Star Quality

Chapter 3

As Harry gawped, open mouthed, at the inexplicable sight of Draco Malfoy's face in a Muggle shop window, it struck him that of all the terrible things Malfoy had ever done to him, this one must count as one of the worst: he'd made him drop his chips. Harry looked down at the sad bag, chips spilling out, the paper soaking up water from the flooded pavement, and felt hungrier than he'd ever felt in his life. And as he stared at the wasted food, what had happened seemed to slot into place with a dreadful clarity, the hunger and rain and the enormous irritation combining to cut through the remnants of his hangover and tell him: it's all your own fault.

Last night, he'd got drunk a lot of Firewhisky on his roof, after he'd already made a heroic attempt at drinking the Ministry's wine cellar dry. He'd thought about Draco Malfoy, and he'd felt a drunken regret for how things had turned out that, in the cold light of day, the Slytherin fucker really didn't deserve. And Harry – in his infinite wisdom – had wished things were different. He'd said it out loud, hadn't he? And, his fuzzy memory supplied, he might even have toasted the muttered wish with a slug of Firewhisky. "I didn't mean it!" Harry protested loudly, causing a nearby pedestrian to swerve, in case talking to yourself was catching. It wasn't fucking fair! When he'd wished that things were different, he'd meant – well. What had he meant? Another memory hit Harry squarely between the eyes: he'd spent far too long last night brooding about how much he hated being famous, and wishing it on Malfoy instead.

The whole thing was too ridiculous for words, Harry thought, trying to pull himself together. Magic didn't work like that. You didn't just make a wish and then, bam, the world changed beyond recognition. Harry tried to ignore the fact that he appeared to have made a wish and then, bam, the world had changed beyond recognition. He recognised bloody Malfoy, after all. And so far today, Malfoy was the first connection to the wizarding world he'd discovered, even if right now the fucker did appear to be masquerading as a – as a – as a Muggle pop star.

"I wish things were back how they were!" Harry told the serried ranks of Draco Malfoys across the street firmly – and a bit too loudly. A passing Muggle jolted and caught Harry's eye, clearly thinking he was talking to her, her eyes darting away immediately with a look of horror. Harry didn't think calling, "I'm not crazy, I swear," after her would help, so he resisted. The world hadn't changed back on his wish, of course it fucking hadn't. Wishing didn't work that way. Nevertheless, he tried it again, a bit more quietly this time, simultaneously wishing that he actually was the most powerful wizard in the world and could do wandless magic effortlessly. Why had he ever thought differently?

God. What if he was the most powerful wizard in the world now, though – because he was the only one? Harry's eye was drawn again to Malfoy's pouting smirk. Malfoy was definitely a wizard. He was a pop star wizard, and – and Harry could feel his brain attempting to melt out of his head at the thought of Malfoy being any more up himself than he had been at school. The world was cruel; Malfoy was definitely still a wizard. He'd probably turn out to be a prince, too, Harry thought crossly, knowing his luck.

Harry squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and made a decision. He would find Malfoy, and he would strangle him until the sod agreed to help him put the world back to how it was before. It shouldn't be difficult. If Malfoy was still who Harry remembered – and he really, really hoped he was – he was unlikely to be enjoying the adulation of Muggles, of all people. Harry took a deep breath, shot a look of wistful despair at his deceased chips, now becoming one with the pavement, and set off towards the enormous shop at a quick pace.

It was difficult to sustain the quick pace. The crowds seemed to thicken even as he approached, and when he crossed the road it was almost impossible to actually get on the pavement on the other side. The paving stones outside the store were lined with damp young women talking loudly and enthusiastically to each other, some of them at painful volumes. Some of them were singing. Harry vowed that if they were singing something written by Malfoy, he'd lay waste to the whole world to put an end to this abomination. As he managed to get closer to the windows, though, he saw that there was more text on the posters than just the terrible revelation that Malfoy's album was called I love you. He was probably talking about himself, Harry thought crossly, his stomach growling again and reminding him he still hadn't had anything to eat today. The posters announced, horribly: ALBUM SIGNING TODAY, 4PM!!!