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The air outside in London was thick, gray, and smelled of things Draco wasn’t ever allowed to touch. It was the “muggle” smell his father had always complained of when they went out on these rare occasions, and it made his nose itch. Yet, despite it all, Draco had been gleeful when his Mother came to collect him from his etiquette lessons earlier than scheduled. She had told him of an errand her and Father needed to do, and both believed it would be nice for Draco to get some time out of the Manor.
Walking between his parents, Draco held onto his Father’s cane, clutching it as if it were a lifeline. His curious grey eyes flitting around the cobblestone street, glancing into the display windows of each passing store as they walked with a purpose.
It wasn’t long until a flash of bright, obnoxious red caught his eye. He knew he had to get a closer look, it felt as if it would be the end of the world if he didn’t, and let his tiny fingers slip from his Father’s cane to approach the window. Neither his mother nor father noticed as he slipped through a crowd of passing muggles, nor when they turned the corner and their only child had slipped away from their sights.
Draco looked through the display window with no little amount of fascination, yet he couldn’t help but freeze as he thought of what his father might say — he had always hated all things muggle, thought of them as wastes of space and air — so the young boy turned around, hoping to rush back to his parents before they noticed his absence.
But, as he looked out into the crowd it was as if they were swallowed by it, he could not find a sight or sound of their striking blonde or silver hair. Couldn’t hear the click of his father’s cane as it hit the stone pathway.
“Father?” Draco called out, his voice wavering with slight panic. His voice sounded thin against his ears, and tiny against the roar of the metal monsters the Muggles called cars. He looked left, then right. He saw tall coats, hurried faces, and muddy shoes, but no black robes. No safety.
His lower lip gave a traitorous wobble. He could practically hear his father’s words, “A Malfoy does not cry in the street, especially not a street as drab as this one,” but his chest felt as if it was being squeezed by a Giant Squid. He found a cold stone step near a closed door and sat down, tucking his polished dragon-hide boots close to his body. He tried to take a deep breath, but it hitched, turning into a jagged sob.
He watched as uncaring muggles sped past him, not sparing Draco a second thought as they bustled about their day. He attempted to remind himself that his parents would come for him, and even if it was his fault for running off in the first place, he knew they would not care. They would just be happy he was safe, back in their arms.
Just as he felt another sob wrack up inside his chest, he words over the loud sounds of the city.
“Are you okay?”
The voice was soft and a bit whistly. Draco looked up, blinking through the blur of tears. Standing in front of him was a boy who looked like he had been put together from scraps. His oversized shirt was hanging off one bony shoulder, his hair was a black thicket of absolute chaos, and his glasses were held together by a thick glob of yellowing tape.
Draco sniffed, trying to regain his dignity even as he rubbed the palm of his hands aggressively over his eyes to wipe his tears. “I’m... I am waiting for my father and mother. They will be back, I am just waiting for them here.”
He felt his eyes widen slightly as the boy did something unexpected; he sat down. Right beside Draco, with only a few mere inches separating the two. The boy knocked his knees together, trying to avoid letting his patchy trousers touch his nice suit slacks. Draco watched the movement before looking up to the boy again, blinking slowly when he noticed the boy was already watching him.
A bright smile remained on his face, and Draco couldn’t help but notice his two front teeth were missing, causing his tongue to slip slightly between the spaces. He found himself comparing the strange, dusty boy to a rabbit. A very friendly, very messy little rabbit.
“Oh! I’m waiting too!” the boy said brightly. “My Uncle locked the door again. I’m Harry! Do you want to see my lucky rock?”
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Harry’s feet felt heavy, like he was wearing lead boots instead of Dudley’s old, cavernous trainers, but he didn't mind the ache. Every step away from Privet Drive felt like a tiny victory. Aunt Petunia had shooed him out into the garden for the afternoon and Uncle Vernon had made sure the latch on the back door clicked shut with a very final sounding thud.
Usually, Harry stayed in the garden and watched the colonies of ants, but today the sun was out, and the world beyond the hedges seemed to be calling his name. He had walked until the neat, boring houses of Surrey turned into the tall, soot-stained buildings of London. To Harry, who spent most of his life in a cupboard under the stairs, this felt like a grand adventure. He was a brave explorer, and the sidewalk was his map.
