Fic: My Old Ways, 2/6 (Harry/Draco, NC-17) for heathen_ursidae Author:derryere Recipient:heathen_ursidae Title: My Old Ways Rating: NC-17 Pairing(s): Harry/Draco Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older. Also, Nick Hornby's How To Be Good has inspired so much of this it needs to be credited/praised to a sickening degree. Summary: In trying to become a better person, Harry seeks the help of a certain professional. Warnings: *deep breath* plot-induced OOCness, AU for serious muggle lifestyle, language, boysex, hetsex, crack, feelings, flangst, canon-pairings, first-person, a lot of words, and the weird. Loads of weird. Word Count: 54K Author's Notes: Hellooo, heathen_ursidae! One of your prompts mentioned 'an awkward moment escaping an orgy gone wrong', and that's where I started. Originally. Where I ended up is—Well, the orgy somehow disappeared while the awkward and the things going wrong stayed put. Despite the lack of that main element, I hope very, very, very very very much that you might still enjoy some of it :) I'd like to thank the mods for giving me more time than anyone should get, and my beta, J, who did this at a superhuman speed. Any remaining mistakes are the product of own stoopid.
4. THE DINNER THAT I GAVE AWAY
and also the time I learned how being a war hero is easier than any other kind
I take the car because of my footprint. No, I’m serious. One of Hermione’s friends from the department published a paper about it, and I’ll tell you right now—I laughed so hard I maybe peed a little. It’s not because it was a funny paper (it wasn’t), or because I thought this guy who wrote it was pathetic or should get a life instead of getting bothered by everything that could perhaps be wrong with the world. Ten years ago that would’ve been exactly why I would’ve laughed. I’d have said, ‘Jeeze Louize, lighten up, mate! The war is over, you’re alive, I’m alive, so could you please give it a fucking rest and let me enjoy these next couple seconds of rest?’ That would've been then. Now is different. Now I laugh because the war is still over, and I'm still alive, and it's not nearly enough to make life OK. I mean, I remember waking up and thinking, Holy shit! I'm still here! Whoopee!—which is something that doesn't happen anymore. Like I said: these days the idea of Being Alive doesn't make being alive any more exciting than finding someone bought new cereal before the last one's finished. Although that can be pretty nice. But yeah.
So this footprint thing. Turns out magic has a catch. Or—well, it's a catch if you live in this century and if you've got some money and care about stuff. Otherwise it's just whatever. But anyway. So there were all these people, muggle people, who were freaking out about the global warming and ozone and—actually, I'm not sure of the exact mechanics, but it's one of those bad thing that happen to the environment. And Hermione's friend, he's muggle-born as well, so his mind is all full of these environment things and he starts doing this research on how magic can maybe help. But then, instead of that, he finds out that we're already doing something, and it's making it loads worse. It's something to do with the energy emitted from—something or the other. They explained this to me. I forgot. But it comes down to this: I'm not supposed to apparate everywhere all the time because then I'm bollocking up the Ozone warming or global layer or whatever, and also Hermione gets really bloody angry with me. A while ago she brought this chart over and wedged it under one of my fridge's magnets. It's a list of ten magic things people should try doing less, and they're calling them measures to reduce our carbon-magic footprint. That's the bit that made me laugh, you see. The carbon-magic bit. Who comes up with that kind of shit, anyway?
A lot of people are kind of concerned about it all. But I think even more people hate this guy for even going there in the first place. I was on his side for the bigger part, sort of, until they published this article that calculated how much whatsies were emitted the battle at Hogwarts and what it meant and all. I thought that was in poor taste, if you know what I mean. I mean, you know what I mean. I just mean it was in poor taste.
In the end it's a bit funny, I guess. Everyone in the world is starting to take the bus or bike or train, and then you've got this group of people who're massively taking to cars again. That's us. Magic People Who Care.
So I take the car because I'm trying to be good and think about my footprint. Also because it's all a bit heavy to carry in one go and the back seat is really handy for moments like these. I warmed up the dinner from yesterday, the one I didn't finish after Ginny went, and then I made some more spaghetti Bolognese. I don't really have anything practical to put it in, like those plastic boxes that have a vacuum (I think?) or something like it, so I just wrapped the dishes in foil and that's how they are right now in the back of my car. Every time I take a sharp turn the foil slips off a little and some sauce spills over onto the upholstery.
It's dark out and the city is just one big scope of lights and whooshing cars. It should take me about fifteen minutes to get where I'm going, but I've never deliberately went there so I sort of get lost one or two times. But it's okay. I'm pretty excited and even when I take a left and see the power plant instead of the street I'm looking for, I smile at my own thickness and continue to drum on the wheel along to the radio. Twenty-five minutes after I've left home I pull up at the end of a big bridge. I stack the dishes I've brought with on the side of the road and lock the car. I check twice I've locked it properly, and then feel a bit guilty for thinking someone might want to steal my car just because they're homeless. That's stereotyping, something I've decided I can't do if I'm going to be A Better Person (Again). Although when you think about it, why wouldn't someone steal a car when they're homeless? I would. It's just logic, is all I'm saying. But I try not to think about it and tell myself that I always lock my car, which is true, and so it doesn't have anything to do with me being here.
I can't carry all the food I've brought with at once, so I leave some behind and start down the slight decline to the waterside. It's still in the city, near some old factory, so there's no grass or trees or anything country-like. There are pebbles, but I'm pretty sure those are some kind of industrial waste, too. Under the bridge there's a vast strip of a concrete plateau where the old cargo ships used to unload. Now it's used for—well, I'm sure you can imagine. There are a couple dozen tins filled with cement, and from inside the occasional lick of a flame flares up so I know there're fires in those. There are loads of people, maybe even a hundred of 'm, and most are standing huddled around the tin-fires. The rest are either motionless lumps curled under makeshift tents or huts, or unhappy looking ones sitting on folding chairs. There's lots of drinking going on.
