus and Sean as the men had steadily destroyed the carefully laid out room.
Harry walked over to the bookshelf, and, hunting through it, soon laid his hands on what he was looking for. The book, 'Hunted', had a plain black cover with a yellowy eyes glaring malevolently up at Harry. The title was emblazoned across the top in golden letters and the name Harry J Potter was written across the bottom.
Harry flipped it over. On the back was a blurb, it read,
'Nominated for three awards, 'Hunted' is the first novel from the acclaimed Harry Potter. Tien is a normal girl until an accident leaves her fighting for her life and for her sanity. This book chronicles her descent into mental instability as she turns against the world she lives in and the people she loves, becoming completely isolated. Follow Tien's search for answers, and her undying belief she is being hunted.
"Fantastic read!" The Guardian.
"A triumphant work, from conception to close!" The Sunday Times.
"Harry Potter has a magical career awaiting him, and he sounds vaguely familiar to me already..." J K Rowling.'
Harry gazed at the book, awed. Even as he was turning it over in his hands, he could not believe that he had written this, every word. The story sounded to angst-ridden and unnerving to be something he would choose to read for himself, let alone write. What was Hermione talking about when she said he hadn't changed much?
"I'm going for a walk," came the voice from behind him. Harry looked up to see Draco pulling on a denim jacket.
"Fine," Harry said shortly, and Draco paused for a moment before picking up a key from the sideboard and walking out.
Harry turned his attention back to the book in his hands. He shivered with excitement as he contemplated the fact that he had written this. This had come from his quill. He had done this. A glorious sense of accomplishment swelled within Harry and he found himself grinning stupidly as he opened the book and read the first couple of chapters.
After reading them, he realised that his own mental stability should be called into question. The story was dark and very disturbing, and Harry wondered what had possessed him to give such darkness a shape and a voice. He was quite impressed with himself, the quality of his written language had definitely improved a great deal and had become much more intense and powerful that it once was.
He laid the book aside, at a loss for what to do with himself. Draco had been gone for an hour or two, but Harry wasn't worried. He was still stinging over what Draco had said to him that morning. He knew they had both been angry but he didn't think their anger merited such harsh words.
Draco had almost been a different person since he'd been here. Uncertainty had tamed his tongue to the extent that he had been almost compliant, and at dinner last night his company had bordered upon pleasurable. So much had happened over the last twenty-four hours that it was difficult to make out what was true from the past from what was true for the present. Harry had made the fatal mistake, though, of forgetting that Draco was still the bratty child he had always been, who tended to lash out with his tongue when he felt cornered.
He sat down and turned on the TV again, and spent twenty minutes or so navigating the various channels. Slowly, his anger ebbed. Dusty bars of sunlight filtered through the curtains, gleaming on Harry's skin and painting him with gold. If, at that moment he had happened to glance to his left across the buildings that surrounded him, he would have seen a figure, dressed all in black standing stock still atop the neighbouring roof, eyes fixed in his direction. What was strange about this figure was the complete immovability of them, even the black material of their garments did not stir once in the breeze. They might have been a shadow. Their eyes, hooded and hidden were staring transfixed at Harry's window, the object of their scrutiny blissfully unaware of anything.
Suddenly the wind picked up outside and the shape contorted.
Harry glanced up, there was a huge black bird the size of a raven perched on the opposite building. It regarded him for a moment before flying into the sunlight with more speed than Harry had ever seen a bird muster.
Draco's pale lips closed around a cigarette, and he lit it with a silver lighter he had found in his pocket. Inhaling deeply, he felt his tense muscles relax slightly, and the smoke curled from his mouth towards the heavens.
He had had to get out of the flat, the atmosphere was killing him. There was an electrically charged tension existing between him and Harry that he did not think he could breach with ease. A lot of it was the stress and strain of spending a day in such confusing circumstances, but most of it was just the accumulated hostility of six years of hatred.
Six years of hatred, and then everything changed. Then he was wrapped in Harry's arms, kissing a path along his throat. Draco shuddered, how on earth had this happened? In the space of twenty-four hours no less?
The logistics of it were too much for Draco's overtired brain to contemplate, and he took another drag of his cigarette. It was a minute or two before he began to take notice of the direction in which he was going, mindful that he would need to find his way back in a while.
