draco/(eminem) part 6
messed up.
Valentine’s Day, 2001.
“Harry.”
“Uh.”
“Harry! Are you going flat hunting today?”
“Uh.”
Hermione unwraps the towel from round her head and shakes her damp hair out.
“Are you even listening to me? Look, you know I don’t mind you staying here, but it’s been three and a half months and you really ought to think about getting your own place. Harry? Harry, pay attention when I’m talking to you!”
Harry’s gaze remains glued to MTV. Hermione’s hands clench into involuntary fists and she reminds herself of the importance of low blood pressure.
“Turn that bloody thing off, for goodness’ sake.”
Hermione makes a grab for the remote and flips the television onto standby. Harry yowls in outrage.
“Hermione! I was watching that!”
“And now you’re not. What was it anyway?”
Harry shrugs. “Turn it back on and see.”
“Oh, I’m not falling for that. We need to talk about you moving out, remember?”
“No. Can you turn the TV back on, please?”
“You’re such a child, honestly.” She puts the remote down on the coffee table and takes a comb from her dressing gown pocket. Seeing a window of opportunity, Harry lunges for the remote control and flips the TV back on triumphantly.
“ - don’t wanna fuck wit’ me; bitches too, you ain’t nothin’ but a slut to me!”
“Oh dear god. Are you listening to Eminem?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Apart from, maybe, the fact that he’s a misogynistic, homophobic criminal? I won’t tolerate that kind of thing in my flat, thank you very much.”
“No he’s not. He’s really cool. Listen, listen to this song, it’s really cool.”
Harry returns his attention to the screen. Hermione follows his gaze, a look of distaste on her freshly scrubbed face.
“Harry?”
“Uh.”
“He looks a lot like Draco.”
“No he doesn’t. And stop talking about Malfoy.”
“Yes, he does. Look, his nose is identical. I never noticed that before.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking properly. Anyway, he doesn’t. Go to work.”
Hermione sighs. If he weren’t her best friend, she’d throttle him, she really would.
--
Marshall hasn’t been around a lot over the last few days. When he does show up, he looks more transparent, sort of wispy around the edges. Possessing someone, he explained to Draco, takes a lot out of you. Draco tells him about Voldemort and the time in first year when he possessed Professor Quirrell, and as much about the war as he cares to remember. He tries not to mention Potter. Marshall says “shit!” a lot and refuses to talk much about his own life.
“That shit over now, dog, you know what I’m saying?”
He doesn’t ever discuss his daughter, but on Valentine’s Day Draco wakes up with the hotel telephone in his hand, and his throat feels hoarse and overused. An American operator’s voice comes angrily from the receiver. Draco puts the phone back in its cradle and doesn’t bother mentioning it to Marshall.
That afternoon, Ramone comes into the hotel room in a state of some excitement.
“Hey, dog, good news!”
“What’s that?” Draco speaks as little as possible to the group of people who accompany him everywhere, and they’ve started to back off a little bit.
“They used to it, yo,” said Marshall when Draco asked him if his friends thought he was behaving strangely. “They know to give me my space sometimes.” Mostly, Draco has been left to his own devices, and even though he has no desire to mix with Marshall’s crew, he feels a little weird when he hears music and raucous laughter coming from the other rooms on the hotel corridor.
Now, Ramone is waving a piece of paper in the air and trying not to stare at the frost on the inside of the window and the icicles hanging from the ceiling. Draco doesn’t notice them any more, apart from as an indication of Marshall’s presence.
“You know you been nominated for a bunch-a shit at the Grammys, a’ight? Well I jus’ spoke to Paul and he says they want you to perform some of yo’ shit, dog. He said something about a duet or some shit like that. What you think?”
Draco frowns. Marshall’s tour finished in Glasgow two nights ago, and he’s been meaning to ask when Marshall is planning to ‘die’, thereby freeing Draco from this frankly crazy situation. He’ll ask once Ramone’s gone. Or maybe he’ll leave it until tomorrow.
“I dunno, Ramone. Who do they want me to duet with? Um, yo.”
“Up to you, dog. You don’t think the Grammys is selling out or nothin’?”
Marshall drops through the ceiling and falls into Ramone, who shivers. His head emerges from Ramone’s left knee.
“Psst, Draco. Say no, dog! The Grammys is for Christina fuckin’ Aguilera and them bitches. I ain’t doin’ it!”
No, thinks Draco, you won’t be. I will. He looks Ramone in the eye.
“Sounds good. Tell them yes.”
“Whatever you say, Em. You got any ideas for a duet?”
Marshall floats angrily over to Draco, insofar as it’s possible to float angrily, and snarls “You’re a fuckin’ faggot, dude.”
Draco smiles. “Is Elton John available?”
Marshall’s howls of rage cause an icicle to break off and skewer a bag of Cheetos to the dresser. Ramone pretends not to notice.