I take a deep breath and walk toward the small community. I have no idea how to go about this, really, but I don't see how it can go wrong. I know I've said that before, with Ginny, but this is different. I'm doing this because it's a good thing, and not because I think it's what the homeless want me to do. Or . . . wait, no, that didn't come out right. What I mean is—
Never mind. The important thing is that I pass a guy sitting on a box with a dog at his feet and I say,
"Hello. Would you like something to eat?"
He looks up at me and he doesn't seem very impressed. "Whu?" he grumbles, as if I'm talking weird.
"Food," I say, smilingly balancing the cooling dishes in my arms. "D'you want some?"
"I've already eaten," he says.
"Oh."
"Think you could spare a quid, though?"
I shuffle a bit uncomfortably. The dishes are heavy and also, this isn't exactly what I had in mind. "You sure you don't want some?" I try again. "There's plenty, really. Got some more back there, too," I nod toward the road above.
The guy looks at me rather levelly for a while, then glances at the food. His dog, a skinny animal, lifts its head for a lazy moment—slowly blinking at me—then places it back on his paws.
"All right," the guy says, eventually. "What d'you got?"
"Bolognese. Mashed potatoes." I peek under the top foil to remember. "Mushrooms."
"All right. You got a plate?"
A plate? No. I didn't bring a plate. I don't know what I thought. Did I expect these people to scoop up piles of spaghetti with their hands and then eat it like that? I probably didn't expect anything. I'd come as far as transporting the food, and in my head I imagined a small gathering of ten homeless people—recognised by their fingerless gloves and patched hats—clapping my back and nodding appreciatively as I came bearing food: the delicacy of the rich. Obviously, there is something wrong with the way my brain works most of the time.
"Erm." I look around, even though I know there is no hidden cupboard anywhere near. "I have a fork," I suddenly remember. "D'you—erm, you can . . . eat it out of the dish, I guess. If you want."
He doesn't look convinced. "I dunno," he says, and thinks about it. "I suppose, all right."
As I give him one of the three portions I'd brought with, I can't shake off the feeling that he is the one doing me a favour. I even mumble an ashamed thank-you when he accepts the fork, and for the life of me I can't figure out why. When he starts eating, I think of a new way to go about this.
"Hey," I say, but he doesn't look up. I continue nonetheless, "Hey, do you think you could maybe tell the rest?"
"Tell'm whu?" he replies with a mouthful.
"That, you know." I nod at my food. "I've brought food."
The guy laughs, and I'm glad it's dark because I can't help the blushing.
"Tell'm yourself," he says, but not as if he's trying to be mean. It's more like he thinks I'm a bit sad, or maybe he just can't be bothered.
"But . . ." I gave you food, I want to say. But I don't. "I want that dish back when you're done," is what I settle for, in a grumble, before shuffling on in embarrassment. I'm not sure what I'm going to do next, because I just gave away the only fork I had with me. Deciding to just plod on and see what'll come of it, I continue into what seems to be more or less the centre of the community.
A number of heads turn in my direction, lazily, and then—not much unlike the dog—turn away disinterested.
"Hi," I feebly offer the public in general. I'm not sure how loud I'm supposed to be, and inadvertently begin speaking softer. "I, um. Is anyone hungry?"
Someone shouts something, and for a moment I think he's replying to my offer. But after a short confusion I realise it's a person laughing while talking on the phone. I'm not even going to go in to the whole confusion at seeing a homeless woman with a mobile. I think to myself, P'rolly stolen. Not because I want to think bad of her, but because that's easier than contemplating any other reasons.
It's then that I notice a young guy, a kid barely older than eighteen. He's looking at me curiously, and it's making me uncomfortable. And I'll admit, when he makes his way over I'm a bit scared for a second. I don't know why.
"All right," he says by way of greeting, smiling friendlily.
"Hi," I reply, oddly relieved that the kid speaks.
"You're a bit lost, yeah?"
"I—" I sigh, resigned. "I brought food. I thought I could . . . maybe . . ." I look around, indicating I'd perhaps expected something else. "Now I just feel a little silly."
"S'all right," he reassures me. "The HM were here just a while before, is all. You missed'm by an hour, really."
The dishes are starting to get heavy, my hands clammy on the lukewarm bottom of the ceramic. "The HM?"
"Hot meals." He eyes me weirdly. "You dun come here often, d'ya?"
"Well, I . . ." –consider lying before settling for the easier truth, "never been here before. I just wanted to do something good," I add. And then, acting on a sudden urge to clarify, "I'm trying to be a better person."
He gives me a tight smile, and it's all I can do not to cringe at how condescending everything I say sounds. Somehow, I still think I can explain myself by talking about it more.
"I've got a list," I say, balancing the dishes and trying to fumble the paper out of my pocket. I hand him the list, then, and he reads it apprehensively.
"Yeah," he says. "Better not to show this to anyone else round here, yeah?"
I can feel my face heat up but despite the embarrassment I'm still not seeing how this is a bad idea. The kid is nice, though, and when he hands me back the list he nods at the food.
"Mind sharing summit?" he asks, as politely as he can.
"I don't have a fork," I say, apologetically. "Or a plate."
He laughs at this, then, and tells me to follow him while shaking his head. He leads me to a ramshackle looking shelter of boxes and wavy roof-plates. There's a sleeping bag inside, and an upturned crate that serves as a table. He tells me to sit down, and even though I really don't want to I do it anyway. I put down the cooling dinner, and he conjures a plate and an odd number of silverware from behind the crate.
"Wus late for the HM today," he explains. "Doing high street 'n all, lost track of time."