Hermione would seem to have been right when she had said that their flat was on the edge of the wizarding quarter. As Draco looked to the left and right along the street on which he was standing, he could almost taste the difference in the air. Magic teemed in the buildings to the right of him, tangible to all the wizards and witches in Manchester, who could sense it. Muggles couldn't feel the change in the air, the wizarding quarter was protected from them by numerous spells and enchantments. They moved along the streets without suspecting a thing, their eyes sliding along the shop fronts, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, yet feeling no great compulsion to venture inside.
Draco snorted as he thought of them. As blind to the workings of the world as children. Something inside if him panged uncomfortably as he thought of Sean, quite possibly the first muggle he had ever got along with. Shaking away this traitorous thought, Draco moved purposefully down the street, stubbing out his cigarette with his shoe, and glaring morosely at everyone he passed.
After wandering aimlessly around various side alleys and streets for what seemed like hours, Draco happened upon a pub hidden in one of the older parts of the city. A dingy sign was swinging above the doorway, it read 'The Merry Mage' and showed a moving picture of a wizard conjuring ale out of a barrel.
From what Draco could see of the inside, it was dark, seedy and utterly begrimed. The atmosphere of the pub suited his mood down to the ground. Earlier that morning he had felt in his pockets and found a substantial amount of money, as well as some bizarre currency he couldn't understand. He had asked Harry who had explained to him the relative values of pounds versus galleons, but he was still wary about using any for transactions.
It was with a sense relief, therefore, that Draco pushed open the creaking wooden door and embraced the enveloping aura of magic that swum in the air. Inside was dark, and Draco blinked owlishly as his eyes adjusted from the brightness of outside. On his entry there was a rustle of murmurs as various pairs of eyes flicked up to scrutinize him, and he regarded everyone with the same frosty disdain.
The bar was quite full, with an assortment of magical creatures that Draco felt sure would not have been able to venture out into the muggle quarter without some serious concealment charms. He spotted a hag at the bar bent low over a plate of raw liver, several obscenely hairy warlocks, a party of raucous goblins in one corner and two gabbling witches with an alarming abundance of warts covering every inch of their exposed skin.
He supposed his haughty manner coupled with his striking good looks and expensive clothes made everyone wonder why on earth he was in a place like this. Draco began to wonder himself after a moment before his eyes rested upon the racks of bottles filled with spirits.
Moving over to the bar and tapping his ringed fingers atop it, he made a subtle gesture to the grubby barman who came over, his caterpillar-esque eyebrows knitted in ill concealed nosiness.
"Can I help you?" He grunted, his voice guttural and thickly accented.
"Firewhiskey," Draco said shortly, laying out three sickles on the counter and running his hand distractedly through his hair. The barman's eyes did not leave Draco's face as he fetched a glass and filled it with the amber liquid. Draco felt rather disconcerted by this, and so fixed the man with a trademark scowl.
"Thank you," he said when the barman gathered up the coins and placed Draco's drink in front of him. Draco swirled it thoughtfully around his glass, his eyes riveted by the tiny whirlpool he created, before he took a sip, and let the liquid warm him from the inside out.
He noticed three giggling witches at the other end of the bar smiling and waving at him cheekily. He ignored them, hoping his silence was not about to be ruined by inane chatter and forced conversation. That was one thing to be said for Potter, he was as prone to meditative silences as Draco was.
He was to be disappointed. Barely a few minutes had passed before one of the witches, encouraged over by her friends, moved towards Draco, drink in hand, expectant smile on her face.
"Knut for your thoughts?" she said, seating herself on a bar stool next to him. Draco ignored her at first.
"Another Firewhiskey," he said to the barman, and downed his second drink in one gulp. He was going to need it.
The witch raised her eyebrows so high they disappeared into her frizzy mass of red hair. "It's a bit early in the day for that, isn't it?" she asked. Draco glanced at her quickly before looking away. She could have been perceived as attractive, but her curls were far too rigid and her bone structure much too manly to be truly pretty. Draco had the uncomfortable feeling that he was the more effeminate of the two.
"I'm having a crap day," he said quietly, tossing ice into his glass.
"Care to tell me about it?" she asked, tracing a line of moisture over the bar with her fingertip.
Draco turned his head slightly to look at her. What the hell, he hadn't spoken to anyone all morning. "I had a fight," he said curtly. He felt the witch run her eyes appraisingly over his frame, an irritating shamelessness in her manner.
"With your girlfriend?" she asked, a note in her voice that Draco knew meant she was hoping for the negative.
His lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. "Of a fashion," he said. She looked vaguely downcast for a moment, but her friends were giggling and pointing at her so she decided to continue her interrogation.