--
Harry is still watching MTV when Hermione gets home from work. She rolls her eyes and takes a stash of estate agents’ leaflets from her bag.
“Guess what I saw in the Evening Standard, Harry?”
“Whu’?”
“Eminem’s performing at the Grammys.”
Harry turns round so fast his glasses fly off and land on the other end of the sofa.
“Really? Brilliant! We can watch it together if you like! When are they?”
“Next week. Here, I got you some estate agents’ listings - Muggle and wizarding. The wizarding ones are cheaper but the Muggle places tend to have central heating, which isn’t something you should overlook. I thought you could go through them tonight.”
“Boring. Chudley Cannons are playing tonight, anyway. Neville and I are going. I promised Ron I wouldn’t ever miss a match if I could help it.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Maybe.”
“Harry!”
“What? I can’t be bothered.”
“If you find a place to live by this weekend, I’ll buy you a ticket to the Grammys’ aftershow party.”
“I hear Brixton has a thriving young wizarding community.”
--
Marshall isn’t speaking to Draco. That’s okay, though, because Draco is ignoring Marshall.
The icicles on the ceiling are starting to melt. Draco is warm enough to remove a whole sweater. Instead, he keeps it on and turns the air-con up full blast. Then he listens to Public Enemy until his ears ring and he’s forced to admit to himself that maybe this whole rap thing isn’t as artistically void as he’d decided. In the afternoon he watches Sky News broadcasts about George Bush’s programme of tax reforms and wonders if Potter is upset that he, Draco, is dead. Probably not. He’s probably still celebrating.
Elton John’s PA calls Ramone and arranges a rehearsal in LA for February 18th. Draco gets the feeling that Marshall isn’t going to help him out at this particular performance; a feeling that is reinforced by the way the toothpaste attacks him whenever he walks into the bathroom.
Draco considers faking his (sorry, Marshall’s) death and letting everybody else deal with the consequences, but he doesn’t want to let Marshall down. It’s an unfamiliar emotion, which he thinks maybe might be called loyalty but prefers to refer to as “being a stupid bastard”. Besides, he could do without spending the rest of his life covered in Colgate Whitening. Instead, he plays the song that Elton’s PA and Paul Rosenberg decided should be performed until he knows the lyrics off by heart.
“ - write you but you still ain’t phoning. Calling. Calling? Crap.”
Draco glares at the CD player until the track skips nervously back to the beginning.
“ - left my pager, my - what’s a pager? This is bloody hopeless. English aristocrats should not try to imitate American rappers. It just isn’t healthy.”
The CD scritches sympathetically.
“ - signed an autograph for - fucking bollocks. Elton is going to laugh in my face and then hex me into next August.”
A cobweb of frost spins itself over the mirror.
“ - we should be - this is pathetic
and my hair looks like I cut it
with a chainsaw, like a ferret
gnawed it off, and, God, I
might as well just end it
all this second -”
Draco pauses. What did he just say? He tries again.
“Um, Potter is a pervert and I saw him in the paper
with his girlfriend, name of Granger, and
he acts just like a stranger when he sees me in the street,
even though we work together. Um, I - ”
A ghostly fist punches him hard in the shoulder.
“Yo, bitch, you doin’ good.”
“Marshall?”
“’Sup?”
“You punched me quite hard and, um, your hand is sort of in my lung.”
"Shit, dog, I'm sorry."
Draco wheezes. "Don't worry about it. It's fine."
[part seven]
Valentine’s Day, 2001.
“Harry.”
“Uh.”
“Harry! Are you going flat hunting today?”
“Uh.”
Hermione unwraps the towel from round her head and shakes her damp hair out.
“Are you even listening to me? Look, you know I don’t mind you staying here, but it’s been three and a half months and you really ought to think about getting your own place. Harry? Harry, pay attention when I’m talking to you!”
Harry’s gaze remains glued to MTV. Hermione’s hands clench into involuntary fists and she reminds herself of the importance of low blood pressure.
“Turn that bloody thing off, for goodness’ sake.”
Hermione makes a grab for the remote and flips the television onto standby. Harry yowls in outrage.
“Hermione! I was watching that!”
“And now you’re not. What was it anyway?”
Harry shrugs. “Turn it back on and see.”
“Oh, I’m not falling for that. We need to talk about you moving out, remember?”
“No. Can you turn the TV back on, please?”
“You’re such a child, honestly.” She puts the remote down on the coffee table and takes a comb from her dressing gown pocket. Seeing a window of opportunity, Harry lunges for the remote control and flips the TV back on triumphantly.
“ - don’t wanna fuck wit’ me; bitches too, you ain’t nothin’ but a slut to me!”
“Oh dear god. Are you listening to Eminem?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Apart from, maybe, the fact that he’s a misogynistic, homophobic criminal? I won’t tolerate that kind of thing in my flat, thank you very much.”
