Fic: My Old Ways, 5/6 (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.
11. THE OTHER CONVERSATION ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS
which ends up not making a bleeding difference, anyway
I notice as I easily jog up the stairs of Ron and Hermione's home that the television I'd seen out on the street just a couple of days ago is back in the living room—slightly askew. The fridge is back, as is the stereo. Mostly everything is in its old place and the only reminder of the incident are the patches of dustless surfaces visible due to haphazard replacement.
I find Ron in the bedroom, where Hermione said he'd be. He's standing in front of his closet, pondering an orange Hawaii shirt.
"What you doing?" I ask, burying my hands in my pockets as I take a small step into the room.
Ron looks up, surprised before his expression melts into that of friendly welcome. "Hey," he says. "You here?"
I shrug, smiling shyly. "Yeah. I, uhm, wanted to talk."
Hanging the hideous shirt back, Ron turns to me with full attention. He raises his brows minutely, urging me to go on.
"Well, I guess it's not so much talking as . . ." I take a breath. "I wanted to say sorry. For Wednesday. For losing it like that, in front of everybody—in front of . . ." Swallowing, I add a tight smile.
"It's all right," he replies with a curious frown, as if it's weird that I even worried about it. "It's quite a shame that the meeting had to happen like that, without you knowing about it beforehand and everything—I think you would've liked the idea—but we were already finished anyway." He nods, appreciatively troubling his bottom lip for a long moment before adding as an afterthought, "You should really do something about that anger, though."
I smile weakly, taking my hands out of my pockets as I walk toward the bed—flopping onto it with a sigh. I lie back, draping an arm over my eyes. A few quiet heartbeats later, the mattress carefully dips under the weight of Ron.
"Have you considered," he starts, "to have Fixit . . . you know. Fix it?"
"I saw your TV's back," I reply, subtlety beyond me when it comes to changing subjects.
"Yes," he says after a hesitating exhale. He sounds somewhat sadder, suddenly. "We thought we could make the transition all at once. We thought we were ready for that. We weren't though." I hear him swallow. "Was a bit of a disappointment, to be honest."
I lift my arm to peek at him, slouching at the end of the bed. "Transition?"
"The idea was to try and revert to a more natural state of being," he explains as if he's been using these weird words all his life. "No excessive material. No excessive magic." He glances over his shoulder at me. "I even locked away my wand. Took me forever to remember the combination, too. Almost went loony yesterday, I'll tell you that."
I chortle, shaking my head at the ceiling. "So you're gonna try again?"
"Oy, we got rid of a few things," he says, nudging my knee. And then, after a disbelieving look, he smiles pathetically and adds, "An old salad bowl. And the bathroom's wireless."
"The broken one?"
He laughs, nodding, rubbing his jaw with the flat of his hand. "I'm trying to get rid of some clothes, too. Give them to a charity or something. Was just making a selection before, actually."
"But . . . you've got like, three shirts, Ron."
He shoots me a serious look. "Two too many, is how many."
I'm not sure whether he's joking or not. To be on the safe side I ignore the comment. "It's almost Christmas," I say, liking the normality of the comment. "Do you guys want to do something together? I know we usually . . . the four of us, but I'm thinking we might as well have dinner just us three. Like old times, yeah?"
He turns to me at this, quite slowly, and the sorry face he's pulling already gives away the answer. "I'm sorry, Harry," he says. "Fixit asked us to not plan for Christmas."
"He what?" My voice is flat, and I'm not surprised.
"I'm not sure. He didn't specify. He just said not to plan anything."
"Listen, if I wake up on Christmas and you guys are having a massive orgy in my living room, I swear I'll—"
"—Foul!" He punches my leg, lightly, and I laugh—my voice deep because I'm lying on my back. He chuckles along, but his amusement quickly fades over into a sober expression. When an earnest frown settles down his forehead, I feel oddly uneasy.
"Harry," he says. "I've got to tell you something."
"Shit," I say.
He looks at his closet and not at me. "Ginny," he says, "has been asked on a date."
I stare at Ron's neck, trying to figure out how I'm supposed to react to this piece of information.
"She wanted to go," he continues. "But she said no. Harry, she feels obligated to you. She feels bad—"
"Damn right she is!" I push myself to my elbows, flushed. "What else is she supposed to bloody feel, after leaving me like that?"
"I think you two should talk," Ron says, now looking at his hands. "I think . . . you should give her your blessing, Harry. Let her know it's okay."
"But it's not okay!" I exhale a harsh chuckle of amazement. "It's barely been a month. A month!"
"I dunno, Harry." He drops his hands between his knees and finally looks up at me, patiently disagreeing. "You're living with Fixit, aren't you? Isn't that far more serious than a date?"
"Excuse me?" I smile despite myself, "How is that the same? How is that, in any way, even remotely similar?"
Ron gives me the littlest of shrugs. "It's an emotional relationship, isn't it?"