"What was it about?" she asked hopefully. "Can I help?"
"Probably not," Draco sighed and stretched, "he's not…the person I thought he was." He finished lamely.
"He?" The girl's astonishment was evident on her face, and for a moment, it was quite comical to observe. "Well, he must be crazy to fight with such a pretty thing as you," she said, her smile wicked.
"Pretty?" Draco spluttered, pretty?!
The witch was undeterred by his blatant dismay. "Why did you fight?" she asked, taking a sip of her glass of Veela Blood, a dark red drink with no actual blood in it, instead containing liberal amounts of various spirits.
"We're having some troubles at the moment," Draco said cagily, unwilling to enter into a deep conversation on the matter. "Difficult circumstances, you know, we just said some really cruel things to each other this morning." Something struck him with sudden uneasy sensation stretching across his chest. "Or, I did," he muttered so the witch could barely hear him. It was the truth, he supposed, he had been foul to Harry that morning.
"What did you say to him?" the witch asked.
"That I never wanted my future to turn out this way, that I didn't want to wake up next to him any more," Draco said slowly, every bitter word rolling around his tongue like poison. Since when had he been so cruel?
"Ouch," the witch said, her eyes wandering idly over her drink.
"Yeah," Draco said, his mouth twisting, "but we hated each other for years once, and I really don't understand how we got so close so fast. It's strange."
"Do you want to make up with him?" she asked curiously, and Draco found himself at a loss.
"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I feel I should, if only to keep the peace."
There was a silence for a moment before the witch continued. "So," she said, her bright eyed inquisitiveness rekindled, "what are these difficult circumstances you're trying to work through?"
Draco gave a soft, sad laugh,
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
A bird swooped down to perch on a crumbling stone wall, its hooked claws and cruel beak marking it as a hunter, its glossy black feathers ruffled from flight.
"You're late," a rough voice echoed out of the shadows and with a fluttering of wings, the bird transformed gracefully into a woman, her black gown falling gently around her.
"A woman's prerogative," she muttered, lowering her hood and cursing the sunlight which warmed her face beyond comfort. She could not have lowered her hood once as she kept her vigil, lest she be discovered.
"You were supposed to be here half an hour ago," another voice said. This one issued from a man absorbed in alleviating his boredom by making thistles dance.
"I had to make sure they were alone!" the woman snapped icily. "There were people staying with them last night, Order members, some of them, I couldn't take the chance that they knew we were coming and had added security."
"Your main concern is to be here when we tell you," the latter man stood up swiftly and surveyed the woman with clear dislike. "We have many things to discuss and a very short time in which to do so."
"It is not for you to command me!"
"Quiet!" the first voice bellowed again, startling several birds from the treetops. The other two fell silent. "Thank you, Bella, for your work this morning. What have you learnt?"
"That they are unaware of our presence in the city," Bella replied, shedding her heavy cloak to reveal coiled ringlets and hawk-like eyes that marked her as the woman Harry had last seen spelling Sirius through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. "The wards around their home are still there but have not been added to. Malfoy left this morning to go somewhere."
"Where did he go?" The man leaned forward eagerly and grasped Bellatrix's arm.
"I don't know," she replied coldly, "I did not have leave to follow him, I felt I should return." The man sighed with apparent disappointment.
"We have to know if they have left their reality," he said. "Only then will we stand a chance of defeating them."
"I tell you it will not work," the man who had been crouched in the thistles got to his feet and pocketed his wand. The other two immediately bristled.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean simplicity is the key to defeating these two," he said, "and I have said it over and over again."
"Simplicity led to the deaths of so many of our fellows," Bellatrix said. "We have tried simplicity but we are ready to change the fabric of reality to get our revenge."
"You already have," the man practically yelled, "and you haven't thought about the possible consequences!" An unpleasant light lit up Bellatrix's eyes.
"I have thought of the revenge we will exact this way," she said.
"We don't know how we will have changed things by doing this," the man suddenly flung back his hood to reveal himself as Macnair, the executioner for the Ministry of Magic. "We have invoked a magic ancient and powerful enough to rewrite history leaving only them aware of it, so that we might confront them in our own time and on our own terms. We will not be able to control this magic until it has played out. They might tell someone as soon as they arrive in this time, then what?"
"All the more reason for us to catch them as soon as they are transferred here. We can't predict the future," Bellatrix said, "but we can fight those who have wronged us this way, do you think we would have stood a chance against them if they were prepared? This way we may fight the boys instead of the men, to hell with changing history."
