My writer's block is currently several miles high and encircles the sea of my creativity entirely. At last I begin to hear crack and strain, and the churning of active waters beyond. More than two months of blank indifference are fading at last and I look forward to when the dam collapses. I'm sure you all do too.

"Selfish— a judgment readily passed by those who have never tested their own power of sacrifice."
~ George Eliot

"Selfishness is a bad habit. That's why I always rationally think through my decisions to act without regard for others."
~Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic

"Nothing resembles selfishness more closely than self-respect"
~ George Sand, Indiana

"If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain, it would be you, Harry Potter."
~Griphook

Harry had never realized how heartening the sound of silence could be until he got to experience it comfortably. His life had been so loud from the first time he had drawn breath. Murder, mayhem, blood, battles, school, his horrible relatives, and people leading him on whatever path they had planned for him to lead since the day Voldemort had miscalculated the value of a willing sacrifice of love. Even after he had drawn the first breath of his second life -the one he would lead after enduring the Killing Curse for the second time- had begun just as loud and inescapable as the first. He had thwarted his enemy, saved the world, did his duty and attended all of the funerals and events he was expected to attend thereafter, and finished his last year of school with almost robotic indifference. He hated it all; the noise, the demands, the obligations, the expectations, and even, sometimes, the people.

Then, mercifully, everything had begun to settle down.

It had occurred to him quite suddenly. He hadn't yet begun his Auror training and was planning to go with the same grudging resignation he had experienced going back to school to finish his education. He was graduated and had a whole life ahead of him that had been planned out and encouraged so vehemently by other people that it just made him sick to think about it. Somehow, eating breakfast at Grimmauld Place with Kreacher hanging on his every word, it all fell on him at once when he remembered he should be preparing to attend training in just under a week.

In that moment Harry had been consumed by a rage he hadn't known was lurking behind the obedient facade. Kreacher had fled the house in abject terror after witnessing on the first moments of the ensuing tantrum. Power flared from Harry's twisted form while the bottled-up fury exploded from him with all the intensity of a miniature nova. When it was done and the house was in tatters, Harry sagged bonelessly to the floor and waited.

And waited.

And... waited.

And realized how quiet it was.

Harry closed his eyes and listened. The wards were strong here. He couldn't hear any neighbors, or the street outside. Kreacher was gone so there was none of his noise either. Harry's heart pounded in his ears only for a little while before the house's emptiness seeped in through his skin. There was nothing here to make noise, and Harry smiled knowing that he had done that. Small things; like finally managing to remove that evil woman's portrait and giving away his radio and keeping a ward on his flu to limit who could call him had helped in his recovery after the frantic and constant drone of the war.

He liked quiet.

He had never fully understood that until now. The inevitable calm after the storm took over and he was placid again. Placid, but not obedient. He was done doing that. Whatever control Voldemort and Dumbledore and Professors and anyone else might have had was gone. He had no schooling left to do and his eventual career was, at the moment, up in the air. For the first time in his life he realized that his future was in his own hands. He was expected at Auror Training... but he didn't have to go. Nor did he have to hurry out and get a job that paid well either; he had both the Potter and Black vaults to keep him secure into his hundred-seventies, if he lived that long, and that was only accounting for current funds. Investing could keep his children's great-grandchildren secure. His future was undecided, uninfluenced even -he admitted with guilty pleasure- by having to consider what his parents might want him to do like his friends had to take into account. His friends... well, they could tell he was miserable but not why. They'd be happy if he found a way to stop being so bloody mechanical all the time.

Slowly, Harry sat up. He looked around him at the remains of what had once been his dining room. Hermione used to joke about his destructive tendencies. A tantrum in first year had caused him to break a case of quills, after which she had asked, "Now that you've destroyed something do you feel better?"

Well, he did. And it didn't even matter that he'd have to clean this up now. Later, actually. For now he would go for a broom ride.

It turned out to be a very long flight.

Only when his legs hurt and his lungs burned and the sun was setting in a place Harry was completely unfamiliar with did he land. He had gone straight over several Muggle areas and right into a Wizarding one he had never been to before. It felt old and comfortable, and Harry only got friendly nods from people when he made his way out onto the street. There were shops of the sort one could tell the owners lived above in nice little flats.