My elbows give way under me at the total surprise this statement brings about. As the back of my head hits the soft of the mattress a rolling laughter starts in my chest and keeps on in irregular waves, and I'm honestly amused now. "I—" I starts, stop as a bit of laughter still ripples my voice, "I can not stand the bloke, Ron. It's—fuck's sake, it's Draco Malfoy, mate! If everyone wouldn't have gone completely 'round the bend I would've thrown him out ages ago."
Ron makes a genuinely displeased sound, something like an 'Aaah' that's been doused in a bucket of disappointment. "I don't understand," he says, voice strained with what I think is his trying to understand. "You're so angry, Harry. And whenever someone comments about it, you just . . . clamp up. Project your insecurities on everyone else. Anything to keep people from breaking—"
"—Ron, please, shut the fuck up before I won't be able to be around you, too."
And I find that I'm actually surprised when Ron in fact shuts up. He sighs, but says nothing, breaking his slouching position by leaning back on his hands. I don't say anything either, and for a long time we just sit there together, letting the wayward resentment subside. My thoughts trail back and forth between this situation here and how it came to happen, and a question then peaks up with a need to be asked. I'm uncomfortable, but know that much worse conversations have been had between me and my best friend so I swallow a small lump and start with a,
"Hey, did you . . ." I shift, propping my head on my arm. "Have you ever thought about. Uhh, about . . ."
He glances, quickly. "About what?"
I'm already blushing, determinedly staring at the ceiling. "Sex," I say. And then, to quickly clarify, "With blokes."
Ron is quiet for a long time, and I don't dare to look over and see his reaction. When his reply finally comes, it's not the one I expect.
"Is that why you broke up with Ginny?" he asks.
I shoot up at once, embarrassed by my flushed face—which only makes me blush more. "I did not break up with her!" reply, realising only too late I'm denying things in the wrong order.
"Because it's okay, you know," he keeps on, disregarding my comment. "If you were. I would be okay with it."
"Ugh!" I actually say aloud. "I was just asking. I was just a question, all right?"
Ron gives me a sympathetic, pursed-lipped. "There's no such thing as just asking, Harry."
I leave in a red-faced hurry, frustrated and awkward in myself. I want to go back home, but know that there's no one there who will understand whatever I say about this. I miss my best friends, I miss my girlfriend, I miss knowing that they're all just as big a crankpots as I am and that between the four of us—I am perhaps the most considerate. I am not used to being the exceptional asshole, and it's annoying me with how they're actually starting to convince me that they're right. I'm so fussed, so caught up in myself as I stride down the streets that I belatedly notice the first winter snow. I look around me and there's already a thin white layer covering the shop awnings, the trash bin covers and the woolly caps of people passing by. I am taken by such surprise that I halt, looking about in quiet astonishment. A light laugh comes out in a puff of condensed air as I blink up, watching the kaleidoscope play of snowflakes.
I want to turn to someone, point up and go—"Snow! Ha ha! Snow!"—but I'm on my own. I decide then that avoiding all the people in my life who've gone crazy isn't worth being on my own in a moment like this. I find myself doubling my pace as I walk on, but after a minute of half-running through the snow I lose my patience and with an off-handed 'fuck the environment!', I apparate home.
Wildly shaking off my coat and scarf I call to see if someone's home, even though I know who's home. I expect a zany reply to drift from one of the rooms, and when it doesn't I raise my voice with a frown—kicking my shoes into a random corner, ends of my socks slipping off my toes as I shuffle down the hall. One quick sweep around the living room proves it empty, and a glance towards the kitchen does the same. I'm just about to check upstairs, when an odd movement around the edge of my vision catches my attention as I'm turning away.
I freeze, certain that this has been a play of my eyes and that when I'll look again it'll be a teapot or a broom peeking from behind the cabinet.
But it's not.
Through the kitchen's backdoor window that overlooks the garden, I see Draco Malfoy, stark naked, with his hands up in the air—mouth open for catching snowflakes, prancing around on the white grass.
I hear a high-pitched squeak somewhere, and it takes me a moment to realise it's me. I thought that after seeing so much, having been through so and so much, there wouldn't be that many things left to shock me. These days, I don't know what won't shock me anymore.
I'm still gaping as I walk to the door, in a daze, and open it.
"What," I begin, my voice strained, "in the name of all that's fucking holy?"
Draco stops in a circling movement of sorts, swaying on the spot for a second as he focuses on me with a mad grin.
"Hello!" he exclaims enthusiastically. "I'm greeting the snow!"
I open my mouth to reply, but it actually takes the words a few forced seconds to vocalise themselves: "In the NUDE?"
He shrugs clumsily. "Does it bother you?"
I make a disbelieving noise, something like a sarcastic laugh, and reply, "It usually does when crazy naked people dance around in my back yard!"
"It's just nature, Harry," he calls back, lifting his face to the sky as if to underline his point. Sticking out his tongue, he catches a few snowflakes before squinting at me again. "See?"
Frustrated on so many levels, I bang my forehead against the doorframe twice before stilling and calmly saying, "Snow isn't your cue to get naked, Draco. It's water freezing in the sky. Freezing. A word I'd associate with put some fucking clothes on!" The latter I all but shout, staring at the woodwork intently in fright that I'd look up and end up staring at something else altogether—and that would just give the wrong idea altogether.
