Glow

AHH. I'm breaking my own promise to finish one thing before starting another, but I am being crushed under the writer's block, and I have no inspiration to finish In Between whatsoever. I'd rather rewrite my old shit than finish that, and that's saying a lot. I HATE rewriting things.

So, I apologize for this drabble. This is in response to the multitude of, "Harry is very wealthy, accepted, liked, etc, is an auror in good standing, has a good life, all that and a bag of chips, and Draco is the run down drunk with no life and a crappy job." I've read dozens of those, and they're all in the same vein.

***

"And Malfoy has caught the snitch!" The announcer's voice belted out through the magically enhanced PA system over the pitch, announcing the Falcons' victory over the Chudley Cannons with 540 to 130. The crowds cheered wildly; even those who had come for the Cannons cheered for Draco's tactics. He loathed seeking, though he'd never admit it, and hated that he'd been cut off from his inheritance. When Lucius Malfoy was arrested and Voldemort killed his mother, the Ministry had moved in on Malfoy Manor like so many vultures circling a carcass. Draco had thrown up his hands in disgust at the whole of it, and let them do as they wanted. He had some of his own money, enough that he could live comfortably for a few years, but he didn't want just comfortable, he wanted to retain the high standards of living he'd grown up with.

With the entirety of the Malfoy estates in Ministry custody, Draco did the next thing he could think of. He applied as Seeker at as many proffessional Quidditch teams as he could think of. The Falcons hadn't been his first choice, but he was pleased enough to have an income that he didn't argue when their offer came through his floo.

Having done it for a few years, he was at the prime of his life. Voldemort was gone, his name had been cleared, his father was gone, his life should have been good, but he felt burned out on everything. He found himself turning to drinks and women, and even a few men once in a while, to take his mind away from his life.

These were some of the reasons he found himself in the backwards, out of the way pub after his victory party. The Falcons were a well-matched team, and were well on their way to representing England in the Quidditch World Cup. The rest of his team had scattered, picking their own places to celebrate privately, and Draco picked this particular pub because of its name, and its proximity to his flat in London.

The Dragon's Nest was a pub he'd only been a few times, mostly when he was already drunk and found it by accident. Taking the twisted turns down back alleys to find it was his least favourite part of the pub, not that they could help the condition of the roads he needed to take.

Entering into the sparsely populated pub, he waved his hand to clear the smoke from his eyes, and focused immediately on the ruckus near the bar.

"Oh, look!" It was a vaguely familiar voice, though the face was a stranger to him. "It's our resident celebrity! Buy 'im a drink, Todd, he deserves it after that catch today. What a game, mate, what an unbelievable beating you Falcons delivered."

As Draco grew closer to the bar, he realized who exactly he was looking at. The girl behind the bar was the same one he'd seen here before, and he had the feeling he'd gone to school with her. Her nametag said 'Morag', though he couldn't place the face. The lean figure tilted drunkenly against the bar was none other than Harry Potter himself, however, and Draco seated himself quietly, watching his former rival out of the corner of his eyes. He looked good, Draco admitted. His hair was no longer out of control, but fell in waves around his face. It was longer, and he had it tied back with something. He had a dragontooth necklace, and piercings in his ear, and his skin was still the same pale, sunkissed shade it had always been. His eyes were vibrant and green, not a trace of the alcohol he surely had in his system from the look of him. In fact, aside from his rowdy words, the only sign that he'd been drinking was the stink of it. Draco, three bar stools away could smell the alcohol on him as though he'd sprayed it on as a cologne. His face was unshaven, and scruffy, though it gave him an outdoorsy, rugged look. His clothes fit nicely, muggle clothes but clearly expensive, better than the oversized rags he'd worn at school.

"Give me another, Morag, and I swear I won't call ye Maggie again," Potter said, his words slurring a bit. Draco had heard him speak occasionally in the years since Voldemort's downfall; most notably on the thirty first of every October, the anniversary of both the deaths of Potter's parents, over two decades ago, and the death of Voldemort himself, a little less than five years past. In the speeches - which Draco were certain hadn't been written by him - Potter sounded every bit the English, reclusive gentleman he was supposed to be. A bit of a bachelor, a bit of a drinker, but even this was reaching new lows for him. In his inebriated state, Draco could make out more than a hint of a scottish lilt to his voice, and recalled that the hero had spent a goodly amount of time hiding out in the Scottish highlands while cooking up a plan to take out Voldemort.

Morag, the girl behind the counter that Draco was now certain had been a Ravenclaw in his own year, scowled at Potter. "Look ye wee rascal, I've put up with yer antics all day because it was the game but I'll not have ye embarrassin' me in front of our guests. Either sit yer arse down and shut yer mouth or get out of my pub, but don't make a scene." Her brogue was heavy on her words, and Draco had no doubts that she was Scottish.