The place reminded him of Ludlow; if Ludlow's lovely half-timbered buildings had been separated by streets and alleys populated by people dressed in flowing robes, fluttering cloaks, and pointed hats. It looked to Harry as if the neighborhood had been sort of taken over at some point, which sometimes happened when a lot of Witches and Wizards gathered in one area. There were some people in Muggle clothes, but not many, and they seemed to be travelling with a Wizardkind spouse or child in various levels of intrigue at their surroundings. As he looked up and down the street he noticed the sort of conspicuous 'end' to the street that usually marked where the Muggle and Wizarding areas were separated. It was clearly only a commercial street with nothing but shops and, perhaps above them, the shopkeeper's flats.

His eyes were still focused only on the far-off things and hadn't yet adjusted from the flight, but it felt peaceful here and that was more important than what it looked like.

"Good Lord. Harry Potter? I mean, the Harry Potter?" someone said nearby.

"No, just a Harry Potter," he answered vaguely. He was still pleasantly dizzy from his flight, glad to be in a new place, and at his flippest. "There might be another one along later."

Several people snickered and he left them be. His glasses were fogged from the heat of his body and being chilled from the flight before, and he had to go somewhere to sit down. He only hoped that the first place he walked into would be either a restaurant or a coffee shop where he could have a bite and rest with a hot drink. The warm air inside the building only made his glasses worse and he swore and rubbed them on his shirt.

"Oh, dear. May I?"

His glasses were snatched out of his hand.

"Oi! What are you- oh?" They had been given back an instant later, clear of all fog. And Harry was standing in a glasses shop, which explained how the clerk had done that so quickly.

The clerk smiled at him "What can I do for you today, sir?"

"Actually, I'm very lost-" Harry began.

He deflated a bit. "Oh. You'd like directions."

"No, no, no," Harry corrected quickly. "I'm quite happy being lost. I'd like to stay that way for a while, so don't tell me where I am, please."

"Well," he smiled again. "I can do that. Do you need an exam?"

The 'no' froze on his lips and melted into something that surprised even himself. "Yes. I do."

"And will you need frames as well along with new lenses?" The thin little man was already flicking his wand back and pulling up color references on slips of parchment, which he held up to compare with Harry's face.

Harry tilted his head to look. "What are those for?"

"Color and style comparisons, to be sure that your new frames look good on you, Mr. Potter. With green eyes like that you'd do well with-"

As the clerk chattered on to help him, Harry thought. He liked his glasses. He liked them because they were familiar and resembled the pair his dad had worn. Every dent and scratch and bend in them was marked by a memory, even a pleasant one on occasion, and the exceptionally smooth patches were there because a kind friend had repaired them for him. He was going to keep the things even if he wouldn't be wearing them from now on, definitely. An attack of nostalgia hit him even though he still had them on, but he took them off and handed them obligingly to the clerk when asked so that his old prescription could be analyzed. Maybe the unfamiliar frames would keep him from being mobbed as often, at least, if he wore something less recognizable.

A few hours later Harry went back out on the street and almost gaped at the detail he could see in now. He'd had no idea that his glasses were so horribly out of focus. He simply hadn't a frame of reference before aside from being near-blind without them. Now he looked down the street and could see the edges of the leaves from a distance instead of the tree itself being a big green blur. He grinned and looked back into the shop window to catch his reflection. They were certainly different – thin gold frames with rectangular lenses nicely rounded at the bottom that were meant to sit a bit lower on his nose than normal, which helped due to his being quite tall now that he had gotten out of his scrawny years. He was always looking down at people under his glasses and now he'd be able to focus on them better.

"Thanks," he said to the little man appraising him from the door of the shop. "I really like them."

"Good, Mr. Potter. I'm glad you do. Now, do you want to stay lost a bit longer, or should I direct you somewhere?"

Harry looked at his reflection again and frowned at the stark contrast between his new gold frames and the Muggle hand-me-downs he was wearing with a cloak. It occurred to him that if he wasn't wandering about in Muggle clothes he was in either his school uniform or formal robes, which were all getting too short for him regardless. It was probably time, or long overdue, for him to do something about that, and since he was very close to being at his adult size he wouldn't have to worry about out-growing good clothes in just a few years anymore.

"Is there a place to buy robes nearby?"