From the corner of my eye, though, I see that Draco is standing still for a moment as he looks my way. "Come join me," he then says.
My eyes widen at the doorframe. "What?"
"Join me!" He reaches out an arm in the distance, truly expecting me to shed my clothes and join him in the garden. "Come on, Harry Potter! Come greet the winter!"
I roll my head against the wood, closing my eyes. "Oh dear GOD," I mutter to myself and to all the parts of me that are actually considering the offer. Before I can act on anything crazy, I push myself off and march out of the kitchen and back to the hallway—where I can't see him. There it takes a few breaths, a few wild hands through my hair and over my face to get my mind back in working order.
"All right," I say to myself. "I think this qualifies as an emergency."
I've barely stepped into my shoes and already I'm gone, leaving the space behind me in a loud pang of rippling air. In a blink of an eye I materialise into a long space of stairs and walls that I've never seen before. It occurs to me, then, that this might just be either the worst or the most brilliant idea I've ever had in a moment of despair.
My feet are unsteady, my arms wobbly in the space around me and it takes a moment for me to find the balance again—straighten the glasses on my nose. I'm in an apartment building, and it's quite cold but I'm still sweating. A nervous sweat, a frantic one that settles along the groove of my spine and the back of my neck. I take hesitating steps, counting the numbers of the doors I see to myself in silence, and when I find the one I remember Hermione muttering to me in secretive tones a while ago I give myself no time to think it over. I knock on the door, loudly, incisively. I keep on knocking until it opens.
Ginny opens the door with a twisted face that's about to shout "What?" in the face of whoever's knocking on her door like an asshole. When she sees I'm the asshole in question, she freezes.
"Hey," I say. "Heard you're going on a date."
"Heard you're living with Draco Malfoy," she replies immediately.
I smile, painfully and feebly. "Yes," I say, toying with the long sleeves of my sweater.
In the silence that meets my confirmation, Ginny relaxes a bit against the door. Her hair looks a bit frazzled, like she's been sleeping. She licks her lips, eyeing the space behind her and it takes a while before she says,
"Look. You want a cup of coffee or something?"
I nod, suddenly feeling a wave of gratitude towards her. I remember that I was angry, somewhere, with how she left and why she left, but right now I only feel relief at being allowed to be here.
She opens the door and shuffles into the room behind it without looking if I'm following. She's wearing pyjamas.
"Uhm," I start awkwardly. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah." She waves off the comment with a vague hand, going into the open-spaced kitchen. "Just taking a nap."
I mumble an 'oh', and quietly follow her wherever she goes. I stop, though, when it's just sliding back and forth between a cabinet and a water boiler. She gestures me to take a seat at the small table by the window, and I take up her orders with a humble disposition that puzzles even me.
As I wait for the water to boil, I am suddenly pondering why I never noticed before how long it actually takes. We are not talking when she's at the sink and I'm at the table, and I'm guessing that the rules are that I only get to speak when she's sitting also. Ill at ease, I cast quick, forcedly casual glances around the flat. From where I am I see a living room and some doors, and I wished I could get more out of it than I am. Like a board hanging from the wall, announcing, 'GINNY HAD SEX WITH 3 GUYS SINCE SHE LEFT HARRY!', or at least something that would give him an idea what her life is like now.
She sets the steaming mug close to me, to the edge of the table, and sits in the chair opposite with hers wrapped protectively in her hands—one knee up, her little foot on the seat. It used to annoy me so much when she did that at the dinner table, but now it's just nostalgia.
"So," I say, at a loss for a starter.
"You look like crap," she tells me, true sister of her brother.
"Thanks. You look smashing, though."
She tilts her head in mock arrogance. "Well, I do make an effort."
I break out in a relieved grin, and I can't even tell how much I've missed sarcasm. "Ron's gone funny," I say, needing desperately to hear her reaction.
"I know," she mutters to the rim of her mug. "S'your fault, too. You tosser."
"My fault?" I chortle, carefully reaching for my mug. "How is it my fault?"
"You took in that headcase, didn't you? Draco Mixit whatever. He's the one messing with everyone's head, isn't he?" She takes a tentative sip. "To be honest, I sort of expected you to be the craziest of them all by now."
"I don't know what to do," I say, quietly. "What if they'll all stay like this forever? I don't want . . . Fuck, I don't want Ron to talk to me about my feelings. Let alone anyone else."
"I know." The corners of her lips twitch up in fleeting recognition.
Somehow, this hurts me. I want to give her something nice, so I end up saying, "I miss you."
She gives me a full smile at this. "No you don't."
"I do," I insist. And then, after a disbelieving glance from her, "Well, right now I do."
"Oh, that's nice."
"God, see? Sarcasm. How am I supposed to live without your sarcasm?"
"Eh." She shrugs it off. "I'm sure your cynicism will rub off on Mixit eventually."
"Fixit," I correct with a funny quirk of a brow.
She giggles, once and hoarsely, ending it with a deep sigh. "I cannot believe you live with Draco Malfoy. What possessed you, anyway?"