I don't know what he means with 'doing', and my mind takes me no further than either begging or pickpocketing. I try not to think about it and watch as he takes the foil off the dishes and quite happily piles half the content on his plate.
"You made this?" he wants to know.
I nod, and he sticks out his bottom lip in appreciation.
"You a cook or summit?"
"Nah," I say, oddly proud.
"D'your dad die then?"
I blink at him in the dark, waiting a moment to make sure I heard right. "What?"
"No offence or nothing," he adds. "S'just, when most people come here with lists and stuff, it's something to do with someone dying. Or breaking up. Ha ha," he laughs, discerning something funny that I can't see.
The first thing I think is, How many people do come down here with lists? And the next thing was, Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
"Erm," I say, scratching the back of my head in a display of discomfort. "I suppose. Asked my girlfriend to marry me last night."
"All right," the kid replies in a congratulatory tone, apparently having worked out he could substitute half his vocabulary with those two words. "Cheers, then."
"She said no," I tell him. "And also, I used to . . ." I stop, not knowing how to say this. "I did loads of good when I was about your age. But now . . ."
I trail off and then give up on trying to finish the sentence. I reach for one of the dishes and start picking at the burnt spaghetti cooked to the sides of the ceramic. I do it with my fingers and it's not really that bad. The kid is quiet for a long while, eating the food in silence and with little manners. I idly wonder I went from living normal, to getting married, to breaking up, to having dinner with homeless kids—all within twenty-four hours.
"Hey," the kid says, suddenly thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"
I give him a sideway glance. "Let's have it, then."
"D'you believe, like . . . in some stuff being, y'know, unexplainable?"
"Like what?"
"Dunno." He shrugs. "Like, magic, or summit. Only you don't call it magic, yeah?"
I look at him for a while, wondering where this is coming from and whether this is going to be some kind of joke on me. When I reply it's hard not to smile a little. "You're asking me if I believe in magic?"
"Well—Yeah. Only not with rabbits or whatever."
"Sure," I say, suppressing a grin. "Why not."
"All right," he nods. "Then you should see fix it."
Or at least I think he says fix it, at first, before realising the sentence doesn't make sense.
"Fix what?" I ask.
"No, no fix it fix it. FixIt," he says so that I can hear the captions. "Dr Fixit."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Dr Fixit. He's this bloke, a doctor, only maybe not a real proper doctor. But he's smart, you know. Okay maybe not smart smart, but he's smart here," he points at his chest. "Y'know?"
I want to point out that that's not called smart, that these days we call that Hippie, but I just frown and shake my head vaguely. "What?"
"I asked you if you believed in the magic and stuff, right? Well, if you do, then I think you should see Dr Fixit. He helps people. He's good. He fixes it."
"Fixes what?"
The kid gives me a look as if I'm freakishly slow on the uptake and says, "Der. People's lives and stuff."
"And stuff?"
"Yeah. Like, sometimes, right, you'll have a problem but you just can't figure it out. Or maybe it's too big and you can't, as in, like, process it all in one go, yeah? And you know there has to be—like, an answer. A simple one. You just can't think of it, you know. Your brain's just not telling you what to do, not proper, and Fixit—he just knows. You don't even need to tell him what your problem is. He just knows. And then he tells you how to fix it."
"Right," I say. "Hence Dr Fixit. I see. Clever."
"You're making fun," the kid accuses. "I know you are. But listen. I had problems, right, with me mum. We don't get along really well and now she has this new rubbish boyfriend and—Well, anyway, it was just going bollocks at home. And one day we got into this real nasty fight and not to get all specific on you, I called her something that starts with an S and rhymes with a Bag. And then she said I was, you know, one of them kids with the mental disable-whatever-thing. I dunno how you call it, but she said something that means that. It starts with an R. I won't say it cuz you look like a proper bloke and I know it's not all PC, saying that, so I won't." He takes a breath. "But anyway. I was so pissed, I was like—Mum, I'm gonna hit your ugly face! Only I didn't, which is good, because I ended up storming out and then I found Fixit. And I told him, I said, Next time I see that B I'm gonna hit her. And Fixit, he just looked at me and did this thing, I can't explain, but it was like—not science-y, if you know what I mean. And then he said, Listen, you need to get away from home. You need to cool off. Go back one time to tell your mum you'll be gone for a while, and that you're letting the both of you cool off, and that when you come back you'll both sit down and have a real conversation about it. And I know it sounds like, What the bloody hell is this guy talking about, right? But you don't know, cuz it made so much sense all of a sudden. So now here I am," he gestures around him, as if he was much better off. "Going back home soon though. It's getting pretty cold, isn't it?"
"Global warming," I reply a little absent-mindedly, still trying to understand his story.
"Yeah, right," he says, as if I'm joking. "So anyway. I think you should see him. He's real good, he is, and like—" He shrugs theatrically. "What've you got to lose, right?"
I think about what kind of person would look at this kid and convince him running away from home and living on the streets would be a good idea. I want to explain to the kid how it all sounds very unlikely to me, that this magic doctor fixes lives by making people homeless, but I don't think I'll get very far without somehow making an ass out of myself. There's that, and then there's also the quiet notion of there being someone out there who can tell you exactly what your problems are and how to fix them. Which is the sort of thing I've been fantasising about for a good number of years now, but never really thought I'd hear existed. It's weird how defensive and disbelieving you actually get when someone says they've got what you want.
"So this doctor," I say in a quiet voice. "Does he have office hours, or what?"
The kid shakes his head, dead-serious. "He doesn't do that. He does seminars. You can come tomorrow, if you want, cuz he's having one then."
I look at him, not knowing whether to reply with cynicism or suspicion.
"You know the old theatre next to that Chinese place, just outside the centre?" he asks.