The clerk beamed at him and waved him down the street, where he said there were three right next to each other that would be happy to have him. The shops were owned by identical triplets (in appearance only, the man was quick to point out) and each store had a different purpose. He would find everything he needed all in the same spot. Harry thanked the man again and noted as he got far enough away that the store he had been in was hilariously called 'Nox Myopic'. True enough he came upon a single building that looked like it had been made by squishing three completely different buildings together like a toast sandwich.

The one on the far right had things in it meant for specific purposes; lime green Healer's robes and accompanying white aprons, Auror coats and cloaks designed for being inconspicuous, Goblin and human-sized banker's robes of black and white, Potioneer's robes of deep blue or green spelled to resist any sort of staining or deterioration, and uniforms from every school Harry knew of and three he didn't. It was simply called 'Zuretta's' and there was a sign in bold Roman-style letters over the display window requiring a note from school or place of employment before robes were to be sold. It was a pleasant building (or one-third of a building) painted a businesslike grey and white. A bay window had been added to distinguish it from the other two stores.

In the middle was a vibrant little place selling old-fashioned and high-end clothes for traditionalists that preferred to distance themselves from Muggle fashion or simply wanted to look haughty and rich. There were things in there that glittered and gleamed, lace and ribbon and opulent materials the likes of which Harry had seen the Malfoys wear all the time when he saw them about out of their house. It was called ' Arleth's'. The façade of this store was richly done in marble and gold, and a stained glass window had been added to the attic, which was lit with what looked like very high and bright fireflies from within.

The last store, the one Harry liked best, had a nice assortment of common and formal things. It was the sort of all-purpose place to buy robes where everyone could get what they needed if they looked hard enough. In the window was a hand-written sign in loopy, cheerful letters that said, "All customers guaranteed to find their size or alterations are free." It was called 'Jessenia's' and looked a lot like a normal timber and thatch country cottage with white walls, an added porch for comfort full of rocking chairs and covered in potted plants and wind chimes by someone who liked to hear bells on windy days.

Above all three shops in one huge sign was the collective name, "Sandra's Daughters".

Harry began to wonder why he had never been told about this place. After further thought, though, it became very clear. This was certainly an expensive area, so the Weasley's and most other people he knew wouldn't be able to come here to shop, though it seemed they would be more than welcome to walk around. Even the uniforms he had seen in the window were made of higher-grade materials than those Harry commonly saw at Madam Malkin's or even Gladrags. The Malfoys would likely have been offended at how friendly the place seemed to be with Muggles walking around so brazenly and unopposed. Harry didn't see many terribly practical shops here like Apothecaries or a Wandmaker or Potions stores – at least not very serious or practical potions. There was even a place to buy Muggle clothes before crossing over the threshold back to that world, and a bloody souvenir shop. It was, essentially, a tourist trap with basic essentials for the Wizardkind that lived nearby. The main business here obviously came from Wizardkind that were trying to show their Muggle family members a bit of their world without the somewhat businesslike atmosphere of Diagon Alley.

It still bore some scars from attacks that must have happened during the war, but for the most part everyone was doggedly pursuing their good times with family and friends in spite of it.

This was a place meant to have fun in. It was just what Harry needed.

He opened the door to Jessenia's and failed to do so inconspicuously because his forehead instantly struck a dangling helix of hollow clay owls that was clearly hung without accounting for tall people. He adjusted his glasses and looked around, but saw no one there. Luckily his glasses were spelled with protective charms that he would only have to renew every five years (he wished he'd had those before) so no damage was done but to his pride.

On the desk was a sign in the same loopy writing, "Break for tea. Back in thirty minutes. Please yourself."

So, Harry did.

He had never gotten to simply browse and look for himself before. He had always gone shopping with someone and had inevitably been peppered with comments like 'Is that for a party?' or 'is the expense worth it?' or his personal favorite 'Well… if you like it'. Now he had a unique opportunity to scrutinize every bit of fabric, every color, every cut, and every stitch at his leisure. Sirius had told him once that Harry was descended from a family with refined taste and he seemed to have inherited his mother's discerning eye as well. In short; 'There's a gentleman in you somewhere'. Harry knew that was true, because he had found himself admiring his Invisibility cloak more than a few times and had done the same in the shops he visited with his friends, though he felt embarrassed buying expensive things with them present… and they had always been there.