"What d'you think?"
"Oh, come on. People split up all the time. How many of them actually take in a mortal enemy as consequence, hmm?"
"Dunno." I smile wryly at my coffee. "They should do a survey. You'd be surprised."
"Where did you even find him, Harry?"
"At the old theatre. He was homeless. And . . ." An unexplainable lump in the back of my throat suddenly takes hold of my voice, creaking it oddly. "And it's insane. He's insane."
"Then Harry," she says, carefully, leaning into the table a bit until I look up. "Kick him the fuck out."
It's all I've been wanting to hear. It's all I've wanted anyone to say for so long, and now that it's out in the open—a suggestion so clear and easy there's no way around it—I can't help but shying away from it. All I can think of is the crazy naked dude dancing around in the snow, oblivious to the insanity that surrounds everything he does. It seems heartless to throw that person out in the heart of winter. Draco Malfoy, now him—him I could punch out my door and into the streets in a heartbeat, but where did Draco Malfoy go? I was stuck with Fixit. And Fixit was insane.
I look at Ginny, her face close to the table where she's still leaning in, and instinctively I reach out to cup her face. I trail a thumb along the line of her cheekbone, I know it so well, and tuck away a strand of hair. I ache a little, because she's quite close, but we're very far apart. For a small moment she closes her eyes, and then it's nearly like it used to be.
I pull my hand back to settle at the base of my mug. She reclines back into the backrest of the chair, slowly, hugging her own mug close to her chest.
"So," I say at length, the burn still tangible in my chest. "Tell me about this date."
12. DON'T WORRY, BE HAPPY
I don't know. Does advice need to be complicated to make sense?
I get home late, my heart heavy and high in my throat yet lighter all the same. It's still snowing outside, and the thin blanket of white has turned into a full-on goose feathered inch and half. The house is dark and quiet. There are no naked people running around.
Slowly I drag myself upstairs, feet uncoordinated with sleepiness. I'm careless when I saunter into my room, not bothering with closing the door behind me, and I almost miss the note glued to the back. It catches the shadow of my curtains, though, and I notice its flappy end sticking out as I take off my shirt by the wardrobe.
Frowning, I pluck it from where its stuck to the surface. It's a short note, and all it says—in unfittingly fancy handwriting—is: Don't worry, be happy. Under it a little smiley face is drawn, displaying said happiness in case the reader has trouble placing the adjective.
I look at it for a long time. I don't know what to do with this, other than to not worry, and be happy. I don't see myself getting there quite yet, though, so instead I stuff it into my pocket and quietly walk out into the hall again. Further down, Draco's door is wide open—as it usually is. He is sleeping on the mattress where it lies on the floor, next to the unused bed frame. His pillow and blanket are on the mesh, folded, and he himself is stretched out on his stomach quite as naked as I'd last seen him. It almost looks like he stumbled upstairs in a drunken stupor, only to fling himself haphazardly toward the ground and hitting the mattress by pure luck.
Standing in small guestroom shirtless I am already cold. Looking at the naked Draco, imagining how he must've went from the snow to here, I wonder for a panicked moment whether he'd frozen while I was gone and was now dead. In that moment of flushed conviction that I've killed Draco Malfoy I hurry forward, kneeling by the mattress and holding the back of my hand close to his lips—heart beating frantically, holding my breath and not letting go until a tiny exhale puffs against my skin.
I silently laugh at myself, at how quickly I worry and am unhappy, and at how hard it probably is to not worry and just be happy. Sitting back on my heels, I reach up for the blanket on the bed, careful not to nudge the sleeping man. I want to pull it over him so that he wouldn't freeze to death during the night anyway, but find myself pausing in the act and ignoring the whooping alarms going off in my head, warning me of what Harry Potter is supposed to be doing when around naked sleeping blokes—which isn't checking them out.
Quickly, I pull the blanket over his back, and he barely stirs—only making a faint sound of sleepy appreciation in acknowledgement. I wait for something to happen, maybe for him to turn over or reach out or even wake up, but he just keeps on sleeping, obliviously. My hand is clammy and shaky when I reach out to smooth over the fabric of the blanket where it follows the curve of his spine. I am fucked, I realise, because I have no reason to be doing this. I have no reason to feel the rise of his buttocks, the arch and crook of it, his thighs or the back of his knees. I have no reason to watch his face or to wait for those eyes to open.
I am barely touching the blanket that is barely touching him, until my fingers involuntarily curl around the silhouette of his calf and he gives the tiniest of whimpers—a voiced exhale more than anything—and I jump back with a quiet yelp, hands balled into fists at my sides.
I can hear my heart beat madly, absolutely going wild against my ribcage and my blood thundering past my ears. He just shifts a little, happily clinging onto the blanket.
I back my way out of the room, one careful step after the other, purposefully closing the door behind me with a soft click.
Then I drop my head into my hands, palms covering my face perfectly. I exhale, desperately, bringing my hands up to dig their heels into my eyes.
"Fucked," I say, and I know that it's true.
