Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: A Muggle AU in which Harry is the outcast, and Draco the one with all the attention... Many thanks to Aleph Null for Brit-picking.

Un Dieu Anonyme
by

Harry pressed himself back against the cold plastic, shivering, clutching the parcel closer to his chest. Fucking rain. A tinny cacophony of rain-drops surrounded him as he huddled under the bus-stop. Why couldn't Uncle Vernon have fucking waited? Harry'd hoped to be able to collect the office papers from Mr Boyle and make it back before the rain started--the sky had been overcast all day, and there had been a smothering, muggy tension in the air since dawn. Harry knew--he'd been up at first light, starting the household chores.

Well damn it all if he was going to walk home in this downpour. They didn't even let him borrow Dudley's bike to pick up the papers. Harry scowled. Uncle Vernon would just have to wait--this kind of heavy shower usually only lasted for ten to fifteen minutes in a row, and Harry could make a run for Privet Drive when it next let up. He was too tired anyway. Flicking his wet hair back from his eyes, Harry sighed and let his head roll back against the plastic backing of the bus-stop. Just his luck to find one that didn't have seats in it...

'Potter.'

Harry started, snapping his head up so suddenly that he felt a twinge in his neck. He was about to speak when he saw who it was--and all words dried up in a splitting instant of shock, his jaw dropping in disbelief. For before him, perfect black shoes just slightly edged with mud, hoisting a ridiculously large umbrella, with each strand of his pale blonde hair in its immaculate place, was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy?!

So many questions rushed into Harry's mind, all at once, that none of them actually made it out of his mouth. Instead it dropped open a little more, as Draco Malfoy calmly stepped into the bus-stop as well, folding his umbrella and leaning it against the wall. Cool grey eyes fixed on Harry's with an unreadable _expression and, without knowing why, Harry felt his throat go dry.

'Malfoy...' What could he say? What was the richest boy in school doing here, in Little Whinging, sharing a bus-stop with poor Harry Potter? Harry almost expected the long black Mercedes to pull up in front of them as it did each afternoon after school, to take Malfoy home.

'Potter.' This time it sounded like Malfoy was slightly amused, but Harry couldn't be sure. He didn't really know the boy that well, and it still shocked him that Malfoy should know his name at all. Hardly anyone did.

'W-What are you doing here?'

But Malfoy only stepped closer, that unreadable look in his eyes--pale mouth unsmiling, a few stray rain-drops glittering on his hair. The air around his body was warm. Harry felt oddly distracted, a peculiar hot sickness rising in his stomach, like foreboding, like the realization, in the midst of a dream, that disaster was about to strike.

Pale hands settled on the wall on either side of his face, casting little fogged silhouettes. Harry pressed back even farther, it's all a dream all a dream all a dream and Malfoy was leaning closer, still the same ridiculously serious expression, and Harry felt his own eyes widening impossibly. He was going to get beaten, wasn't he? Bullied? But why here? Why wasn't Malfoy saying anything? A thousand panicked images flicked through Harry's mind--Malfoy laughing at school Dudley's first shoes Harry's own torn trainers the glint of Uncle Vernon's belt the crack on his bedroom roof Malfoy's fine tailoring so much better than his the glitter of rain on that pale hair and--

A mouth stopped his thoughts. Warm and tasting slightly of sweat, salty and fresh. Harry's jaw seized in shock. Malfoy's hand came up to cradle his face--smooth and cool and slightly wet--and the parcel clutched in Harry's hands slipped easily out, papers scattering onto the muddy ground. Malfoy suddenly pressed closer, a whole length of hot delicious pressure from shoulder to hips, and Harry arched up instinctively. There was a panicked stop this stop this now what are you-- somewhere in the back of his mind, but what was happening to his mouth suddenly seemed so much more important. A tongue rough and slender swept in, the taste of liquorice flooding his breath. Malfoy's tongue was cool, unexpectedly so, but his breath was hot--it sent a frittering shock through Harry's nerves, making the muscles of his chest clench painfully. Malfoy was carefully licking along the insides of Harry's lips, making soft sounds--tongue flicking delicately against his teeth, and then deeper... twining with Harry's tongue and out again, in and out, in and out, in and out... a rhythm that made Harry's entire body rock against him, burning, equal parts shame and shock. He felt like his entire experience of taste, from the very first ice-cream he'd ever eaten to the warm toast from today's breakfast--was being given back to him, rebuilt, with the new knowledge of what it was like to be inside someone's mouth. There were so many layers, so many tastes... and Harry found his own tongue pushing, with a new hunger and a need to know, into Malfoy's wet and grasping mouth.

And suddenly it was pulled away--that mouth--and Harry followed it blindly, seeking the liquid pull of muscle and warmth. But Malfoy pushed him back, back once again against the cold wall, shoulders jarring--and he dropped a hot forehead heavily onto Harry's shoulder, as if in exhaustion. Harry could feel Malfoy's panting breaths against his neck, rain-scented hair wet against his mouth... A burning heat made him turn his head to press his cheek against the cold plastic, hissing at how icy it was against the flush of his skin.

How many minutes--hours--they stood like that, Harry didn't know. None of this made sense. The orange darkness behind his closed eyes was comfortable and warm, and Harry was afraid to open them to see the torn-paper grey of the sky, the rain, and Draco's face.

It was only when he began to shiver, slightly, that he realized that the weight of Malfoy's forehead on his shoulder was gone. As had the warmth of that body. He opened his eyes, slowly, to see that the bus-stop was empty. The rain had also stopped--why hadn't he noticed the silence before? A feeling inexplicably like relief flooded him, and Harry sagged back, staring at the silver puddles outside. They looked unnervingly like eyes for a moment, grey and darkening... Harry shook his head.