"These are no ordinary boys," the other man said, keeping his face firmly in shadow. "They are Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. We have brought them from their own time into a world they know nothing about and are not ready to face. We have stripped them of their homes and security, and we have meddled with Time itself to banish the memories of this transferral from the minds of their friends."
"We should have brought them when they were children," Macnair growled. "Easier to kill."
"Do you honestly think none of their companions would notice if they suddenly developed the mentalities of children?" the man snapped, "No. There is no subtlety to you, Macnair, we had to strike at the moment when they were ready, when pride and wariness would prevent them from betraying themselves to everyone around them. They are more vulnerable this way."
Bellatrix smiled like a snake, and picking up a thistle from the ground, crushed it between her fingers.
The time of Harry's appointment rolled by much quicker than he would have liked. A sick swoop of nervousness had settled over his gut and he heartily wished he wouldn't have to endure what was surely going to be a horrible ordeal. He glanced at the business card he had found in the kitchen.
F. Scott Publishing - No. 6 Deansgate, Manchester.
Picking it up and pocketing it, Harry slipped on a black, pinstripe blazer he had found and grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill. Draco still wasn't back yet and Harry supposed he should leave him a not explaining his absence. He just wasn't sure what to write.
Draco, he crossed that out at once. Malfoy, he wrote, I've got a meeting with my publisher this afternoon, apparently I'm a novelist or something. I'll be back later, we're going to a play with Hermione and the others. Try and find out what the hell it is.
Harry. He crossed that out too. Potter.
Pinning this to a packet of cigarettes, Harry picked up a set of keys and exited the building.
The publishing offices were not too difficult to find, and Harry soon found himself staring up at a handsomely chiselled building, only five minutes late. Hurrying inside he studied the plaque on the wall that detailed the floor plan. F. Scott's office was on the third floor and Harry darted into the lift as it clanked into view.
A light, airy set of rooms greeted him. The office was bustling with activity, as people scurried from place to place, reams of paper in their arms and mobile phones nestled close to their ears. It was a sea of noise, and every surface seemed to be taken up by wilting plants, coffee machines and faded newspapers. Thirty seconds into his visit and Harry knew that this was a muggle establishment. Several people looked up and smiled when he entered, and one girl called out.
"Go right in, Mr. Potter, she's waiting for you."
Swallowing nervously, Harry nodded, pushed open the door emblazoned with F. Scott Publishing and poked his head round.
A calm office furnished in dark brown awaited his entry. A pretty young woman sitting behind a mahogany desk looked up and smiled.
"You're less late than usual," she commented, and Harry grinned, blushing slightly.
"Sorry," he said.
"I've come to expect it," she shifted some papers off her desk and motioned for him to sit down.
"What did you want to see me about?" Harry asked, a little apprehensively.
"Nothing to worry about," the woman said kindly. "I just wanted to discuss your possible options."
"Ok," Harry swallowed again, his throat very dry.
"Hunted is doing well on the continent," she announced, shoving some figures towards him. "Your royalties are likely to improve over the coming year, and the translation into Spanish is nearly complete."
"Great," Harry said, a little overwhelmed.
"It's not selling so well in America," F. Scott said, rubbing thoughtfully at her pencilled eyebrow, "mainly because you're less well known there. Predictions are good, however, and you might need to spend a week or two in New York to launch it properly. You need to get yourself out and about, right now you're presenting the image of a terribly chic, brooding young Englishman, and that'll work in your favour, they love authors with a bit of colour." Harry tried to absorb this information, feeling as though his brain was going into overdrive. Miss Scott was talking very quickly now and the sheets of figures in front of him were seriously intimidating.
"So you think I should concentrate on promoting 'Hunted' rather than working on anything new?" Harry ventured. Miss Scott raised her eyebrows, but she looked thoughtful.
"Have you got anything else in mind?" she asked.
"Well not at the moment," Harry said quickly, "but I was just wondering if you thought it would be a good idea to begin another project."
"Hmm," Miss Scott began rifling through her papers again, before shoving an entire stack on the floor in impatience. "Ah, here it is," she said, swooping on a piece of paper that had been lodged under the pile that was now littered on the floor. "Sophie?" she called, and a petite woman with long blonde hair peered round the door.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Clear this up?" Miss Scott pointed to the scattered papers on the floor. Harry watched in fascination as Sophie began to scoop up the files. Miss Scott's commanding presence seemed to have a authoritative effect on everyone who came near her.