13. THE BIG CHRISTMAS FIGHT
and not even the kind you'd expect
The weekend before Christmas finds me miserable and sleepy in bed. I've quietly retreated from the buzz of people walking in and out of the house, something I've reluctantly grown accustomed to. I spend most time in my room or at work—doing all that I can to not to let my mind wander or linger on things that make the proverbial 'FUCKED!' signs appear in glowing neon letters.
I notice that something is happening around me—there's an excited atmosphere about the house, and the increasing visitors talk in thrilled voices that float from the kitchen to my study, incoherent but clear in their feel. Determinedly I block it out, all of it, ignoring the climatic vibe in which the days pass by. Draco thinks I'm like this because he pushed too far by dancing naked in the snow. He tries to talk about my problems with nudity and human proximity, hinting at perhaps a slight case of homophobia, and I just shrug and go with it. It's better than anything I've got to say about it, anyway.
A few days ago he sat me down and said, "Considering what happened last time, I thought it would be wise to ask beforehand now. With Christmas, I've been sort of planning—"
"Don't tell me," I cut him off. "I don't want to know."
"But it concerns you. And I more or less need the—"
"You can have the living room. Just don't bother me if I'm upstairs, all right?"
He frowned at me, not yet satisfied. "But . . ."
I let him trail off aimlessly, and when no argument or reason followed I stood up and left, itching to go back to blueprints and numbers and headaches. I've not so much exchanged more than a few words with him since then, but now there's no way around it. I've slept in as much as I could, deep into the early afternoon, pleased by the surprising silence about the house. No visitors today, I think happily as I amble my way down the stairs in an old bathrobe. I'm still scratching my chest, blinking woozily ahead, when I get the impression that I might've woken up in the wrong place. I halt, one hand on the railing, squinting behind me to make sure that yes—that is indeed my room up there, and no, I haven't been teleported into a strange home overnight.
Then of course there's also the possibility that I'm imagining this.
"Hello?" I feebly ask the silent crowd in my living room, draped out over my couch or carpet—playing cards, doing a puzzle, or just staring off into the distance. Some people are walking around, doing something indiscernible. A good number look up at me, smiling but saying nothing. I notice my friends amongst the jumble of zany faces, Hermione a Neville engaged in a game of monopoly, Ron handing a glass of water to a person I've never seen before.
And they're all impossibly, totally and properly silent.
I'm hesitant as I join them, all careful steps and cautious glances.
"Uhm," I say, standing by Neville's sitting form, whispering of heed for the quiet. "Is this going to take long?"
Hermione looks up at me and shrugs, moving her hand in a seesaw gesture that says—more or less. I raise a brow at her and ask,
"What's that supposed to mean?" I mimic the motion. "Days? Weeks? Hours?"
She nods. Neville shakes his head. I swallow, starting to see where this is going. I look around one more time, and take in once more the complete lack of speech all around. Then I set in search for Draco. I find him in the pantry, stocking up on some canned goods I don't remember buying.
"Hey," I say, grabbing his arm and leaning in secretively. I don't know why, but it doesn't feel like I should be talking, and that I'm breaking some kind of rule by doing it so easily. "What's up with everyone set to mute?"
He gives me a casual glance, gently extracting his arm from my grip and continuing with putting the food on the shelves. "I tried to tell you before," he says. "You wouldn't let me."
"Well, I'm asking now." I wrap my robe closer around my frame, crossing my arms. "Look, are they going to be here for long? I mean, I'm sure people have stuff to do, with Christmas . . ."
"No they don't," he tells me nicely. "This is our Christmas now."
I blink, a shadow of a smile flittering over my lips. "This is Christmas."
"Yes." He turns a jar on the shelve so that the label faces us. "Oh, and try not to pester them into talking. I know you're tempted, but really, they are trying."
"Trying? Trying what?" I raise my voice in a whispery way.
"I can't fix everyone forever. I'm teaching them how to do it themselves."
A sudden coldness grips the back of my neck and my next words come out in hushed, hurried tones, "You're not going to cut off their ears or something, are you?"
He dismisses me with a vague flap of a hand, laughing as though I'm being funny about it. "They've taken a vow of silence. Like I did, only—" He gives me a knowing look, "—minus all the messy. Ha!" A small laugh to himself, followed by an appreciative sigh. "Oh well. But we don't really have two months, so we're keeping it to two days. Till Christmas!"
"Two days?" I glance over my shoulder as a person passes by the door, oblivious to us. I lower my voice nonetheless. "Two days? You're going to teach them the secrets of spiritual healing in two days?"
He nods with a hum. I am about to reply to that when it suddenly comes to me that—
"Wait. They're all going to be here for two days? Two whole days? In my house?"
Draco's minute shrug is the only answer I get as he brushes past me, and if I didn't know any better I'd think there was something sad about him. I follow him, contained in my frenzy, and he turns around to face me again with unexpected quickness.
"So I know that I can't help you," he says apropos nothing, trying to add a small smile to it. "I accept that. I've outstayed my welcome, and you've been a very . . . honest host. But I can't leave these people from the one moment to the other, all right? They trust me. So just . . . just give me this, Harry, and I promise I'll be out of your hair come new year."