When Jessenia herself came back from her break she just smiled and left him to it, knowing a content customer when she saw one. Harry was there for hours trying things on. The best thing he found there was a pair of black boots, mid-calf high, with three gold buckles going up the outsides of them to secure the laces. They looked similar to a battered pair of boots he had seen in Sirius's closet once and Harry loved them immediately. Those he took straight to the desk, along with a golden brown pair exactly like them, and a warning that he was going to be buying quite a lot yet.

"If I may," Jessenia said kindly, "With eyes like that and your pitch black hair you'd look wonderful in dark reds and purples, and olive green. Use those as your base colors and black or golden brown as the accents. If you're going to get more buckles and such – only use gold. It suits you, as your glasses clearly display."

Harry smiled and inclined his head. "I'm not very good at this-"

"Oh, I disagree. You found the right shapes for your figure on your own."

"Thank you. I wouldn't be opposed to some help, though." Over the next hour she had Harry set with robes, trousers, cloaks, sashes, belts, socks, nightclothes, and anything else he would need to stock a proper Wizard's wardrobe. He paid for it all without even a flinch, surprising himself, and suddenly wondered where he was going to take it all. "Is there an inn nearby?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. It's over on the Muggle side, though, just past the gate. There are rooms below the hotel proper specifically for us if you don't want a Muggle room, but I've never had a complaint about either section. Honestly, the liquor cabinets are cheaper and the view of the street is wonderful in the morning. I recommend one of the upper rooms. Did you want to have your robes delivered there?"

Harry startled. "You can do that? Aren't the owners Muggle?"

She nodded and continued flicking her wand to fold and package everything Harry had bought. "Certainly, but the family has known of our world for so long that the Ministry simply gave them a miss when we separated. The Black Talbot is the entryway to get here. I'll send these in and let them know you'll need a room. Upstairs? Window seat?"

Harry nodded and tossed his hand-me-downs in the trash bin on the way out, going back to his shopping in a set of his new robes. It was autumn and the cool wind refreshed him as he continued down the road, turning this way and that and taking in the atmosphere of what he had decided was the best treatment for his aching soul. A plan for the evening began to form and he visited the bookshop to find a good story, then perched himself at a table on the porch of the coffee shop. There was a park nearby – just a small place with swings and a slide and sandbox – where he got to watch children from both worlds play together.

He had his drink and a treacle tart of the most sinful and decadent kind, read about heroes past and wars that didn't involve him, and listened to the sound of laughter for hours.

The knot of tension in his core began to unravel.

Only when the sky started to turn the brilliant colors of sunset did he move from his spot. He planned to head toward the inn, but stopped once more to examine his reflection in a shop window. He did look entirely different for the most part. The robes he had chosen were simple yet stylish, and of a cut that hugged his figure rather than hanging loose like curtains. Harry doubted his friends would recognize him at first. It was true, though, that the change kept him from being immediately recognizable. His glasses were a dead giveaway, or had been. Now he could tell people were straining as if he looked familiar, but couldn't tell exactly why without thinking about it; and that gave him time to scarper away before they did.

It was nice, but not perfect… because his hair was a bit of an obvious tip-off too. To solve it before his vacation was ruined by being swarmed by reporters; he went to the first building he saw with scissors on it (which was unlikely to be a tailor, because he had already been there). He then made the terrible mistake of giving his name to the clerk at the desk within hearing range of other people.

Immediately Harry was questioned by a man who had brought his two year old son in for his very first haircut and wanted to know what Harry Potter was going to do so the stylist could do the same to the poor kid, who looked shyly at everyone from behind his dad's leg with no idea what was going on. When Harry said he didn't know yet the man surrendered his appointment to Harry (they were booked for the week) and tipped the stylist to owl him exactly what Harry decided on for when they came back. Before Harry could so much as raise a feeble protest the man was gone and Harry was taken back to a chair.

"Are you alright?" the witch asked him when the blue frock she put on him only made his blush look worse.

"No," he said flatly. "I wish people wouldn't do that."

"I can see how it would be frustrating," she said. "Remove your glasses, please. Now what would you like?"

Harry hesitated. "I didn't have time to think about it yet. Most people try to cut my hair short, but it never stays that way. Once it even grew back overnight-"

She nodded and stood beside the chair. "Then maybe you should grow it out, since it's what you obviously prefer. The weight would control how wild your hair is without hiding it. Has it ever been long before?"

