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"Draco?"

It's scarcely a whisper, but it carries. The ex-Slytherin takes a step back, licks his lips nervously, clears his throat.

"The fuck are you doing here anyway, Potter? I thought you were living in some leafy suburb on the other side of the city," he says.

"Aren't you cold?" is all Harry can think of in way of response. And it's a stupid question. Of course he's cold. It's the middle of fucking January and Draco's in a torn muscle vest and skinny jeans that show more creamy flesh than dark denim. His teeth are chattering.

"Yes, I'm fucking cold," Draco snaps, folding his arms defensively across his chest.

"Are you alright? I saw you throwing up just now..." Harry tries and Draco scoffs.

"Do the maths yourself then, Scarhead. You've just seen me be sick - does that seem like something somebody who is 'alright' would do?" Draco's hostility is only rising. Harry sighs, concerned, and reaches out to touch Draco, who abruptly steps out of the way .

"If you want to touch you have to pay," he says. "And I'm gonna start taking cash up front. Learned the mistake of doing otherwise."

"Draco..." Harry begins, and the blond scoffs.

"Look, Potter, are you gonna waste my time or are we gonna get this over with?" he demands. "Time is money, and if you just want to chit-chat then I need to find somewhere more valuable to be."

"You're a hooker," Harry says, astounded. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He thinks, but he doesn't say it, not out loud. Even Malfoy doesn't deserve that low a blow.

"How very astute of you, Potter," the blond scoffs. "I hadn't worked that one out for myself. Thank you for enlightening me."

"Does Astoria know?" it's a stupid question, really, Harry seems full of those tonight. Yet its the one that's at the forefront of his mind. Suddenly, Harry's pushed against a wall and Draco has two fistfuls of Everton United tee-shirt.

"Astoria is the fucking reason I'm here in the first place. Don't you fucking dare think about telling anybody." he snarls. Before Harry can reply, Draco has turned and is vomiting again. It's all bile and no substance, and Harry notices know how thin Draco's really gotten. To him, it's reminiscent of the days when the Dursleys would use starving as a punishment, when he wouldn't be allowed to eat anything substantial for days, weeks even, when the hunger pains would become so bad he couldn't even stand up straight. He clicks his tongue, like a concerned mother hen.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" he asks, when Draco straightens. For a second, the ex-Slytherin looks at him like he's gone mad. Then he shrugs his shoulders.

"I had three digestive biscuits yesterday," he says. Harry rolls his eyes.

"The last time you ate proper food?" he asks, and Draco has to really think about it.

"Three and a half weeks ago," he says, though he doesn't sound one hundred percent sure. "What's it to you?"

"Come with me," Harry says, and Draco steps back.

"Why?" he says.

"There's an all night cafe round the corner. I'll buy you something to eat," he says. Draco doesn't follow him when he sets of and he sighs. "Come on. I'm trying to be nice to you, you arse. Come on."

Albeit reluctantly, Draco tags after Harry, muttering under his breath something along the lines of

'Fucking Griffindors'

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The cafe is by no stretch of the imagination a nice place. It's a really greasy-spoon type joint, so un-classy it's not even amusing. But Harry buys two bacon sandwiches and a cup of tea for Draco, all of which he inhales appreciatively rather than eats. After, he sits and taps his fingernails irritatingly on the side of the now-empty mug.

"How long have you been..." Harry begins to ask, but can't finish. Draco shrugs.

"Eighteen months? Or thereabouts," he says. "Don't really like to think about it."

"Why?" Harry asks.

"Well it's not exactly through choice," Draco grumbles. He sighs. "Astoria chucked me out. Cheating on me with Zabini, would you believe? She got everything in the divorce. The car, the house. Scorpius. All my damn money. She left me essentially penniless. I had enough for a few weeks in a room at The Leaky Cauldron. But 'Malfoy' isn't exactly the favourite name with the clientèle in there, and people complained about me. Tom had to 'ask me to leave'. Think the bastard got some sick thrill out of it, he never liked me. Mum's on the loony ward of Saint Mungo's these days and Lord only knows where my father is - he's developed a taste for travelling. Or foreign women. I slept rough in Nocturne Alley for a while but Dad had too many enemies there. I couldn't go more than a few days without being attacked.

I started crashing in my office, but I lost my job after a bit. Don't blame them, to be honest. I looked dreadful, worse than I do right now if you can believe that. You could tell I was homeless and I wasn't good for the Ministry's image. So they let me go. I... I came to muggle London as a last resort, really. Thought I could maybe find one of those community centres that daft bint Babbage was always talking about in Muggle studies. But all of the ones I found were either overcrowded or they had some other excuse for not letting me stay. I was sleeping in the alley behind this sleazy pub, the landlady let me sleep in the store room when it was really cold or rainy. And I got talking too this guy, about this... this squat he'd set up, said I could stay there. Nothing classy, but it was warm and dry and who was I to say no? Told him I couldn't pay him rent and he said we'd sort it. And he... he sorted it."

Seeing Draco swallow his pride to regale all that leaves Harry in state of speechless shock. The blond looks away, a teardrop glistening on his eyelashes. It's only in the too-bright light of the cafe that Harry really notices how dreadful he's looking. Practically skeletal, greasy hair, several cuts and bruises littering his arms and face. There are track marks, too, on his arms.

"What are you taking?" Harry asks, tracing a sympathetic finger along the puncture wounds. Draco swallows.

"Heroin, mostly. On and off. For about a year now," he says. "Don't look at me like that. It... it helps. Being with all these guys... it just helps take the edge off of it. Only I end up in massive debt to my... my pimp. And then I'll give it up, won't take any for weeks, finally start to repay him and think I'm sorting my life out. And something will happen and I'll go on a massive bender and we're back to square one."

"That's horrible," Harry breathes, and Draco just shrugs.

"What about you, then?" he asks. "How have you gone from marital bliss with a Weasley to living in one of the roughest boroughs of South London?"

"Ginny divorced me," Harry shrugs. Draco's eyebrow quirks up.

"She did? Why?" he asks, looking genuinely shocked. Harry shifts, uncomfortably, feels himself blush, clears his throat.

"She may have um... stumbled... upon my collection of... um... homoerotic..." he stammers, and Malfoy bursts out laughing.

"Gay porn?" he says. "She found your gay porn!"

Tears of laughter are streaming down his cheeks, and Harry can't help thinking how out-of-place a smile looks on that skinny, sallow face. It's not unappealing.

"I'm sorry, mate, but that is fantastic!" he says, once he regains control. Harry says what he says next without thinking.

"Come to mine tonight. Crash on my sofa," he says. "I'll know you're safe there. Put my mind at rest."

"You what?" Draco smile vanishes even quicker than it appeared.

"Please. Just humour me?" Harry says.

Draco follows him back to the flat with little further protest.