Somewhere To Go

Thanks go to Jackie for the beta read.

Some nights, Potter is there before he arrives; others, he never sees him until he turns to leave. But he knows he’s there. He’s always there. Sometimes Draco plays for him. That is, of course, impossible, as Draco isn’t sure what Potter wants to hear. It’s more that he plays knowing Potter is listening, and he wonders what Potter thinks.

Tonight, he arrives before Potter. Usually, he goes straight to the piano, but he wants a drink this time. He takes a seat at an empty bar stool—most of them are empty—and drums his fingers for a moment on the polished wood. This place is quiet for a pub; he likes that about it.

After a few moments, a small glass of gin is placed in front of him, and he nods his thanks. His thoughts are of nothing and everything as he slowly sips, forgetting to maintain his perfect posture.

“They come for you, you know,” the barman—John is his name—says as he cleans the inside of a glass and moves on to the next.

A Muggle song he's heard comes to mind. "Sing us a song—you're the fucking Piano Man..."

John chuckles and shakes his head. "It's true."

"Hardly." Draco glances up. “They come for themselves.”

“Why do you come?” the man asks.

Draco thinks about that. “I come… because I have nowhere else to go.” It used to be true. When he’d first started coming here, he’d been alone. A wizard stranded in a Muggle world. The only way to stay under the gaze of the Ministry had been to live without magic. Draco had wanted to live, so he’d exchanged his considerable fortune for Muggle money and hadn’t allowed himself to look back since.

Protection... It was the last thing, the one thing, that his father had been able to give him. It couldn’t make up for leading him into what was certain death, teaching him bitterness, but his father had known his life was over and had given it to Draco. He hadn’t seen the man since.

The barman speaks again. “Every night for five years is a long time to come simply because you have nowhere else to go. Everyone has somewhere to go.”

Five years. Gods, it has been five years…

He remembers the first time he came through the door, the first glance of this room. He remembers the first time his eyes fell on the aged piano, the first time he tentatively sat down to play.

He has a flat a few blocks away, but he feels more at home in this place than there. Draco knows it is pathetic—that he has found a home in a Muggle pub—but he stopped caring long ago. For a few hours each night, nothing else matters. Asking for anything more doesn’t occur to him anymore.

“Perhaps,” he finally says. “Are you saying there’s somewhere else I should be?”

John chuckles. “No, son. I know very well that if you stopped coming, I’d lose half my nightly business.”

Draco scoffs mildly and takes another sip.

“It’s true,” the man says. “They watch you. They listen.”

It might be true. Draco doesn’t know. He plays; it’s never been for anyone else. That they are listening is unimportant. Almost. He doesn’t know why it’s important that Potter listens, but it is.

He glances almost unconsciously towards the dimly lit back section of the pub. It’s empty still. Potter hasn’t come yet. He goes back to his drink.

“Ah,” the barman says, “yes, he watches.”

Draco’s eyes flash with something, but his head is tilted down, and no one notices.

“He’s like you.”

Draco doesn’t pretend ignorance. “How so?”

“I think he has nowhere to go.”

Draco snorts. “He’s Potter; of course he has somewhere to go.” Draco doesn’t know why Potter came the first time, and he doesn’t know why he comes back.

Potter doesn’t have to live without magic.

Potter has friends.

Potter has family.

Potter has a home.

“You know him?” the barman asks, his tone surprised.

Draco is silent. It is because he’s in a place like this, holding a half-empty glass of gin, talking to a man whom in five years has never asked his name, that he feels separate enough from himself to truly think about that question.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t know him.”

“But you know his name.”

“Everyone knows his name.”

If the barman wonders what he means, he doesn’t ask. Instead, he wipes another glass and says, “He knows you.”

Draco glances up sharply. “What do you mean?”

The barman shakes his head. “Can’t say. He watches you like he knows you.”

It’s Draco’s turn to shake his head. “He doesn’t know me. He never did.” Draco never knew himself.

He used to wonder if Potter would say something, confront him. Every night of those first weeks, months, he had thought about not coming back, afraid that Potter would turn him in, but the man never did. He never said anything. Draco has known for two years now that if Potter wanted the Wizarding world to know where Draco Malfoy was, he could have informed them. He knows now that if Potter was going to, he would have already.

Draco throws back the last of his gin in one swallow and stands. His fingers want to play.

Three hours later, as he heads for the door, he sees Potter’s shadow in the far corner, and he knows it will be the same tomorrow.