"Yes. When I was," he hesitated. "It got to my shoulders once, but it looked terrible. My friend's Mum cut it short again."

"And it grew back?"

"Very fast, yes." Harry admitted. His wild jet-black hair had a bloody mind of its own. It was now halfway to his shoulders again, though the weight had indeed made it somewhat less gravity-defiant.

The hairdresser smiled at him. "Why don't you let it grow out?"

"Do you think? I came to cut it, though-"

"Do you want to?"

He sighed. "No, I really don't." And now he had taken that kid's appointment for nothing, though 'taken' was probably the wrong word.

"Why don't you let me give you a shampoo and trim? I'll give it a better shape for your face, but you really shouldn't cut the length if you don't want to, especially since you can keep it over your scar if you don't want it seen."

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Sabine."

When Harry left the hairdressers he had decided definitively that he would always request Sabine from now on, who had even offered to ignore the man from before and return his tip. Harry had never been asked what he wanted to do with his own hair before. She hadn't so much cut it as shaped it, and to his surprise Harry liked what she had done. It would look much nicer in this shape once it got to his shoulders again.

The sky had gotten quite dark at that point and he knew the Inn must be wondering where he was, but there was one more stop he simply had to make before turning in for the night.

There was a tiny stall near the salon that was mixing ice cream with paddles on a slab of marble so cold it steamed. When he ordered black raspberry with chocolate chips in it, they actually mixed fresh berries and slivers of chocolate cut off of a large block into vanilla cream until it turned purple with juice. He had never thought that he would part with an entire galleon for a single serving of ice cream, but he had to admit it was worth it. Just before they closed he got another pint to take with him to the inn. He let the salesman choose the flavor that time and was rewarded with a sinful concoction that had been flavored with red velvet cake mix and folded around little balls of dense brownie with ermine icing centers.

He didn't eat supper that night and it took two cups of very hot tea to stop his headache afterward, but it was a good pain. He resolved to have a proper breakfast with meat the next morning, though, to compensate for eating sweets the whole day before.

As he sat there on the window seat drinking his tea, high on expensive confectionaries, and utterly happily lost; Harry had the opportunity to watch Muggles do their daily things. They shopped and talked and played just like everyone else. But theirs was a far calmer atmosphere. It was frantic with the same hustle as the Wizarding world when things very much needed to be done, true, but they didn't know they were on the tail end of a magical war. Something about them was relaxed in a way he hadn't seen in people in a very long time, and it made him feel immensely better about everything he and his loved ones had been through.

Eventually, though, Harry realized he would have to send an owl to people and let them know where he was. Or that he was safe, but was damn well going to stay away for a while and nurse his aching nerves.

Yes, that was a better idea.

The place was beautiful, the people were nice, and letting himself be lost for a while and learning to pamper himself was a new start in a life he had thus far been giving away to everyone else. Every voice in his head that sounded like his friends screamed at him to go back home and let this be just one wonderful day he could remember fondly at Auror Training and get on with his life the way he was expected to.

There was one voice, though, a quiet and shy one that sounded a lot like he had as a subdued child living in a cupboard under the stairs. It asked plaintively if they could stay the same way it had that first summer packing to go back to the Dursley's when Hogwarts had been the only place he felt at home. He had been forced to ignore it back then and go back to a life he hated. Now he didn't have to.

Harry forced past the loudest of these voices and, for once, heeded his own.

He wrote two or three copies of the same letter to send to the essential households that would be frantic over him being missing by now, explaining very patiently that he had temporarily lost his mind and had gone off to find it and would return the moment he was sure it was properly secured in his head again. As he did this Harry went over the layout of the little road in his head. He planned out the next week's activities; things to do, people to get to know better, things to buy, places to loiter in and read, and anything else he thought might help him feel steady again.

As it turned out… he needed two weeks to do all of it. Relaxing deliberately was harder than he thought.

The expected explosion of lectures over disappearing simply did not happen when he returned. It confused him at first until he realized the Weasleys had taken his example and gone off for a week themselves to reconnect after losing Fred. Hermione had gone with them and returned on the growing list of future Weasleys, and wearing a ring that must have been quite fashionable in the 1800's; clearly it was one of those that either Arthur's or Molly's family had squirreled away in their vaults in the past. Ron was clinging to her like the only steady thing in his world, as he was the one that George had latched onto as he grieved and needed support when he wasn't supporting George.