Just a dream, he told himself sternly, still feeling tremors of heat race through his body, an echoing shock slowly filling his head. Boy. I kissed a boy. Or dreamt I did. The fresh scent of rain hurt him like a paper cut, thin and sharp and indefinable. It had to be a dream--it didn't matter that his legs were shaking. It had to be--or nothing made sense--Harry's being followed, being kissed, up against the wall of the bus-stop, hungry and no words spoken--and then the pale boy gone, with the wind and the rain, taking his black umbrella with him. Who did that? What did it mean?

It was a dream. Just a--just a--

But the taste of liquorice in Harry's mouth said otherwise, as did the scuff of foreign shoes on Uncle Vernon's muddy papers.

Just a dream.

Draco tumbled into his car, damp and shaking, face flushed and hair messy. He pushed his umbrella under the seat and fell back, panting. His lips felt swollen and hungry, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, scarcely believing that he'd messed up so royally; lost so much control. Kissing the boy he was supposed to talk to, and then running away before explaining himself...

'Mister Malfoy, sir?'

Draco's eyes snapped open. Oh, fuck. '... Dobby.'

The car's driver turned around, raising an eyebrow at the Malfoy heir's dishevelled state as he sprawled on the back seat. 'Yes, sir.'

If Draco caught his driver's raised eyebrow, he gave no sign. He only looked, for a moment, rather afraid. 'Dobby. I... You won't tell Father about this, will you?'

'About what, sir?' Dobson asked innocently, but his round eyes had a familiarly mischievous glint. It was a face Draco knew well, from many childhood escapades. Why should this adventure, after all, be different from any of the others? Draco smiled.

'Take us home, Dobby.' Thank god. He voice shook only slightly.

'Yes, sir.' Dobson cocked his head jovially, flashing a grin over his shoulder as he pulled out from a corner behind Privet Drive.

Sighing in relief, Draco pinched his nose and leaned back. He was still too aroused, and the confined feeling of the car made him want to go crazy. Just when he'd started to relax, the driver spoke again.

'Sir.'

Draco scowled. 'Yes?'

There was a moment of silence. Dobby seemed to be struggling to say something. Sensing Draco's impatience, he finally said, 'I just wanted to ask you, Mister Malfoy. Would you... would you like me to follow that boy again?'

Draco sat up so quickly he nearly hit his head on the car's plush roof. 'What?!'

'... I meant to say, sir. If...'

'How did you know I was following someone, Dobby?' Oh, what a fucking stupid thing to say. 'How did...' Might as well admit to it, you fool! 'I mean--I only asked you to drop me off near Privet Drive. I never... I never told you to...'

'Of course you didn't, sir,' Dobson soothed. 'I was just saying, sir. Just saying.' He lapsed into a silence that seemed far too amused for Draco's taste. Did the man always have to know what Draco was thinking? And how he messed up? Yes, it was comforting sometimes... But sometimes it was just plain wrong.

Well. Odd anyway.

'Did sir get to... talk to the boy, sir?' Again that strange half-smile from Dobson, flashed at Draco from rear-view mirror.

Fucking hell, Draco thought, torn between amusement and embarrassment. Talk? He remembered Potter's soft, shocked taste... fresh cut grass and clean winter air, crushed mint and dew put together. 'Yes, Dobby. We... talked.'

Dobson looked oddly satisfied with that. 'He's a good boy, sir. I'm sure he is. And I won't tell sir's father, of course.'

Draco didn't know what to say to that. Good boy? It's not like Dobby knew Potter--hell, it's not like Draco knew Potter. Not really. There were only those brief glances, across the classroom... At that boy whose uniform was at least two sizes too small, and stitched crudely where it was torn--whose dark shock of hair was always unruly, falling to hide the startling green of his eyes. Eyes that were always turned away. Those thin hands with their bitten fingers, clutching a bag too light to hold a lunchbox. There was always this veil of silence around the boy... Nameless Potter, the orphan, the outcast. It was a silence that drew Draco, rather like a pool of still, deep water would draw someone in search of peace. There was something about Potter's silence that was sacred--it had the air of some clean, distant land, where no one was allowed to visit. Yes. That was it. No one sat next to Potter at lunch--no one handed him notes if he missed class for a few days. No one sought him out after school, to amble home talking of girls and football. Draco watched all of this, from within his circle of babbling friends--watched this creature so different to himself--dark where he was light, quiet where he was loud, poor where he was rich, shunned where he was loved. He had only been curious, when he'd followed Potter today--curious and hungry, and now he was honest enough to admit to himself what he was hungry for. After messing up so royally, and then hightailing like a frightened schoolgirl--

But oh, it had been worth it. That look of delicious surprise... How Potter had frozen, in shock, then melted, all hot saliva and seeking tongue...

A good boy. Draco smirked. Perhaps.

Certainly a conquest worth chasing, no matter what Blaise or Pansy said. Poor or not, there was something... indefinable about Potter. From his strange reticence to his all-seeing green eyes--to that slender, whipcord body, moving with hesitant grace. So at odds with Draco's uninhibited movements. Potter fascinated him, as few of the boys in his school did--they were too obvious, too easily explained. Draco had always had a passion for puzzles, and Harry Potter certainly was one. He wondered what today's meeting had done to Potter--what he thought about it, about being touched when he'd obviously been so starved for it, the way he'd opened, all hunger and innocence and pain--

Draco caught his breath at the memory, shifting in his seat. The car was far too hot.

The rest of the drive home was silent; music turned off by Draco's request. He rolled down the window instead, leaning out a little and closing his eyes. Wind with the taste of rain.