There's no denying that I'm taken aback by this. I've wanted to kick him out, I nearly did so many times and have been prevented from doing just that by numerous people—but having him acknowledge it like this and tell me that he's actually going, that there will be actually a date that I know he won't be here, hits me squarely in the guts. I swallow, squaring my shoulders as I look away. Behind Draco, in the living room, I see two pretty long-haired girls sitting across from each other with their eyes closed—bobbing their heads to a beat I can't hear.
I frown at the sight. Draco follows my eyes with a short glance over his shoulder.
"They're listening to their inner music," he clarifies, seriously.
I look at the two girls, and I'm torn between wanting to laugh and melting into a puddle of relief at the idea that in over a week I won't ever have to wake up to this madness. If there's anything I want to tell Draco that would change his mind about anything, I don't. I just nod, feeling dazed, and say,
"I'm, uhm . . . I'm going to be upstairs. Try . . ." I look around again, and take a useless chance at irony. "Try not to make too much noise, eh?"
A vague hint of a smile passes Draco's features, and it makes me feel horrible. I suppress a grimace, closing my eyes as my frowns deepens into a troubled one. I walk past him, then, granting the people in the adjacent room a quick and not quite genuine smile before retracing my steps up the stairs once more.
True to my word, I do stay in my room for the bigger part of the weekend. A few trips down for fizzy and crisps, other food groups and the TV set that no one was allowed to use anyway, and I was set. And say what you will about mortal enemies and their rebirths, but even spending the holidays with them is better than doing it on your own—stuck in your room, knowing that everyone you care about is just seconds away but being unable to simply get off your bum and join them. There are too many Christmas movies, too many Muppets shows and too many late-night specials. I want sports, and Millionaire shows and Top Gears, but there doesn't seem to be a single channel not tinged with red and green and mistletoes.
By the end of the second evening I begin to check the state of things from the top landing every other hour. It's been two days, and whatever they're doing—(the joking orgy suggestion I made at Ron's place suddenly rings disgustingly different to me)—it should be done anytime now. Toward six I think I hear the front door open and close a couple of times, and I'm almost happy as I push myself off the bed. It's Christmas eve and I'm getting my home back. Awesome.
I dig in my closet for the presents I'd bought for my friends, already planning on asking them to stay and maybe get everyone drunk—see if it sparks a bit of what our Christmases used to be. I wouldn't even mind if Draco stays, really, if—
"OY!" I exclaim as I get to the bottom of the staircase and one of the long-haired girl from before snatches one of the gifts from my hands. She walks away with it, barely acknowledging me. I hurry after, crying, "That's—lady, that's mine!"
She exits through the wide open door, and I mutter under my breath—bewildered at the absurdity of everything—as I quickly step into a pair of old shoes by the mat and follow her. The light jog I have in my step, though, dissipates into a complete stop at seeing that all the people I thought had left hadn't left at all. Everyone is gathered in front of my house, in coats and scarves, holding boxes filled with what I think is food. They seem excited and there's a buzz of anticipation, even though they're all still silent.
"Thanks, Lillian," Draco addresses the long-haired girl as she drops my gift in the box he's holding.
"Hold on!" I call, already walking toward the group. "That's—that was my gift. You can't—" I pause, looking them all over. "What are you doing?"
"You'll see," Draco replies with a small grin, and then turns to his people with a jerky cock of the head toward the street. "Let's go, people!"
Together, with the out-of-sync quality of school trips, they all start down the pavement. Mouth agape, it takes me a couple of seconds before hurrying after and falling into pace next to Draco.
"I want my gift back," I tell him. "That was for someone else."
"You want it?" He glances at me, putting up some kind of wise face. "Take it." With that, he turns a little toward me, presenting the box.
I look inside and see that it's all gifts. My guts churn as I realise that I don't even remember what kind of wrapping paper I used, and that they all look more or less the same. I look up at him, angrily questioning, and he shrugs as if he can't do anything about it.
"Whose are these?" I ask.
"Everyone's." He juts his chin to indicate the procession walking in front of us. "They all gave up their gifts today."
"Of course they did," I say, misery contorting my face.
Draco rolls his eyes at me. "Oh, cheer up, Harry Potter. You can always buy another one tomorrow."
"You don't know what was in there. It could've been a one-of-a-kind. It could've been my grandmother's ring. You don't know." I hug myself, coatless in the snow as I am. "And besides. Tomorrow's too late. It's Christmas eve, Draco."
"Why do the gifts make such a difference? When tomorrow comes you'll be with your friends. The people you love. Now that, my friend, is a gift on its—"
I hold up a hand, smiling. "Spare me, please." I turn back to face the street, watching the front of the group round a corner ahead. "I don't know if I'll be with my friends tomorrow," I add, quietly. "For all I know they're with you, running around Britain trying to heal the sick."
"Don't be silly," he tells me. "I'm not their best friend. I help them now, sure, but tomorrow they'll . . ." The breaking of his voice is immediately covered up by a grand inhale, accompanied by a majestic smile. "Well! As for happier matters!"