Hermione was trying very hard to ignore that her engagement ring had originally been a poison ring. She filled it with fluff soaked in Lavender oil instead, and smelled of it constantly. Currently they sat in the Burrow's kitchen drinking tea and listening to the rain with all the windows open. Everyone else had gone to sleep, lulled by the noise.

"You look very different, Harry," she said.

Harry heard something very tired in her voice, and he looked at her with a frown. "Is that bad?"

"No, I was only wondering how you'd done it. I'm not talking about your clothes or glasses. Everyone else is still so… dense. It's as if you've managed to find your pain and melt it. Can you tell me how you did that?" She looked desperate for an answer, and Harry found himself at a loss for helpful words. The truth would have to do.

"To be honest, I think it's because I'm not embroiled in prophecies or unconsciously filtering Voldemort out of my head at all times. I'm not currently a pawn in anyone's plots or have Dark Lords to fight and people to die for. I've done enough and I'm living for myself now. I feel like I've been carrying stones on my back my whole life and finally gotten to take them off." He met her eyes and smiled. "This isn't helping you, is it?"

She took a long sip and let the heat seep into the inside of her mouth before she swallowed. When she spoke it was in a puff of hot breath in a cool room. "No, but I'm happy for you anyway."

"You'll get there too, Hermione. Everyone will. It's going to take longer for the sane people though. I've just lost my mind for a bit," he said.

"What are you going to do now?"

Harry smiled into his cup. "I applied for DADA Professor, but McGonagall told me I'm too young."

Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered something obscene she had learned from Ron. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to do it anyway. I'm starting a school purely for Magical Self-Defense, with classes for different age groups. The shop is already being set up in Hogsmeade – I've got a flood of owls from students and their parents wanting to give me their weekends – and if their parents show up to take them away from the school for the weekend the younger years don't even need a pass."

Hermione laughed at last, for the first time Harry could remember in months. "McGonagall will be furious!"

"Good. Maybe she'll hire me next year." He snorted derisively. "By the time they get to DADA after seeing me the students will be teaching their Professor."

"You're nineteen! That's sort of a good reason not to hire you, Harry."

"So I'm more than old enough to fight and die in a war but not old enough to be the teacher of a subject I've used in said war to save a school that refuses to hire me based on my age." He said blankly.

She sighed at him, but didn't argue. "Oh, well. I suppose I can't blame you there. But it is somewhat evil to go over her head like that."

"More to the side, really," he smirked.

This was fun.

Within the first month of operation Harry had gotten dozens of howlers from the current DADA Professor (who was a bit of an arse), the Headmistress, and the School Board. All of them seemed to be mainly concerned with the following two things; him not being an officially accredited teacher (while refusing to let him go through the process just yet) and his curriculum surpassing their own (which was a bad thing, for some reason) while maintaining a better standard of comprehension and practice (which they mentioned only very vaguely and reluctantly). Both of which were thinly disguised whining about him playing 'Anything-You-Can-Do-I-Can-Do-Better' and winning so hard it made their bums hurt. McGonagall had now said she would hire him only when he turned twenty-one, neatly avoiding making him the youngest Professor in Hogwarts history out of spite.

Harry took it as a challenge: he thought he'd be able to break her in under a year and get in early. He strongly suspected she would retire immediately after hiring him and leave someone else to deal with his antics, which would include continuing to run his public school on the summers and weekends.

The Ministry, however, had sent a strongly worded letter that berated him for accepting students from Hogwarts as pupils because the school board was whining about it whilst simultaneously saying it was a wonderful idea to have a Wizarding Self-Defence school available to the general public. They conspicuously failed to tell him to STOP accepting Hogwarts students as pupils; they merely chided him for it.

As the weeks passed and winter turned Hogsmeade white, Harry increasingly enjoyed sitting in his flat above the store and staring out the window overlooking the street. He watched the people below, the snow fall, the sky change colors as the sun rose and fell, and continued to be happier with his life than he thought he would be. For once he felt like himself and it had been very hard to achieve. He was going back to his little road again in two days and realized that he didn't want to do it alone. For days he'd been mulling over who to bring with him and though there were a lot of people that would benefit from the experience he knew of nobody that had the time or heart to go on an impromptu vacation just now.