"It's empty, right?"
"Doesn't play movies no more, no," he says. "S'far from empty, though."
"Oh. Right."
"Come before eight," the kid says. "You want a front row seat, otherwise you'll never get picked."
I imagine a male version of professor Trelawney, walking up and down a worn-down stage with a microphone, getting people to come have a séance with him right there and then so he can predict their inevitable doom. I smile to myself and sigh. "Before eight," I confirm. "All right."
5. THE TIME I WENT TO SEE DR FIXIT
or otherwise known as the day when my life stopped being normal and started being batshit insane (again)
I stand in front of the old theatre for a good ten minutes before I go in. It's a very cold evening and I'm thinking, Maybe it'll snow? But it doesn't snow, it just keeps on being cold and still. The building is something big and white with a jutting announcement board, like the ones you see in old pop-arts. Only the colour isn't neon, it's mossy and greyish, and the white is not so much white but more yellow. Yellow like old bedspreads can be.
I clap my hands behind my back and then to my front, rattling the car keys that dangle from one of my fingers. I'm trying to convey nonchalance, standing there on the street, waiting to see if anyone else normal is going to go inside the theatre so that I can follow them.
I say, 'anyone else normal', because as I was getting ready to leave just before I realised I had no idea what kind of people were going to show up. After three seconds of deliberation I decided that it'll be mainly other bums. Then I realised how much I would stand out, in my button-down and pressed trousers, and set to putting together the most bummish outfit I could manage. What 'I could manage' turned out to be a pair of jeans, muddy sneakers and a bent-out-of-shape baseball cap. I think back to Ron and how he looks in his moth-eaten training pants and wonder when I'd lost my uncanny ability to look like I'd just walked off the streets.
The thought of Ron has me thinking about how, on getting home last night, I expected either him or Hermione to be waiting for me with the urgent request to explain myself and/or a straightjacket. There was no one there, though, when I shuffled in with an armful of half-empty dishes. First I didn't notice. Then, in the kitchen, the silence was suddenly overwhelming. I was vaguely surprised. It's very unlike them to stay away when I do something they think is stupid.
On the street opposite I spot a business-looking man nervously making his way over to where I’m standing and I think, Please let him be one of them. When he pauses on the other side of the road to check the traffic and then half-jogs across the zebra path, I am certain that he is heading toward the theatre. As he passes me I give him a quick, relieved smile which he answers with a confused sort of scowl—like he can't figure out why I'm smiling at him. So I look away, a bit embarrassed, and wait for him to walk through the black-painted double doors before following him inside.
The old theatre is rows of seats with their upholstery torn, bites of foam missing from the filling and arm supports dangling limply on the steps of the aisle. In the front the stage is littered with old boxes, forgotten decorations and the curtains—auburn heaps left by either side of the prosceniums. It would be a sad sight altogether had it not been for the ceilings stretching so high and darkly above the audience that all you can feel while shuffling into one of the rows in the back is unfiltered timidity.
The businessman from the street takes a seat in the back row on the other side of the aisle. He still looks nervous, glancing around him as if he's waiting to be busted. I'm still not sure whether or not this entire ordeal is illegal. The theatre is big, so the number of people there doesn't seem that impressive at first. But I count them and there are twenty-five, which is quite a lot if you're going by nutty-people's-sermons standards. When a guy gets up on a box and starts preaching to a busy street and twenty-five people gather, that's quite a lot.
Most people there look pretty normal. There's a middle-aged woman in a pink sweater sitting in the front row, half-hanging out of her chair in trying to get closer to the stage. Behind her are scattered a number of other women, some older, some slightly younger, but all past their forties. The handful of men there are indiscernible to me: they're mostly bums, plus one or two artsy looking students with big glasses. Everyone is antsy. I remember what the kid yesterday said about getting picked, and I'm suddenly very glad I decided to sit in the back. I sink a little into my seat and wait, idly wondering since when deserted buildings were free for public use.
About ten minutes pass before anything happens. I almost leave when the art-student-like people just a few rows ahead of me start talking about the architectural features of the building, but a sudden hushing from the front stops me before I can consider getting up. There's vague rumbling behind the wings, and as an excited murmur spreads among the audience even I can't help but feel just a little bit thrilled at the prospect of what's going to happen next.
What happens next is that a guy with a microphone walks onto stage. He's pretty much what you'd expect from a spiritual healer, I suppose. White cotton pants and shirt, padding his way to centre stage barefoot—kicking the microphone wire out of his way with a gentle heel and a zany smile.
I sink very, very low in my chair and pull the flap of my cap over my face as inconspicuously as I can. My heart is thudding in my throat, blood thick in my ears and for some reason I'm also blushing. The coherency of my mind stutters to a stop, and all I can think is—Only my life. This always has to fucking happen to me.
I'm staring holes into the back support of the chair before me as over my head, through the theatre's sound system, the familiar voice clears its throat.
"Hi?" Malfoy questions into the microphone. "Hello? Can everybody hear me?"
The crowd murmurs a collective positive. I'm thinking about slinking to the ground and crawling my way out without drawing any notice. I refuse to be boggled by whatever's bound to happen if I stay. I'd much rather go back home and complain about how mundane and normal everything's become. The shock of this--this?!--is just too much. Already I'm trying to block it out, but it's hard as the somewhat echoing voice continues—
"What a great turnout we have today, huh? And I see some new faces, too." He pauses and I can almost feel his glare pass over my obscured head. There's no way he can recognise me from the way I slouch, I know, but still—I hold my breath. He continues, "That must mean some of you have been breaking rule number one."
There's an awkward silence. Then, a chuckling laugh buzzes the amplifiers: he's joking. Some people get it and snort in appreciation. As for me, my mind is reeling with bewilderment. I can't believe I've just been witness to Draco Malfoy making comical reference to popular culture. I know it's exaggerating, but right now, I honestly can't remember anything weirder ever happening in my life. Ever.
