Underneath Your Window

"Not enjoying the party?"

Harry peeks around, surprised. He was sure no one had followed him out.

"Up here, Scarhead."

Before he even tips his gaze skyward towards the voice, he knows who it belongs to; he'd recognize that derisive tone anywhere. "Malfoy. What are you doing?"

Malfoy snorts, leaning his top half almost completely over the balcony. "Considering I'm at least inside, where this function is supposed to be taking place, I think that it is I who should be asking you that question."

"That's not what I meant." Harry returns his gaze to the bushes on his right. They're neatly trimmed and somehow manage to convey pretentiousness. He sighs.

"I know what you meant," Malfoy replies. His voice sounds far away. "I'm here because I was invited, Potter, like you. Although I'd wager I'm being a much more gracious house guest by not trampling through the host's gardens at night like a wild Erumpent."

"Well, the host is a bastard, and he can shove it for all I care." Harry reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a cigarette. "Got a light?"

"Ooo, scandalous. The Savior, Golden Boy of Gryffindor, pride of the Wizarding World, smoking?" Malfoy says. Harry looks up. He's grinning.

Harry grins back. Malfoy throws him a lighter.

"Thanks."

Smoke drifts in soft tendrils over their heads as Harry lights his own. There's silence for a bit, and then: "What guff have you got with Parkinson, anyway? He donates to all those little charities you fund. Seems fairly respectable."

Harry laughs scornfully, a small flame of irritation licking at his insides. "Do you really think he cares about any of those kids he's helping? All those people with permanent war injuries?" He scoffs. "He does it for clout, Malfoy. Something your family should know all about."

A clump of ash lands on his head and he yelps. Malfoy laughs lightly, and it's oddly pleasant.

"My family, yes. Me? Well, I'm only here for Pansy." He sighs. "Mother's fooling herself if she thinks even a scrap of our reputation can be salvaged, what with Father half-dead in Azkaban. Besides, it's no fun pretending to be someone you're not. That lesson I've learned, at least."

He says all this with a sort of calm acceptance, as if nothing he talks about is of any consequence. Like they both don't know what he's referring to. Like they both don't know the same people who put his father in prison are the ones who greet Harry in the halls at work every morning.

Or, maybe, like it's something he'd rather ignore. Something he's willing to overlook.

"Wanna get out of here?" Harry asks, staring up at Malfoy again. The moon casts shadows all across the grounds, but Malfoy seems strangely illuminated. His features are sharp and defined, hair silver and shining. His eyes bore into Harry's, slightly incredulous, looking for something.

Something he, apparently, finds.

"Sure."
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The small diner at the end of Malfoy's street is open twenty-four hours, so that's where they decide to go. Harry offers his arm for Apparition, but Malfoy just shakes his head and starts walking. "When was the last time you simply enjoyed the night, Potter? Come on. London is beautiful."