"There is a niche in the market for another twisted, psychological thriller," she said, her eyes perusing the piece of paper in her hands. "That's your forte, or so I seem to remember, and might be worth you having a think about."
Twisted, psychological thriller?
"Ok," Harry said, "sure."
"Great," Miss Scott suddenly smiled broadly, "I also called you here to pay you your latest instalment," she said, and Harry visibly brightened. This was something he could understand in any time period.
"Fantastic," he said excitedly. Miss Scott rummaged around her desk once more before picking up a dark blue file with the word 'Potter' written across it. She pulled out what looked like a cheque, picked up a silver Mont Blanc pen, and signed it with a flourish.
"Here you go," she said. "I think you'll find this is what we agreed in your contract." Harry took the cheque and almost choked.
"Sixty thousand?" he said and Miss Scott looked at him enquiringly.
"Not what you expected?" she asked. "Don't forget the payment you received six months ago, this is just the final cheque."
"No, this is..." Harry couldn't find the words. He looked up at his publishing agent with a bright gleam in his green eyes, his face alight with surprise and happiness, "this is great," he finished.
"Lovely," Miss Scott's relief showed in her face. Harry had the impression that he would have been entitled to ask for more, but was too elated to contemplate that, "I'll be seeing you soon, then?"
"Sure," Harry said, getting up and shaking Miss Scott's hand, "see you soon." Slipping the cheque securely into his inside pocket, Harry left.
He could barely stop himself from whistling with delight as he made his way out of the building. Feeling particularly generous, he gave the doorman a remarkably large tip and pushed open the door, grinning like an idiot.
He had just walked out of that building with sixty grand in his pocket. Chic, brooding Englishman? That had been quite possibly one of the most perplexing and yet rewarding moments of Harry's life, as the full weight of his achievements had swamped him and he realised just how valued he was.
He walked all the way home in a complete daze. It wasn't until he found the door to their flat open than he realised that Draco must have returned from his 'walk'. Draco was sitting in the living room inside, his face absorbed in a book. He looked up when Harry entered and the latter felt any anger dissipate in the wake of such a successful meeting.
"Hi," Draco said, a little nervously, "good meeting?"
"Yeah," Harry said, taking off his jacket and slinging it over a chair. He pulled out the cheque and laid it in front of Draco.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Look," said Harry, and Draco picked it up, his eyes sparkling.
"What the...?" he said. "Where did you get this?"
"Publisher," Harry said, "latest payment."
"This is amazing," Draco got to his feet and slapped Harry on the back.
"I know," Harry said, "not what I expected at all." He looked up and Draco caught his eye in a moment of quiet.
"I'm sorry," the Slytherin blurted out without warning. He must have registered Harry's surprise, "about this morning," he went on.
"S'ok," Harry found himself saying, "forget it." Another silence.
"You're a good writer, you know," Draco said, and picked up the book he had been buried in. It was 'Hunted'.
"You read this?" Harry asked, amazed.
"Some of it," Draco shrugged. "It's good, but I have to say I'm questioning your sanity. This is very dark and menacing."
"I know," Harry said, "weird, isn't it?" Draco turned away. "Where did you go?" Harry asked, more for the sake of making conversation than anything else.
"Bar," Draco said, "the Merry Mage, and I spent an hour with beautiful women fawning over me and my devilishly good looks." Harry snickered. "Ok," Draco said, "so it was only one witch having a bad hair day, but still."
"Sounds like fun," Harry murmured, rummaging around the kitchen for something to eat. "Oh," he said, standing up and examining a jar of peanut butter, "we're going a play tonight, did you get my note?"
"Yeah, it's the Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde," Draco said. "I found a pair of tickets on the bedside table.
"I've never read it," Harry said, and Draco grinned suddenly.
"Cultureless cretin," he replied.
"I see you're back to normal," Harry said, shoving some peanut butter into a roll. "Do you want a sandwich?"
"Yes, please," Draco said. "It's a play about mistaken identity, full of amusing paradoxes, irritating characters and the sophisticated wit of someone who's been dead for nearly a century."
"Sounds wonderful," Harry said unenthusiastically, buttering another roll.
"Actually, it's very good," Draco said thoughtfully, "my father took me to see it years ago, whilst spending the interval ranting about the private life of the author."
"Which was so interesting because...?" Harry asked.
"Oscar Wilde was a homosexual who spent his days buggering men half his age," Draco said nonchalantly, picking at his fingernails. "My father sat muttering about him being a raving sodomite, whilst laughing at the jokes in the play itself. He always did like irony."
