Different Worlds

Thanks go to Jackie for the beta read.

It’s one of those nights where Potter is there before him. He always sits in the same place, but tonight, a family sits in his corner, so he’s sitting at the bar.

His back is to Draco, but he’s unmistakable. For some reason, as Draco approaches the piano, his heart begins to beat faster. In two years, Potter has never sat so close to where Draco plays. It’s only seven or eight meters between the bar and Potter’s corner, but it’s all the difference in the world now.

Until now, Potter has stayed in his own world, maintained a distance. Now he is only an arm’s length away. Draco does his best to calm himself as he pulls back the bench and sits down. At the first note, he senses that Potter is aware. He knows he’s listening. He can see it out of the corner of his eye.

What he couldn’t do for himself, the piano does for him; soon, he is lost in the music, and while Potter isn’t forgotten, he fades into the background.

He finishes playing and looks around the pub. It’s all but empty, as always. Only Potter remains, sitting at the bar, his back still to Draco. Draco is frozen with indecision.

He hears himself saying, “Thank you, John,” and the man nods to him, then draws Draco’s gaze to Potter sitting at the bar. Draco’s heart slams against his ribs. This is a step he won't be able take back once he’s taken it. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know why he would, but he finds himself taking a seat next to Potter.

He doesn’t look at anything but the bar as John says, “Gin again?”

“As always.”

He hears John ask the man next to him the same question, and he sees him nod.

He’s taken the first step, and this second one makes him feel like he’s racing towards a precipice, each moment accelerating him towards a place he won’t be able to come back from. He takes it anyway, though he doesn’t know why. This seems to be a theme for him…. “Hello, Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

There is a long silence. Draco doesn’t have an idea of how or what he can say to fill it. It goes on, and soon Draco’s glass is empty. He glances to the side and sees that Potter’s is, too. If feels like it would be wrong to say something, even as heavy as the silence is, so he says nothing, and neither does Potter.

He knows it’s late, and John needs to close. He stands, and because he doesn’t know what else to do, he leaves without a word. Potter will be there tomorrow.

* * *

Hello, Potter.

The words ring in his mind, keeping him from sleep. He’s watched him every night for two years, so much that Malfoy has become something of a fixture to him, an idea, untouchable. Two words, only two words, but they change something for Harry.

Now that they’ve spoken, all bets are off, he feels.

Tomorrow, he’ll take tomorrow as it comes.

Hello, Potter.

Hello, Potter….

* * *

Harry listens to the music from his shadowed corner, wondering what will happen when it’s over. He watches for the how-many-hundredth time as Malfoy stands and stretches. But when he should reach for his coat like he always does, he turns around and walks across the pub. Harry’s pulse races as Malfoy slides himself onto the cheap fabric of the bench opposite him.

“Hello, Malfoy,” he says quietly.

“Potter.”

The barman, John, brings them each a drink. Harry doesn’t know what to say, if there even is anything to say. He can admit to himself in the darkness of his bedroom that he watches Malfoy, that he keeps coming to this place because of Malfoy, but with the blond sitting in front of him, real and with a voice, Harry finds himself out of his depth.

He says the only thing he can think of. “Where did you learn to play?”

“My mother.”

He still can’t force himself to look Malfoy in the eyes, though he can’t explain why. “You’re good.”

He can feel Malfoy watching him, and he becomes aware of his own breathing—how it sounds as the air rushes out of him, how many times he inhales in a minute—he is aware of every part of his body.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, “why do you come here?”

Harry’s eyes lock with Malfoy’s before he can stop them.

“What?” he breathes, his heart stopping.

“Why?” Malfoy repeats, his gaze boring into Harry’s.

Malfoy shouldn't have asked. It's a question that's like Malfoy himself—untouchable. Malfoy should not have crossed over this line, but now that he has, Harry finds himself at a loss. “I don’t know,” he answers, not sure that it’s a lie. “Habit, maybe.”

“Why?”

Harry isn’t sure how to answer him. He isn’t sure he wants to. He isn’t sure he can. “There’s nowhere else,” he finally says.

“You have nowhere else to go?” he asks.

“I suppose I don’t. Why do you come here?”

“The gin is good.”

Harry smiles. “You rarely drink.”

“You noticed.”

Harry looks down. “You’re hard to miss.”

He can feel Malfoy smirking. “You’ve never said a word to me.”

“I—I wasn’t sure you recognized me.”

“You’re hard to miss.”

Harry feels his face flush a bit. “You play well.”

“You said that.”

Right.

Harry is at a loss again. He looks up once more and finds Malfoy staring at him. He leans forward a bit, looking for the boy he knew. He is there, barely—but, yes... he's there.

“You’ve changed,” Harry says. “You look different.”

Malfoy smirks, and this time he sees it. “Different from when we were children?”

“Yes.” Children. They'd been children then. It was so long ago. Harry asks again. “Why do you come here?”

The smirk fades from the other man’s pale face. Malfoy doesn’t answer, but Harry thinks that maybe there’s nowhere else for him, too. Maybe he comes here because everywhere reminds him of mistakes, regrets, things he can’t go back to, even if he wants to. Maybe he spends every night in this pub because there is no such thing as normal, and he knows it, so he takes what he can get.

“John lets me play as long and as loudly as I want,” Malfoy finally answers as if it explains everything, but Harry knows the truth.

He nods. He understands.

Harry can’t think of anything else to say. He doesn’t feel he needs to, and he thinks that Malfoy probably feels the same way.

Harry sleeps better this night.