It must have been she who set it off in Potter, because as he spoke again, it was heavier than ever in his voice. "Ah, look, Morag, it's just Malfoy. He's seen worse 'n me afore, I'll have no doubts o' that. Still, I'll hie myself home if that's what you're after, Maggie, an' only 'cause he's here and we wouldn't want to invade his delicate sensibilities, eh? Only, he's just won the game, put him an' his team damnably near the Cup, give him a round on me, eh Maggie?" Potter slapped down some bills to the counter. "Yer best, now, hear, and I'll know if its anything less. Knowing Malfoy if ye give him anything less and they'll hear it in Wiltshire!" He laughed at his own joke, and pushed away from the bar. He stumbled, nearly falling into the doors, but laughed again made his way into the street. Morag sighed, getting Draco a drink.

"I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy," she said quietly. "He's not that bad usually, but the games bring out the worst in him." She'd modified her speech, as most Scots did when talking to a non-scot. She spoke with a passable English accent now, and Draco accepted her apology and the drink with a nod.

"Please, call me Draco," he said. "You'll probably be seeing a lot more of me than this, Miss MacDougal," he added, recalling her name. She blushed slightly, and opened her mouth as if to speak, and then turned to another patron. So, he was often in here drinking, but the games - and obviously she meant Quidditch games - made him drink heavier. Draco spared a thought as to why that could be, but then his attention was taken by the football that was on the screen behind the bar, and he forgot about it.

The mist in the streets had turned into a fair downpour by the time Draco was getting ready to leave, passingly drunk himself. Morag offered to see him home, as she was closing anyway, but Draco declined.

"I'm not so pissed that I can't get back to my own house. Potter might've been; why didn't you offer to see him home?"

"Well, for one," she said. "He lives about two blocks that way. I don't think even he could drink enough to forget that. For seconds, I wasn't closing when he left, and my girls aren't on call tonight because of the game."

Draco took a long pull off his Guinness. "I take it the games are a big deal around here?" Morag flashed him a grin.

"They're the thing Harry looks forward to the most, watching the games. The only thing is he gets so depressed at the same time that he -- Harry! Athena! What the devil-"

Draco turned as Morag jumped clear over the bar and went to greet the two who had just walked in. Potter had seen better days, that was apparent; his eyes looked bloodshot, and he looked as though he were staying on his feet by sheer accident.

"Harry, ye shouldn't be here, love, it's late, and why's Athena...?" Draco lost the thread of conversation as his two former school mates dropped into full Scots, and his attention was taken by the redfaced little girl Potter was holding. She was a carbon copy of him in miniature, wide green eyes and messy black hair falling in waves around her face. She had to have been around five or six, maybe as old as seven, and there was no doubt as to who her father was.

Morag turned to Draco, looking apologetic. "Draco, this is my daughter Athena, and I'm sure you're acquainted with my ex husband Harry."

The little girl, excited to be out of the house at nearly two in the morning, squirmed until Harry put her down. She marched right up to Draco, and stared him sqaure in the eye. "You're the ferret," she pronounced, and Morag looked horrified as Potter doubled over laughing. "The one who plays Quidditch. I'm too young to play, daddy says, but when I go to Hogwarts I will be a seeker, just like you."

Draco took himself down to her level. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, making sure he didn't sound condescending. He'd hated it as a child when the adults had treated him like he didn't understand anything. "Good luck with that. Seeker's a fun position." She smiled as though he'd given her the blessing she needed. Potter had recovered by this time, and Morag took Athena through the back of the bar, leaving the two inebriated men staring at one another.

"So," Draco said. "You were married, and had kids?"

Potter flung himself into one of the booths nearby, rubbing his eyes. "Just one," he said. "Athena. And Morag and I married straight out of Hogwarts, because neither of us were sure we'd live long enough to see the end of the war. So," Potter continued. "You're a world famous Seeker now."

"So I am," Draco said. "You drink often?"

Potter laughed, a bitter sound. "As often as I can. Morag moved out, and I don't blame her. I offered to buy her some plane tickets, but she said she was too rooted here at the Nest to pack up and leave it. Besides, Thenie's got friends here. And I'm not fit to rear a child on my own."

Draco was suddenly aware of just how bizarre this conversation was. "Well, it's late and I must needs return to my flat. Do you need help home?"

"No, I'll be fine," Harry said quickly. "Mag, you're alright up there?"

"Fine," came a lilting voice. "Now hush and go home!" Harry laughed quietly, and slipped out the door. Draco thought about the strange encounter for a few moments, and then followed him out.

"I'll walk you home." He was quiet for a few moments. "I think its time I let go of the past. My names' Drake Malfoy."

"Harry Potter," Harry said, offering his hand. "Nice to meet you, Drake."

-end-

And I may or may not continue this. It wasn't written with a continuation in mind, just as a way to get out of my funk. We'll see later if it worked.