"Nah," he says as I bring my hands to cover my silently shocked face. "I'm kidding. There are, of course, no rules to coming here. No obligations, no strings attached—only one promise. One thing you all will receive today and who can tell me what that is?"
I hear someone shout an immediate reply. I know almost certainly that it's the pink-sweater lady from the front.
"That's right," he says, his voice clearer and louder than hers—yet suddenly softening in tone. "Love."
Not truly believing the absurdity of the moment, I chuckle into my hands. I chuckle like one might do at something vaguely funny in a movie—someone hanging from a window sill, falling into strategically placed bushes—something that you know isn't happening for real, that isn't very amusing, but that still makes you laugh. As if you're oddly weary of the humour, or because otherwise the joke would be too lame to endure. That's how I laugh at this. I can't fucking believe Draco Malfoy just used to the word love and then promised it to a crowd of muggle strangers.
"Now I know what that sounds like. You see this guy getting up on a stage and he's talking about love and you think, Oh ew, love! Ha ha," he laughs awkwardly. "It's not exactly something we say that often and mean it, is it? You love a sandwich, sure, you'd love to take a walk, but how many times do we actually tell someone else we love them?"
"Not enough!" the pink-sweater lady answers.
"That's right, Penny. Not enough. And yes, sure it's been said a million times—sure. But I'll tell you something. I've seen so many troubled people in my line of work and I've helped them solve their problems as best as I could, though you know what's always better than solving problems?"
Again, the lady, "Preventing them!"
"Exactly. Preventing them. Every single issue I have been faced with has always come down to one thing: love. Every—single—one. Even the oddest things, friends. Even people who though their only problem in life is clogged drainpipes, even they come to find that somewhere, somehow, the love is missing. If you would come up to me and ask me how the cookie crumbles, well, I'll tell you it only crumbles one way. You know how the cookie crumbles. Love. Love is how the cookie crumbles. And if we'd just take a moment, just a little moment every day to turn to the person lying next to us in bed—or, or perhaps someone new, like the man at the grocery store or your even your mother on the other side of the phone, just take a moment to say: hey, you know what? I lo—"
I plug two fingers into my ears and start humming to myself, quietly. Malfoy's voice is now a faraway entity, unclear and muffled. Staring down at my jumper's zipper, I take this moment of peace to try and work this out. Maybe this isn't Draco Malfoy, maybe this is just a very odd look-alike—someone who has the misfortune of sharing that startling appearance. Frantically, I try to remember the last time I heard of Malfoy being a part of society. It must've been years ago. I'd caught wind of stories in which the enfant terrible supposedly teamed up with a group of equally rich bastard kids—outcasts after the war—and travelled with no other purpose than getting horribly drunk wherever they went. That was nearly six years ago. I didn't care at the time. I couldn't wait to be rid of any association to that family and revelled in not having to think about them at all. Then, soon enough, tales of the drunken heir disappeared and most people stopped caring. I'm glad to say I haven't given the kid so much as a second thought since then.
Around me, the atmosphere suddenly shifts. I glance up minutely, not daring to lift my cap so far that my face will be visible, and see that the businessman in the mirroring row is squirming in his seat—shaking his head abashedly, mumbling what appears to be, 'No, no.'
At once my eyes are drawn to the stage. I'm still blocking out the noise, so what I see is the guy that may or may not be Draco Malfoy, talking into the microphone and beckoning the businessman with a friendly hand. Confused and immediately curious, I plug out my fingers and hear—
"Give the man an applause. Come on, people, let's get the new guy up here!"
A somewhat reluctant applause follows. The businessman, red in the face and embarrassed, shuffles onto the aisle and descends the wide steps with such tight nervousness I am almost holding my breath for him. As he clambers onto stage, the Malfoy guy helps him up.
"So what's your name?" he asks, pushing the microphone to the man's face.
"Uhm. Ian," he says, glancing around the audience uncomfortably.
"Ian," Malfoy repeats. "First time here, isn't it?"
"Err . . . yeah." The sentiment, 'and now I see I shouldn't've' goes unspoken. I can hear it, though. Loud and clear.
"So what's bothering you, Ian?"
"I, uhm. I hoped maybe—Look," he drops his voice to a whisper that is still clear over the speakers, "can't this happen in a more, y'know, private setting?"
Malfoy smiles at this, kindly. I blink, unable to remember ever having used a positive adverb in relation to that name before. In the row in front of me, one of the artsy people lean over to their friend and quietly say,
"Watch, watch—this is where he does it. It's really wicked."
I tense up. On the stage, Malfoy puts down his microphone and places two hands on Ian the businessman's shoulders. He says something that no one in the audience can make out and Ian nods, looking very queasy. The pink-sweater-lady is sitting on the edge of her seat, a hand with a scrunched up tissue over her heart.
My hand inches its way to my pocket. I'm expecting something unnatural here, unexplainable flashes of light or something too weird to be anything else than magic. But the only thing that does happen is that Malfoy closes his eyes and does something I can't see very well from my distanced seat. His hands are on either side of Ian's face, and his thumbs are moving in some way or other. Everyone is quiet, thrilled somehow, and there is not the slightest sound in the room until Malfoy drops his hands to Ian's shoulders and nods in earnest.
I expect Ian to step back, smile tightly and quickly make his way back to his seat—or even out of the theatre—while rolling his eyes and muttering to himself about wasting his time. I expect a lame excuse to be mumbled into the microphone, and some more talk about love and acceptance and all those things that make me cringe despite myself.