He doesn't say what these happy matters are, though, but simply doubles his pace to take his place at the front of the group. I watch him go, dawdling in the back with that sense of annoyance typical for this time of year. I could turn back and go home to spend the night on my own. I don't for the obvious reasons, and maybe even for a couple of obscure ones. The self-pity that threats to take over is pushed back into nothingness when Ron falls back to walk next to me. He offers me a warm smile, which I return with feeling.
"I've missed you, mate," I say, knowing that he can't reply. He just gazes back, patient and understanding, hitching the box filled with clothing higher with one arm. The other he uses to unwrap his scarf from around his neck, offering it to me. I take it gratefully, tying it tightly with a word of thanks.
We walk in amiable silence for a minute or five to a point from where we take a bus. I don't have the strength left to be stunned by the fact that the bus is empty, and that the driver appears to know Draco, and that it's only here to pick us up. We rock back and forth in the seats as the bus hobbles over the slippery roads, boxes on knees, and I see the secretive glances exchanged all around. Draco walks back and forth the aisle, asking people how they're doing—a nod suffices—and acknowledging me with a knowing quirk or a brow. I don't even know what it means.
When we get off, I know immediately where we are. The irony, the karma, whatever the universe's idea of funny means—it trickles down the back of my awareness, making me heady with incredulity. Anxious to see what will happen next, what else fate has in store for me, I wobble my way down the pebbly decline to the waterside. The bridge is lit bright and seasonal above us as we walk onto the concrete plateau. Just as last time, the length of it is scattered with fires in tins—groups of bums gathered around them, warming their hands close to the flames. The tents and cardboard shelters are now covered with snow, and the same motionless lumps curled up in sleeping bags are still in place.
"All right, friends," Draco addresses the group. "You know what to do."
And with that the crowd disperses. Ron lightly punches my arm, sending me a happy smile before hopping off to a nearby group of bums with his box of clothes. I watch, perhaps somewhat disbelieving, as everyone approaches a different group of homeless people—or even lone ones, asleep in their folding chairs with a bottle still in hand. I think to myself, Yeah, good luck with that.
From my spot I observe and wait for every one of Draco's followers to be rejected by the bums, to slink back dejectedly, to fail just as hard as I did.
But that doesn't happen.
I don't know why. I don't know what I did wrong, and what these people are doing right, but where I was dismissed and unimpressive they're welcomed and definitely present. Coats and shirts and shoes are being passed around, foods and wireless appliances, there's a happy commotion and soon there are laughs, too, and Christmas decorations worn as necklaces. I barely know what I'm seeing.
Right there and then, I admit defeat. Whatever game I've been playing lately, it's very clear that I've lost. In the symbolism of the moment, I set a slow walk toward the whirl of brightly drunken people and gift-givers. When I'm close enough I decide that maybe it would be best to just walk on, and so I do that. A bit mindless I scan the cardboard houses, bending down a few times to check for human presence. On finding the one I was looking for I notice it's empty, and so turn to an old man not too far away—wearing a dirty Christmas hat—to ask if he's seen the kid who used to hang around here. About eighteen, I say. Polite, ran from home. Slept at this spot.
"Aye, 's Harry," the man replies, slurring. "Went back home ages ago. Came 'round to see us a while ago. Back in school, the little guy is. Yep." He nods to himself. "Good kid, that one. Good kid."
I sigh, carefully taking a seat on the floor next to the old man. "Yeah," I agree. "Harry was a good kid."
For a long time we sit there, quietly watching the loud crowd from a distance. Someone turns on a wireless up to eleven, and Christmas songs boom through the air. The snow resumes its faithful fall, dotting people's hair with specks of white as they dance—arm in arm—to the silly, sweet melodies.
I look for Draco and spot him just a while away from the dancing people, on one knee, handing a slumped figure a prettily wrapped gift. It could very well be my gift, the one I was going to give Ron. I keep watching to see if the bum will unwrap it, to catch perhaps his reaction.
But instead of accepting the gift, the slumped person swats out a hand to flick away the gift. It flies out of Draco's hand, landing a couple of feet away.
I slowly rise to my feet, intently following the exchange as it progresses. Draco says something, his patient face as calm as always, and by the movement of the slumped one I think his reply his incontrollable laughter. Once again Draco replies, a beginning of a frown etching his forehead. The answer, whatever it is, is enough to make him inch back his head in a start. He shakes no, says something in the negative, but the reaction is laughter once more.
I'm unaware of the fact that I've started to walk toward the pair until I realise that I can almost make out what is said. Draco is now talking in a rush of words, and the last that I catch of it is,
"—apologised numerous time, Theodore. Numerous. I have treated you quite horribly in the past, but you have to understand that—"
"—Quite horribly? QUITE horribly? Fuck the shit off Malfoy, you made all our lives miserable with your ordering around—"
"—Fixit, Theodore, it's Fix—"
There, on the ground, leaning against the concrete pillar of the bridge, is Theodore Nott. He's drunk, filthy, and shouting:
"I didn't have shit to do with the war. SHIT! I stayed out of it, and still they—"
"—Now, Theodore," Draco tries, his voice quavering a little. "We both know that's not entirely true."