Then, just as he was resigning himself to another solitary trip, his eyes focused on a familiar figure coming out of Dominic Maestro's carrying, of all things, an Aulos.

Harry had seen Malfoy once or twice since that fateful night his family had attended the victory celebration in the Great Hall, albeit in a secluded spot and looking very uncomfortable about it. Malfoy had not come back for his last year, rather intelligently it turned out due to how Slytherin House was treated in the school until the Professors pooled their resources to put a stop to the relentless bullying. Instead Malfoy had gone directly into learning to replace his father as Malfoy Head; transitioning into running the Manor and the many businesses and properties they owned, and trying to start a business of his own repairing magical antiques; which it turned out he was very good at.

Seeing him set every discerning part of Harry's brain crackling insistently, the way it did when he saw something he wanted. There was a time when Harry ignored those impulses, but it had led to years of clothes that didn't fit and food he could only tolerate and a distinct lack of mind-buggering desserts he never knew he'd wanted when he could have had everything he wanted right then. He didn't want to be that person anymore and tended to answer that part of his mind rather than ignore it no matter what it directed him to if it was within reason.

So it was only a few moments before he was out the door and down the street, falling into step beside the other man who, Harry was pleased to note, was no longer carrying himself as if there was a stick up his arse.

"Evening, Malfoy," Harry said cordially.

"Potter," was the flat reply, as if only acknowledging Harry's existence in the same way someone would state 'yes, that is a table'.

"Do you always buzz about like this? Must be bloody tiring. Couldn't someone else take over for a while and give you a break?" Malfoy ignored him. "Look, I need to ask you something and I need to do it at Hog's Head."

Malfoy stopped and glared at him. "What could you possibly have to ask me that's so bloody important, Potter? And why are you concerned with my work to begin with?"

Harry shrugged. "I figured getting you to stop and talk to me was going to be the hardest part."

"It was bound to happen eventually," Malfoy reasoned coldly. "And my answer is no."

"Didn't ask anything yet, did I?" Harry smirked.

Malfoy argued the point with Harry for over an hour while Harry followed Malfoy on his errands and continued to be belligerently reasonable at him. Despite his efforts to get Harry to bugger off Malfoy would have been equally successful in trying to convince a waterfall to flow the other way; the nature of reality would have to be changed.

"For pity's sake – will you leave me alone if I let you ask me the bloody question?" he asked tiredly.

"And drink," Harry insisted. "You have to accept at least one drink as well."

"Let's get this over with," Malfoy conceded.

Malfoy had bombarded Harry with stony silence until their drinks arrived, at which point he demanded to hear the question. "Aren't you going to have your drink, Malfoy?" Harry asked quietly.

"I agreed to accept it; not drink it. Ask what you want to so I can leave."

Harry shook his head. "I'd planned on having a bit of conversation first."

The barest twitch of the blonde's facial muscles told Harry that a tiny explosion of rage had just gone off behind the calm mask. "We've been conversing all evening."

"No, I've been talking at you while you tried very hard to ignore me. That's entirely different," Harry said sensibly. The other man remained silent just long enough to communicate his utter contempt for both the situation and the person that had put him there before taking a few swallows of his drink. Harry snorted. "Is my company really so abhorrent to you?"

"I'm surprised you even know that word; or I would be if you hadn't spent so much time with Granger. Sorry, I meant yet-another-Mrs. Weasley," he said blankly. "To be fair you look like the more sophisticated older brother of that scrawny owl-spectacled prat I remember from school. At least I'm not embarrassed to be seen near you."

Harry nearly bristled, but forced himself to stop. It was a backhanded compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. Malfoy just wouldn't be Malfoy if he didn't get in the first conversational strike. Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Malfoy interrupted. He had been carefully gauging the most irritating moment to continue.

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

Harry thought about it a moment, then laughed humorlessly. "Years of stress fell down on me at once. It felt like I was trying to fight my way out of chains. They had been put on so slowly I didn't notice them until the weight became too much to handle." At the curious look he shrugged. "That was what it felt like, anyway. I had been forced into the life I had up until that point the way a blacksmith pounds metal."

"You could have chosen your own path at any time, Potter. You decided to be the bloody hero, no one else; so don't whine to me," Malfoy snapped.