Instead, Ian just stares at Malfoy, gobsmacked. Malfoy then says something and with the microphone on the floor of the stage the words are out of our reach. He taps Ian's cheek amicably, smiling in what appears to be sympathy.
And Ian then curls his arms around Malfoy and hugs him. Malfoy just stands there, soothingly tapping his back, letting him weep onto his shoulder.
With that I get out of my seat. Biting hard into my cheeks I hurry out of the theatre, pushing past the heavy door and descending the steps to the old hall. There, leaning onto the old receptionist's desk, I burst out in laughter. I cannot control this. My stomach hurts and I can barely breathe, and I know there's no way anyone will ever believe me when I tell them what I've just seen. I see the image of Ian hugging Draco again, and I laugh some more.
6. THE TIME I CHECKED OFF #2
or maybe it's just the way I react to my life being too boring
I wait out in my car. There I have about an hour plus to think of what to say. But seeing as every one of the speeches I come up with ends with a wildly exclaimed, 'WHAT THE HELL!', or just downright laughter, I settle for the fact that I'm just going to have to wing it.
When people begin to trickle out of the old theatre, seriously talking amongst themselves or numbly staring ahead in a daze, I jump out of the car and round the building to the back entrance in the alleyway. I'm planning on an ambush.
To my surprise I'm not the only one. The pink-sweater lady is sitting on an upturned crate, and another woman—grey-haired and haughty looking—is standing on a dry patch of concrete, clutching to her purse. The both of them barely acknowledge me, giving me a quick glance before turning to the back door, resuming their waiting with a blank passivity.
"Hi," I say, brightly. "Do you happen to know when—uh, he'll be done?"
"The doctor takes his time," the pink-sweater lady retorts immediately. She looks at me like I'm disgusting.
I raise my hands in mock defeat, muttering, "Fine," as I step back to lean against the brick wall. The three of us remain in an unmoving silence for what must be nearly ten minutes and even though it's cold and definitely not the cleanest place on earth I am elated. It's not like I've been waiting ten years for a chance to thoroughly humiliate Draco Malfoy. Only that maybe it is. I briefly consider how doing this doesn't really fit on my list, the one where I'm trying to be a Better Person, but I can't help but feel that this somehow overrides that.
I mean, this is Draco Malfoy preaching love. On a stage. Hugging people. This is freaking epic.
When the door opens and he steps out onto the street, in that same white cotton outfit and still no shoes—the only addition being a plastic bag dangling from his wrist—I am a little stunned all over again. From close by I notice that ten years have passed for him as well, and seeing this only reminds me of how old I've gotten, too. I've got three years to go till thirty, but I still feel like I'm the first person on earth to have made it to twenty-seven.
"Penny, Regina," he smiles in recognition of the women, locking the door behind him. "Harry."
In all honesty, I am a little bit taken aback by the ease with which he recognises me. When I saw him up on that stage, I nearly choked on my own spit. All Draco manages is a quick, smiling nod before he frowns at the doorknob for not working properly. I'm thinking, This is an act. A brilliant, elaborate act—but an act. There's no other explanation. So I go with it.
"'Sup, Draco?"
"Fixit," he corrects with a friendly wink, turning as the door finally cooperates. "I thought I saw you in the back. Didn't stay for long, did you?"
I shrug noncommittally. He turns to Penny the sweater-lady then, as if I'd barely made any difference at all—coming here like this. For a moment I actually entertain the idea that maybe we'd met plenty of times in the past ten years, and that I've had some sort of specified amnesia to those events only.
Penny badgers him for a minute or two about some pains she's been having, and I watch patiently as Draco calmly explains that they've been over this, that he can't fix her pains, but that she knows what she has to do to improve things. She hugs him, sobbing wetly, and blesses him as she pushes a fiver into his hand. I am quietly amazed when he shakes his head, giving her back the money, telling her that her commitment is the only reward he needs. Then I entertain the thought of maybe puking a little bit in my mouth.
The stoic, grey lady doesn't take so much time. She whispers something to him in a quiet, hushed voice and Draco nods, listening. He puts his hand over her wrist—her purse still tightly in her grip—and tells her, seriously,
"You've done well, Regina. You've done well."
Still leaning against the wall, I wait until he's sent the two ladies on their way. I expect him to turn to me, for that odd smiley face of his to drop back into that sneer I know he loves and for him to snarl something thrilling like, What do you want, scarface? Or, How much do you want to keep quiet about this, plebe?
When he ignores me completely and sets toward the street after the two women, I actually squeak out a small, indignant sound. It's out before I know it. I shrug myself off the wall, perhaps a bit wildly, and jog the two steps distance—falling into pace with his lazy walk.
"Hello?" I say, incredulously. I suddenly have a new theory: Draco Malfoy is crazy.
"Heya, Harry," he says, nicely enough.
"Hey—Heya Harry?" I repeat, disbelieving. "Is that all? Nothing else you've got to say? Heya Harry?"
He glances at me, mellow in his unimpressed façade. He offers a small smile, shrugging, "Uh, how are you doing?"
I bark out a laugh at this, shaking my head as I briefly glance around the street as if to convey the scope of my amazement. "I'm doing fine, thanks," I reply, putting up a voice for the sake of sarcasm. "How are doing, Draco Malfoy?"
"Fixit," he corrects, again. "I'm called Fixit now."
I run a hand over my face, breathing in a hiss. "Oh my god," I mutter to myself, pulling my features down with heavy fingers. And then, to him, "This is a joke, right? This—it's some kind of act, right?"
He doesn't even get the question. "No, no, it's my name now," is what he says, airily. "It represents my rebirth, Harry. And since my rebirth was all about my cause, the—you know, untangling of knots—ha ha—I figured . . . "
I blink at him.
". . . Fixit is as good a name as any, right?" he finishes, not a trace of mock on his face as he looks up at me. "Helps to remind me what I'm here for."