"Fuck you!" Nott shouts in reply. "Do you see where am I know, Malfoy? HUH? If it weren't for you and your shitty kind I'd never be resorted to this kind of shit. You fucking owe me, man!"
"I am trying, Theo. I really am. Aren't I here? Aren't I making an effort to—"
Nott laughs, drunkenly standing up. He waves about a sloppy hand and catches Draco's coat, one of my old ones, flapping it open as if it's dirty in some way. "What's this then, Master Malfoy? What the bloody shit, is this? The clothes, the fucking charity case you're on—and who are those, eh?" He looks around, woozily gesturing to the oblivious dancing people. "Gryffindors? Fucking—" He spits out the word: "Muggles? Mudbloods?" He snorts. "Fuck off, Malfoy. You're a fake and you know it. This," he hits Draco in the chest, flapping the coat again, "just shows how cheap you are."
That's when I see something flare up behind Draco's eyes. The quietness and ease I've learned to associate him by melt at the visible heat that rises to his face. His jaw is clenched, his fists shaking at his sides. It's rather frightening, to be honest, and I want it gone. Not thinking about it twice I rush toward the two, immediately going for Draco's arm—closing an insistent hand around it.
Nott whoops loudly, laughing so loud he nearly stumbles over his own feet. "Potter?" he manages between breaths. "You brought Potter with you? Holy FUCK, Malfoy, the sky's the limit for you, isn't it? What's he, then?" he adds, addressing me. "Your girlfriend? Is that how he convinced you of this shit, Potter? By sucking your cock?"
"Shut the fuck up, Nott, or I swear I'll—"
"Ooooh, you'll what, Potter? Adopt me too, try to turn me into a fucking weirdo like Poofter Malfoy here?" He makes a retching sound, slouching back against the pillar. "I'd rather die."
I feel Draco twitch under my hold, I feel his hostile inclination and I tighten my grip. "Don't," I whisper. "Don't let him get to you."
Nott catches our communication and reacts by mockingly pressing close to the concrete. "OH, backs against the walls, fellows!" he cries. "Buttpirates in the room, backs against the walls!"
The anger I'm trying to convince Draco isn't worth it is starting to really get to me too. This is the time to leave, I decide, and turn to walk away—pulling Draco with me.
"Yeah, that's right, you assholes!" Nott shouts after. "Fuck off! Walk away from your past you fucking traitor, Malfoy. Just like your whore of a mother. Just like your fucking—"
In a split second, Draco is out of my grip. I try to hold him back, but he's too quick and too angry and by the time I've turned he's already punched Nott—a single, swift blow to the nose. The man's head whips back and hits the surface of the pillar. His eyes roll back and he slowly, almost lazily, slumps to the ground.
Draco grunts loudly. He shakes his hand at his side, pausing to hold on to his wrist. "Motherfuck," he hisses, and I'm not sure I heard it right until he says it again, louder, "MotherFUCK!"
Pointlessly, I grab his arm again—as if to make up for my belated reaction moments before, or maybe stop him from shouting. The music behind us has been turned down at some point, and without looking I already know that everyone is staring at us. At the unconscious bum at our feet.
"Oh, MOTHERFUCK!" Draco screams it out this time, face lifted to the bridge above us. When he glances down and catches sight Nott on the ground, his anger flares up again and he makes a wild move forward as if to kick the slump frame. This time I hold him back properly though, pulling back his both arms, as he twists and shouts that same word over and over and—
I laugh. It's an astonished, incredulous laugh, and even thought I'm saying—"Calm down, Draco. Jesus fucking H, man, calm the bloody hell down!"—I can't help but laugh. Draco Malfoy has just punched someone, and now he's swearing, and the world's just fucking hilarious like that.
"Shut the fuck up!" he shouts at me, face twisted into anger as he glances over his shoulder. "Fucking let me go—I'm gonna fucking—"
"Woah!" I laugh still, pressing him closer to me the more he struggles. "Easy there, Draco! You already knocked him out, what more do you want?"
Draco wriggles madly, and he's so small I have to slip an arm around his waist to keep him in place. By now he manages odd, one-syllable exclamations such as "Kill!" and "Hit!" and "Fuck!"
I laugh even more, trying all the while to drag the rabid Draco away from Nott. It's hard and my arms slump every now and then because of how funny it all is, and I have to circle both my arms around his chest to trap his own wildly clawing arms. Breathless from the exercise, I drop my forehead against the back of Draco's neck—my nose fitting perfectly below the nape of his hair.
He stills.
"Easy, now," I whisper against his skin. In my arms he slumps the slightest bit, his chest rising up to my hands with his heavy breaths.
Gingerly, I chance a tiny glance over my shoulder, at the crowd of people behind us. I catch a quick glimpse of wide-eyed, horrified faces, and it's enough for me to turn back and mumble,
"We're going home."
And with a sharp movement and a bit of magic, we are out of there.