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Off the map
Author: Sara Holmes
HP/DM. Draco Malfoy knows something is not right in his life and starts to wonder if he's really cut out for high society living. It starts with cold coffee. It ends with Harry Potter. Warnings for sexual content and bad language.
Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Humor - Harry P. & Draco M.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. JKR does. Making no money. Bored of repeating this.
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, bad language.
Authors note: This can be read independently as a story by itself, or if you squint and look sideways this could be the prequel to Ask Again Later. I'm not promising it fits 100% though! Thanks go to the wonderful Phoenix Grayson for her support in getting this posted and also for her beta work, and also to Malfoy Unforgiven for the thoughts and encouragement at the start.
Enjoy :)
Off The Map
And I'm so far off the map the sun is shining...
My coffee is cold. And I don't care. It's the beginning of the end really.
Twelve months ago, if Draco Malfoy had been served cold coffee, he would have demanded fresh, shouted and scowled, made the owners of the café tremble behind their aprons because they should have known better than to fuck his order up.
But here I am, slumped (Merlin forbid) in a chair outside a small café in Diagon Alley, with a crappy cold cup of coffee that I don't have the heart to complain about. I cringe, imagining Blaise's voice in my head. Draco, you're a Malfoy. For Hecates sake, act like it.
Blaise can fuck off, I think somewhat petulantly. I sink a little further down in my chair and try not to think about the fact my robes are getting creased.
Something isn't right, and it's not just my moral conundrum over a cup of coffee that's telling me so. It's this whole lifestyle that is somehow making me feel uncomfortable and disorientated. Don't get me wrong; back in school I had played the Slytherin power games and loved it, but now the war is dead and over and I've got time to just stop and think for a moment…I'm starting to think I'm really not cut out for it.
Thoughts tantamount to blasphemy in the eyes of my social circle.
I sigh loudly, casting my eyes up away from the tabletop and then I freeze in my seat; walking up the centre of Diagon Alley towards me is a familiar figure. A very familiar figure with messy black hair and piercing green eyes, someone who could always succeed in turning all my thoughts upside-down. Today is no exception.
Potter spots me too and he nods, his right hand rising slightly in a small wave by his side as he walks. I nod in return, my heart thudding in my chest.
We're no longer enemies. Haven't been for over a year. He'd given me my wand back, I had said sorry (that memory made me hot under the collar even now) and we had shaken hands. But that's it, really. His lot and my lot don't mix, and that's just the way it is.
He draws level with me, and then is walking past and for some unfathomable reason I turn around in my chair, sitting up slightly.
"Potter."
I freeze all over again. Have I really just said that? He stops and turns to me, and I wince. Yes, apparently I have.
"Yeah?" he asks, stepping forwards towards me, expression neutral.
"How've you been?"
I curse myself for being such a fucking idiot, but he's almost smiling and – oh fuck no - sitting down in the chair opposite me.
"Why're you asking?" he asks, no hint of malice in his tone.
"I have no idea," I say weakly and he laughs softly. He's wearing tatty old jeans and a plain T-shirt and looks so damn comfortable in his own skin that I'm tempted to throttle him.
"This isn't a place I'd expect to see you," he says, gesturing around the café, his eyes still on me.
"And that's exactly why I'm here," I mutter, more to myself than him. "I'm sorry, Potter, I've really got no idea why I called you over. I'll plead temporary insanity. You're probably busy."
"I'm not," he says, and doesn't move. Silence falls between us but he doesn't seem to mind, he just sits there and watches me with careful eyes.
After a while he shifts, and pulls his wand out of his pocket. He taps the side of my coffee cup- it's suddenly roasting hot, tendrils of steam rising from the surface- and gives me a small wan smile.
"It'll taste better if it's not cold," he says and then he stands up. "I'll see you around, Malfoy." I nod dumbly and he leaves, not looking back.
I stare at his retreating form and then down at my coffee, and a small smile flickers across my face.
Two weeks later I receive an owl from Potter. I ignore it and send it away without taking the letter.
The next day the owl comes back. I send my own owl - Apollo - after it to chase it away. It works; Apollo is probably the scariest owl in the country and even though he's only young he's brave and doesn't back down.
Like Potter and his stupid fucking owl, apparently. Two days later, Apollo swoops back in the window with Potter's stupid bird in tow. He sits on my shoulder with a hoot, casual as you please.
"Traitor," I snap as he nibbles along my ear. Potter's owl shuffles up along the back of a chair in a manner that can only be described as sheepish, and I grudgingly feel a surge of respect mingled with exasperation. It did manage to get past Apollo after all. Brave, insistent, stubborn and reckless; the damn thing should be wearing glasses and have a fucking scar on its head.
I take the letter and the owl hoots happily.
"It doesn't mean anything," I say spitefully. "I have to take the post now you've got in, doesn't mean I'm going to read it- ow!"
Apollo bites my ear - hard - and I jerk away in shock and pain. He screeches and flaps away, cuffing my head with his wing on his journey over to where Potter's owl sits. They sit side by side, nestled together, watching me with unblinking eyes.