Harry nodded. "I knew he was gay," he said, "not that he was the subject of such disapproval within the Malfoy family unit."
"You, Potter are completely without cultivation," Draco went on, perching on the armrest, his lips sliding into a half-smile, "and so I'm sure will enjoy the play immensely."
"Another paradox?" Harry said, effectively shutting Draco up by sticking a roll in his mouth.
"Mmph," Suddenly a telephone rang, and Draco fell off his perch in surprise. Harry glanced around hurriedly, trying to detect the source of the ringing, and he soon found a silver cordless phone buried under a newspaper.
"Hello?" he said uncertainly.
"Harry? It's me," Hermione's voice broke from the other end of the line.
"Oh hi," Harry said, relieved. He noticed Draco looking at him curiously, obviously never having seen a phone in action.
"Everything ok?" she asked.
"Yeah not bad," Harry said, "publisher paid me."
"Oh that's great!" Hermione exclaimed. "How much?"
"Sixty grand," Harry said, looking at the cheque fondly and wondering if he could frame it. "I've never seen so much money in my life."
"She paid you more last time, you know," Hermione said. "Your book is doing really well."
"I surmised as much," said Harry, smiling.
"Did you do ok at the meeting?" Hermione asked, a definite note of worry in her voice.
"Well I didn't make an arse out of myself," Harry said. "Don't worry about me."
"There is something you should know," Hermione said. "I've been looking through the library."
"Yes?" Harry said eagerly.
"I can't find anything, Harry, I'm sorry," Harry felt as though he was deflating quickly.
"What?" he said.
"There might still be something that might help you," Hermione said. "I didn't look for long."
"Oh," Harry said numbly, "Oh well."
"I want you and Draco to come over tomorrow and help me look," Hermione said quickly. "I think we'll be able to get more done the three of us."
"Ok," Harry said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. His heart was sinking faster than the Titanic. He had almost forgotten Hermione would have checked in her library by now for something that would be able to help them.
"Don't worry, Harry," she was saying. "We'll get you home somehow."
"I hope so," Harry said.
"I don't want to worry you or anything," Hermione went on, "but I've spoken to Kingsley Shacklebolt, you know him?"
"The Auror?"
"That's the one," Hermione replied. "Well, he's been tracing some Death Eater factions for a while now and he thinks you're a target again."
"I knew that, didn't I?" Harry asked, the familiar wave of panic rising in his chest.
"The worry of attack had eased off for a few months," Hermione said. "Whilst Voldemort has been abroad you've been relatively safe, but there seems to be an increase in activity at the moment."
"Oh," Harry said mutely.
"I just want you to be extra careful," Hermione said. "There're wards all around your apartment of course, but I just thought I should warn you."
"Thanks," Harry said, his throat dry, "I'm sure we'll be ok."
"I'm sure you will," Harry could almost hear Hermione's comforting smile as she hung up.
"What did she say?" asked Draco.
"That she's had no luck so far with finding something that might get us home," Harry said. Draco's face fell.
"Damn," he murmured, "I thought Hermione, if anyone, would be able to help."
"She'll find something," Harry said, with more conviction than he felt. "She wants us to go over there tomorrow to help her look." Draco nodded mutely and swallowed.
"Supposing we don't find anything?" he asked.
"Don't think that way," Harry met his eyes and found them full of fear, fear of losing the eight years between their past and their present. Years full of adventure that they might never see.
"But supposing we don't?" he persisted and Harry threw him a look that spoke volumes. "Humour me," he said quietly.
"Then we'll just have to trust to the infinite knowledge of the Professor My-Hair's-So Greasy-There're-Grindylows-Living-In-It Snape," Harry said and Draco snorted with laughter.
"Cut him some slack," he said. "Snape's not so bad."
"Yeah, well," Harry said darkly, "he likes you, doesn't he?"
"Thus the basis of his appeal," Draco replied smoothly. "You like that oaf Hagrid because he's nice to you. It's the same thing."
"No way, it's completely different," Harry protested. "You've always been a git to Hagrid."
"And you've always been the picture of courtesy to Snape?" Draco asked, turning back to him with a smile. Harry grumbled something under his breath and picked up the strange remote control, thinking vaguely of watching some more television.
Draco watched in fascination as Harry navigated through the various channels until he alighted upon something intellectually stimulating, and something that made a statement about the socio-economic climate of the world they lived in.
"What's the 'Simpsons'?" Draco asked.