That was when he saw him.
Harry stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open. Sitting on a drab stone step was a boy who didn't look like he belonged in London — or maybe even on Earth. He had hair as white as the lilies in Aunt Petunia’s garden and skin that looked like it had never touched a speck of dirt. Even his clothes were beautiful; he wore a suit of dark, shimmering velvet that looked softer than Mrs. Figg’s new kitten.
An angel, Harry thought, his eyes wide behind his taped-together glasses. I’ve found a lost angel.
But the angel was crying. His silver-grey eyes were rimmed with red, and his small, pale hands were trembling. Harry knew that look. It was the look he felt on his own face when he watched his Uncle and Aunt take Dudley out on a family outing. It was always accompanied by the feeling Harry had every time the Dursleys left him at Mrs. Figg’s, or when they looked through him as if he were made of glass.
The boy was lost.
Harry didn't think twice. He wasn't scared of the boy’s fancy clothes or the way he spoke like a little professor. He just knew that someone this pretty shouldn't be sitting on a dirty step all by himself.
“Are you okay?” Harry asked, his voice coming out in a soft whistle through the gap where his front teeth used to be.
The boy — the angel — wiped his eyes and tried to puff out his chest. He talked about “running and errand” and “mothers and fathers,” but Harry could see the wobble in his chin. He knew the boy was just as lost as he usually was.
Harry sat down, careful to keep his dusty knees away from the angel's pristine suit. He wanted to help, but he didn't have much. He reached into the pocket of his oversized trousers, his fingers brushing against his only true possession. It was a pebble he’d found near the park — perfectly round, smooth as glass, and a deep, mottled green.
“Oh! I'm waiting too!” Harry said brightly, trying to make being lost sound like a fun game they were playing together. “ Uncle locked the door again. I’m Harry! Do you want to see my lucky rock?”
He held the pebble out in his palm. It looked small and a bit dull against the backdrop of the city, but to Harry, it was a treasure. He flashed a wide, gap-toothed grin, his lisp making the words sound soft.
The other boy looked at the rock, then at Harry. He didn't sneer like Dudley would have. He looked curious.
“Draco, My name is Draco.” the boy, no Draco, whispered as he poked at the rock with his pointer finger.
A cold wind whipped down the street, and Harry noticed the other boy shiver, his thin frame shaking under the velvet. Harry hesitated. He wasn't used to touching people — usually, when people touched him, it was to shove or pull — but he felt a sudden need to reassure him.
He moved an inch closer, then another, until their shoulders almost brushed. Tentatively, Harry reached out and patted the boy’s sleeve with a grubby, small hand. The fabric was even softer than he imagined.
“Don't worry,” Harry whispered, leaning in so the angel could hear him over the roar of the cars. “I'll stay right here. We can be losted together until they come. It's much better to be losted with a friend, isn't it?”
The boy looked at Harry’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Harry’s face. Slowly, the panic in his grey eyes began to melt, replaced by a shy, flickering wonder. For the first time since he stumbled upon the boy, the angel didn't look like he was going to cry.
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Draco didn't know what this so called lucky rock was supposed to do, but as he stared at the green pebble in Harry’s hand, he felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest. This boy was messy, his glasses were a disaster, and he smelled faintly of old grass — but he was the first person in this gray, loud city who hadn't walked past Draco without a second glance.
“It’s a very nice rock,” Draco managed to say, his voice finally steadying. He reached out, his pale fingers hovering over the pebble. “Is it magic?”
Harry’s green eyes brightened. “Of course it is! It’s lucky, so it has to be magic, right?” he chirped, not understanding that Draco was being literal. “Whenever I hold it, I feel like I could do anything!”
Draco nodded, somewhat confused. He understood that feeling, being a wizard and all, but wasn’t this boy a muggle…? Yet, he felt okay talking about magic with the boy despite never having met the other. Draco knew magic was everywhere. Especially back at the Manor, but here, in this cold place, it felt like this boy was the only spark of it left.