"Here?" I say weakly. We're in an unclean street just outside of the centre, where it's not busy enough to mistake the overflowing garbage bins for anything else.
"Here," he agrees, as if it means something else when he says it. He breathes in grandly and adds, "The world."
I am stunned into silence. There's a part of me that wants to punch him in the arm and laugh it off, as if we've always been on speaking terms and he's just a whacko friend of mine. But he's not. I don't have anything to do with this man, and I never had anything to do with the child he once was. This is none of my business, not to mention that I should be beyond this—beyond trying very hard to embarrass people who've wronged me just for the quick thrill of revenge. Also, I'm twenty-seven. Why, I'm practically ancient.
We pass the Chinese restaurant by which this street is known. The light spilling onto the pavement illuminates blotches of gum stuck to the bricks in an odd shade of orange, and as we walk by some people eating close to the windows glance at us—fleetingly—before returning to their dinner. They look flushed and pleased, and they have a lot to talk about. There's smoke coming out of a ventilation pipe on the side-wall, where the kitchen must be, and it's wafting ominous clouds toward the street. At once I'm overcome by a sense of infinite confusion as to everything that's going on, and choke out a feeble,
"What—you—" I glance at him, haplessly. "Just. What?"
He smiles again. "What, what?"
"What has happened to you?"
"Be more specific."
"Doctor Fixit? Doctor Fixit?"
"Ah, well, the doctor part wasn't my idea, you know. But it's just as well. It's actually a pretty funny story—"
"I'm not talking about the name," I bite out. "I'm talking about what you just—with the—Draco, I just watched you hug a muggle on stage as he cried into your shoulder. And then there's—" I gesture to his general appearance in a vague motion.
"I'd appreciate if you'll refrain from using that word," he tells me, frowning in sudden discomfort.
"What? Crying?"
"No. The M word."
My mouth opens at this, slightly, even though there's no chance in hell I'll ever find a reply to this.
"It's derogatory," he tells me. "Awful word. This distinction between the two cultures is man-made, you know. We call them something different, therefore they become something other than us. Self-fulfilling prophecy, Harry Potter. I thought you of all people would—"
"Excuse me?" I exclaim on a laughter, and before I can finish he cuts in with a,
"It's fine. Just—next time," he pulls a tight-lipped face, tapping his temple with a finger, "think, all right?"
This gets an honest laugh out of me. "Yeah, and what would you call them, then, Saint Malfoy?"
"Fixit, Harry. Please. And if I must," he adds, "I would refer to those without physical . . ." He makes a swooshy movement that's meant to indicate magic, "as, well. As Inverts."
"Inverts?"
"Yes. Inverts. Those whose magic comes from the—"
"Inside," I finish for him. "Yeah. I get it."
He looks at me with an appreciative glance, and I—unable to help myself—stop to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Wildly. His head bounces back and forth on his shoulders as he scrambles to shove off my hands, his feathery blonde hair whooshing to and fro with the movement.
"What are you doing?" he breathes out after managing to get away with a stumbling step back.
"You've gone batshit," I explain, rationally. "I'm shaking you out of it."
"I have not gone batshit, Harry Potter," he replies and somehow makes it sound as if I'm the crazy one to suggest it. "All I have done," he says, "is become a better person."
You'd expect that this would amuse me. But it doesn't. Instead I get suddenly, irrationally indignant. "No," I tell him. "That's me. I'm being a better person. What you're doing is off the rocker to end all rockers." And then, as an afterthought, "What d'you do to those people, anyway? Because if it's something—"
He starts walking again, taking a turn at the end of a narrow alleyway. "It's not magic, if that's what you're worried about," he says. "I don't do magic."
I consider this for a moment. "Don't do magic on the people, or like, at all?"
"I've quit magic."
"Of course you have!"
He clucks his tongue at me. "So much sarcasm, Harry Potter. So much anger."
I start laughing again. It's not to be helped. This guy is hilarious. He stops in his pace, and for a moment I think he's going to either punch me or shout. It's with unexpected disappointment that I note that we've stopped because we've no-where else to go. We're in a back alley on the edge of the industrial area of town, and there's a giant shipping container pushed back against a mesh separating the street from the power plant.
"Do you want to see what I do with my patients?" he asks, putting his plastic bag on the ground.
"Uhh . . ." I look around, wary of where we are and this guy in general. But before I can say yes or no he stretches out two hands, making to reach for my ears. In a frantic movement I jump back, going, "Woah, woah!" And, "Hands off, Malfoy."
His hands drop at once, but there doesn't seem to be anything I can that will wipe that mellow smile off his face. He shakes his head at me and says, "Fixit, Harry Potter. Honestly," he adds, "how would you like it if I started calling you, uh, I don't know—Goofy McSillypants?"
I stare at him.
"It's just not your name, right," he continues. "You wouldn't like it, would you? Well, Draco Malfoy doesn't exist anymore. He's dead. I'm Fixit. All right?"
I shrug. "You can call me Goofy McSillypants."
He sighs, picking up his bag again and starting toward the big container. As I watch him go I realise that, Oh yeah, he's barefoot. I idly note the dirt darkening the soles of his feet, and wonder whether or not he's freezing to death without a coat or anything like that. He doesn't seem particularly bothered by anything at all, either way.
"Well," he says, standing at the entrance of the container. "It was nice seeing you again, Harry Potter. Be well."
And that's that. He steps inside the container, and that's that.