"Yes, but that would have made me no better than a coward. That wasn't a choice; it was a possible failure. So I kept letting the world form me the way it wanted until at last I'd done my job, but I wasn't myself. At least… not the one I wanted to be. I decided to change and with everything I changed about myself a link fell off and I could walk easier." His explanation felt flat and uncreative, and far too simple. At least it was true, though. Malfoy couldn't fault him that.

"I can understand that, at least," he admitted slowly. "Wanting to be your own man, I mean; above a certain level of influence. It's a difficult thing to achieve with weights on."

Harry took a drink and nodded. "You sound familiar with the feeling."

"To an extent."

"I heard your family objected to your career choice," Harry said, and realized he might have gone too far. Malfoy stared at him blankly as if searching for deception or mockery. Thankfully he seemed to find none and continued, though warily.

"I was told to do something more worthy," he said sourly.

Harry snorted. "What does that mean?"

"Less common and more public; something to gain influence and spread the name." Malfoy answered. "That would have required more energy than I had, and no public office will accept me with a trial record –no matter the outcome- and a pointed reluctance to roll up my sleeves. It quite simply isn't a possibility for me."

Harry was surprised he had even mentioned the Dark Mark at all, even if he hadn't said so directly. He was watching Harry for a reaction. "It's unfair to expect you to work a career that you don't want anyway," Harry stated clearly. "I've seen that you enjoy doing magical repair and you make decent enough gold doing it. That ought to be worth more to your parents than a job that'd only make you miserable."

The reply was bitter. "One would think."

Harry felt the right moment forming well, so he finally said," It sounds like you might need to get away from it all for a while."

"Not everyone has the luxury of being able to disappear for weeks at a time," Malfoy said wryly. "I almost envy your little escapade, wherever you went. At least it made the news interesting for a week until the rumors of your assassination were proven wrong."

Harry winced. "I don't like to really hate people, but that Skeeter woman..."

"-should be flogged," Malfoy finished and they shared an amused glance.

"There isn't anyone that could watch the store for you?"

"No one I would trust to continue repairs. My assistant can arrange pickup and delivery, but she's pants at fixing anything but her hair."

"You can afford to lose a week of business, just move the dates and tell your clients-"

"Why are you so insistent on my taking a vacation, Potter?" Malfoy demanded suspiciously.

Harry smiled. "That's my question. I want you to go with me. I've decided to share my escape with someone."

The other man's drink stopped halfway to his mouth and was lowered back to the table. His glare could have frozen it if it had gotten any closer to his face. "You're mad."

"That's a distinct possibility," Harry agreed.

"Why me, Potter?"

"Why not?"

Malfoy growled. "Would you like me to answer that ludicrous question in chronological order or alphabetical? The only other option is to list every single encounter we've had in our lives by degrees of how likely the meeting might have been fatal."

"We've grown up since then, and the main cause of our animosity is long gone. I don't see any reason we can't-"

"You nearly killed me," the blonde hissed acidly, though silently enough that it wouldn't cause a stir in the pub. "I've tried to kill you as well; several times, in fact."

"And we're both still here. How does that mean we can't date now, exactly?" Malfoy's expression was now the best facial representation of an interrobang he had ever seen. He also made a mental note to chide Hermione for teaching him what that was. Harry sat back and crossed his arms and put on his best 'challenge me' face. It had the desired effect and Malfoy seemed to shrink back. "Please come with me."

"No," he said immediately.

"I'm going to keep asking until you say yes," Harry said confidently.

Malfoy stood up and tried to make his eyes blaze fiercely, but they just wouldn't do it. "You're attempting the impossible, Potter. I don't even know why you chose me to begin with, but I'm not playing your game."

Then Malfoy left, leaving Harry alone at the table. That was fine. Harry hadn't actually expected him to agree to go to the pub let alone actually hold a conversation on the first go. It had gone far better than anticipated. After all, the opposite of love wasn't animosity; it was indifference. If Malfoy hated or feared Harry then he still felt something. Harry had a better chance of succeeding than Malfoy yet realized. All he had to do was find a way to turn that feeling in a different direction.

Harry was done denying himself the best the world had to offer him, and he knew quality when he saw it. Maybe it was selfish to pursue Malfoy. Maybe it was impossible. He didn't care. Harry had done the impossible before… and he now knew there was nothing wrong with being selfish once in a while as long as he had good intentions at heart.

~END