They sat there for what felt like hours, two small figures huddled together against the rising wind. Harry told Draco about the spiders in his cupboard, and Draco told Harry about the white peacocks that lived in his garden. They were in two different worlds, yet on this one stone step, the worlds had blurred into one.
Their quiet moment on the step was suddenly broken by a sharp, electric hum that made the fine hairs on Draco’s neck stand up. It was a sensation he knew better than his own name — the weight of familiar magic pressing against the mundane London air. The Muggles around them didn't seem to notice, but Draco felt it like a physical blanket of warmth.
“Draco! Draco, my darling, where are you!”
The yell was high and desperate, cutting through the roar of the metal monsters. Draco jumped to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. Rounding the corner were two figures that looked like they had been carved from moonlight and silver.
Narcissa Malfoy had entirely abandoned the cold, poised mask she usually wore. Her fine robes, woven with enchanted silk, swept ruthlessly across the dirty Muggle pavement as she ran. Beside her, Lucius moved with a terrifying speed, his silver cane gripped so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Mother! I’m here!” Draco cried out, his voice cracking.
Before he could take a step, Narcissa was there. She dropped to her knees, heedless of the grime staining her dress, and scooped Draco into her arms with such force the breath left his lungs.
“My dragon, oh my sweet darling boy,” she whispered into his hair, her voice thick with a vulnerability Draco had never heard. Her hands were a frantic blur, checking his face, his small hands, his shoulders — as if making sure he was still solid and whole. “Never — and I mean never do that again, do you hear me?”
Draco leaned into her, the familiar scent of expensive perfume and safety washing over him. But as he was pulled into the sanctuary of his mother’s embrace, he looked down.
Harry was still sitting on the step.
The boy looked painfully small now. Without Draco sitting beside him, Harry seemed to shrink into the shadows of the doorway. Against the radiant, shimmering presence of the Malfoys, Harry looked desperately "un-magical." His oversized shirt looked thinner, his taped glasses more broken, and his messy hair even more chaotic. He looked like a little bird that had fallen out of its nest, watching the world move on without him.
“Lucius?” Narcissa’s voice wavered as she sensed her husband’s sudden, stony silence.
Draco looked up. His father wasn't looking at the dirt on Draco’s velvet knees. He wasn't even looking at Draco’s face. Lucius was staring at the boy on the step with an intensity that felt like a lightning strike.
The wind caught Harry’s unruly black fringe, pushing the dark thicket of hair away from his forehead for just a second. There, stark against his pale skin, was a thin, jagged shape.
Draco saw a spark in his father’s eyes — a sharp, jolting flash of recognition. Lucius’s jaw tightened, his already pale face dimming even further as his hand clenched the silver snake head of his cane until the metal creaked. He didn't speak; he simply stared at the boy as if he were a ghost that had suddenly materialized on a London street.
Harry flinched under the weight of the man's gaze, his fingers curling tightly around his green pebble. He looked terrified, yet he didn't run. It took him some time but Harry squared his shoulders and stood, looking Lucius in the eye.
“I... I was just keeping him company,” Harry whispered, his lisp returning as he looked at Draco one last time. “So he wouldn't be lonely.”
Lucius didn't say “thank you.” He didn't offer a scold for Draco being seen with such a shabby child. Instead, he reached down, his heavy hand landing on Draco’s shoulder in a way that was both protective and commanding.
“Come now, Draconis,” Lucius said, his voice a low, vibrating silk. “We are leaving.”
As they were led away, Draco reached into his pocket. He found the small, silver thread ribbon that had been tied to his etiquette scroll earlier that morning. Before his father could pull him too far, Draco reached out and pressed the ribbon into Harry's hand.
“For your lucky rock,” Draco whispered.
They turned the corner, stepping back into the shadows where the Muggles wouldn't see them vanish. As the world began to blur into the spinning sensation of side-along apparition, Draco’s last sight was a small, messy haired boy standing alone on a stone step, clutching a piece of silver ribbon and a green pebble, looking like he’d just seen a miracle.
The two may never see each other again, but as Draco felt the London air snap away, he knew he would never look at a green rock the same way again.