I raise my eyebrows at the empty street. I wait a moment, hands fisted in my coat pockets, a slow incredulous smile tugging up my face. As I start an easy stroll toward the container I mutter, "No freaking way," to myself. I quietly hope to round one of its tall, dented walls and be faced with nothing but a dark space. I hope that he has a portkey, or a—a cabinet thing—or—
I cock my head to peer into the container. And there's something, and I think it's somewhere behind my chest-ish area, that gives a little twitch at what I'm seeing. It's not much, actually. I'm guessing that's what does it. There's a mattress, brown at the bottom and a bit torn, and some pillows strewn around it. A blanket. An upturned crate, incense, a magazine cut-out of some kind of Buddhist icon glued to the metal wall and a flashlight. Draco is sitting on the mattress, putting the content of his plastic bag on his makeshift table. It's his microphone.
"Shit," I say.
He looks up, genuinely surprised that I'd followed him. "Well," he says, "that's a bit rude."
"I can't believe you live like this."
"I don't mind," he tells me, scooting back on his mattress and looking thoroughly comfortable. "I don't need much else."
"Yeah, but . . ." Yeah, but, what? I look around the place, and you'd think there would be a million arguments to be made as to how no one should be made to live in those kind of conditions, but I can't come up with anything. I draw a blank, and manage a weak, "It's freezing at night." And then, as he's about to reply, "Don't tell me being cold is a state of mind, because there would be a shitload of orphans in, I don't know, Siberia or something who'd beg to differ."
There's a minute, fleeting emotion that passes the line of his brows. He looks at me oddly, still happily, and says, "I've got a sweater. And a blanket. I'm good."
"Oh man," I groan quietly, dropping my head against the side of what must be the doorway. "Is this a trick? Are you trying to trick me into—the—"
"I'm not trying to do anything." He frowns at me. "Are you quite all right?"
"Me? Me? Look at you! You're like a—a—" I'm at a loss for words for a moment, and the best I can do is, "—a dog! You're like a sad, wet, weird little—"
"—A dog?"
"Yes! And what you're doing right there, with the eyes and the 'I don't mind the bugs crawling over my face' act—That's you, being a sad dog, scratching at my door like—"
"You're not very well, are you?" he asks. "You're properly distraught, Harry Potter. I'm sorry this is troubling for you, really, I had no idea it would affect you this much."
I stare at him. I know this feeling, I know this situation I've gotten myself into—I've been here before. But no, I decide. Not this time. I know it looks like there's no one else in the universe who'll help this guy, and that I'm the only one who can actually make a difference, but I tell myself to tell myself that's not true. There's something Hermione would say, and it would be: there's a thin line between heroics and just stupid, Harry.
Thin line! I silently shout at myself as I continue to stare at the stinking mess that it Draco Malfoy's home.
"Okay," I say. "Bye."
I turn around and walk away to the sound of his replying goodbye. Then I stop, turn on my heel again, and walk back.
"No," I tell him, stepping into his container. "Nu-uh. You're coming with me."
"Pardon?"
"Pardon," I mimic with a silly voice. "Are you serious? No, this—no. You can't live like this, you can't go around saying pardon and talking about love, Malfoy. You can't—"
"Harry," he interrupts softly. "I am quite content with my life. I'm sorry if you're not, but I'm afraid that's just the way things are now."
"Get up."
"Excuse me?"
"Get up. You're coming with me. Until we find you somewhere better, anyway."
"I think you are a great person, Harry," he tells me. "But I'm not going to let you disrupt my home. Please leave now."
"Holy fucking shit," I manage to laugh. "I know what's gonna happen now! Any day you're going to freeze to death and it's going to be my fault. For letting you be obnoxious and stubborn. Of course. Of course that's how—"
"I said," he cuts me off again, rising to his feet. "Good day."
I pause, clenching my jaw. "Fine," I bite out. "Fucking fine!" With that I push myself off the entryway, marching away with the same stride as before. I curse, quietly, and get at least five steps further than I did the first time before turning around with a frustrated grunt and walking back—again.
Draco looks at me expectantly and perhaps a bit confused. I take a hissing breath, clench my fists at my sides and resort to doing something very embarrassing.
"Please," I utter from between tightly clenched teeth. "It is not you. It is . . ." I roll my eyes, look away, but end up saying it anyway: "It's me. It's about me."
"I beg your pardon, Harry?"
"Me! It's about me, okay. I'm trying to be a . . . a better person. Again. And then I saw you, and how—well, you are doing, spiritually, and . . ." I stare at the ground, astonished at myself. "I guess what I'm saying is. I, uhm, need your help, Malfoy?" I look up, talking slowly. "I mean, Fixit. Yeah. You would . . . help me, really, by letting me help you . . . not freeze to your death. Or, uh, get rabies."
Slowly, his brows go up. I'm this close to believing that this is the moment where he bursts out in laughter to tell me how hard he had me going for it all. But instead he takes it in, considers and eventually says,
"So what you're saying is, you want me to come with you so you can . . . feel better about yourself?"
"Yes!" I exclaim. "Exactly!"
"And you want my help in how to be a better person?"
"Sure. Sure. That too, yeah."
"It'll have to be a long and hard process, you know. It doesn't just happen overnight. You're going to have to work for it."
"No, of course." I raise a feeble fist in show of enthusiasm. "Work. All the way. Love work."
"Good. Hold on." He grabs his microphone from the crate and sets to putting it back in the bag.
"Does this—are you saying yes? Is this a yes?"
"Yes," he says, brushing past me with a creepily friendly smile. "Besides, it was getting a bit cold."
"A bit," I agree, dumbstruck. I watch him go, no shoes and only a plastic bag in his hand, and it's almost like he's just been waiting for this moment all along. Waiting for someone to come along and offer him a better place, so he could just get up with his one-and-a-half possessions and happily comply. In a flash, I want to change my mind and tell him to stay behind anyway.
"Back up the street," I say instead, when he turns around with a gesture to ask 'where to?'. "I parked my car by the theatre."