“No he’s not. He’s really cool. Listen, listen to this song, it’s really cool.”
Harry returns his attention to the screen. Hermione follows his gaze, a look of distaste on her freshly scrubbed face.
“Harry?”
“Uh.”
“He looks a lot like Draco.”
“No he doesn’t. And stop talking about Malfoy.”
“Yes, he does. Look, his nose is identical. I never noticed that before.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking properly. Anyway, he doesn’t. Go to work.”
Hermione sighs. If he weren’t her best friend, she’d throttle him, she really would.
--
Marshall hasn’t been around a lot over the last few days. When he does show up, he looks more transparent, sort of wispy around the edges. Possessing someone, he explained to Draco, takes a lot out of you. Draco tells him about Voldemort and the time in first year when he possessed Professor Quirrell, and as much about the war as he cares to remember. He tries not to mention Potter. Marshall says “shit!” a lot and refuses to talk much about his own life.
“That shit over now, dog, you know what I’m saying?”
He doesn’t ever discuss his daughter, but on Valentine’s Day Draco wakes up with the hotel telephone in his hand, and his throat feels hoarse and overused. An American operator’s voice comes angrily from the receiver. Draco puts the phone back in its cradle and doesn’t bother mentioning it to Marshall.
That afternoon, Ramone comes into the hotel room in a state of some excitement.
“Hey, dog, good news!”
“What’s that?” Draco speaks as little as possible to the group of people who accompany him everywhere, and they’ve started to back off a little bit.
“They used to it, yo,” said Marshall when Draco asked him if his friends thought he was behaving strangely. “They know to give me my space sometimes.” Mostly, Draco has been left to his own devices, and even though he has no desire to mix with Marshall’s crew, he feels a little weird when he hears music and raucous laughter coming from the other rooms on the hotel corridor.
Now, Ramone is waving a piece of paper in the air and trying not to stare at the frost on the inside of the window and the icicles hanging from the ceiling. Draco doesn’t notice them any more, apart from as an indication of Marshall’s presence.
“You know you been nominated for a bunch-a shit at the Grammys, a’ight? Well I jus’ spoke to Paul and he says they want you to perform some of yo’ shit, dog. He said something about a duet or some shit like that. What you think?”
Draco frowns. Marshall’s tour finished in Glasgow two nights ago, and he’s been meaning to ask when Marshall is planning to ‘die’, thereby freeing Draco from this frankly crazy situation. He’ll ask once Ramone’s gone. Or maybe he’ll leave it until tomorrow.
“I dunno, Ramone. Who do they want me to duet with? Um, yo.”
“Up to you, dog. You don’t think the Grammys is selling out or nothin’?”
Marshall drops through the ceiling and falls into Ramone, who shivers. His head emerges from Ramone’s left knee.
“Psst, Draco. Say no, dog! The Grammys is for Christina fuckin’ Aguilera and them bitches. I ain’t doin’ it!”
No, thinks Draco, you won’t be. I will. He looks Ramone in the eye.
“Sounds good. Tell them yes.”
“Whatever you say, Em. You got any ideas for a duet?”
Marshall floats angrily over to Draco, insofar as it’s possible to float angrily, and snarls “You’re a fuckin’ faggot, dude.”
Draco smiles. “Is Elton John available?”
Marshall’s howls of rage cause an icicle to break off and skewer a bag of Cheetos to the dresser. Ramone pretends not to notice.
--
Harry is still watching MTV when Hermione gets home from work. She rolls her eyes and takes a stash of estate agents’ leaflets from her bag.
“Guess what I saw in the Evening Standard, Harry?”
“Whu’?”
“Eminem’s performing at the Grammys.”
Harry turns round so fast his glasses fly off and land on the other end of the sofa.
“Really? Brilliant! We can watch it together if you like! When are they?”
“Next week. Here, I got you some estate agents’ listings - Muggle and wizarding. The wizarding ones are cheaper but the Muggle places tend to have central heating, which isn’t something you should overlook. I thought you could go through them tonight.”
“Boring. Chudley Cannons are playing tonight, anyway. Neville and I are going. I promised Ron I wouldn’t ever miss a match if I could help it.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Maybe.”
“Harry!”
“What? I can’t be bothered.”
“If you find a place to live by this weekend, I’ll buy you a ticket to the Grammys’ aftershow party.”
“I hear Brixton has a thriving young wizarding community.”
--
Marshall isn’t speaking to Draco. That’s okay, though, because Draco is ignoring Marshall.
The icicles on the ceiling are starting to melt. Draco is warm enough to remove a whole sweater. Instead, he keeps it on and turns the air-con up full blast. Then he listens to Public Enemy until his ears ring and he’s forced to admit to himself that maybe this whole rap thing isn’t as artistically void as he’d decided. In the afternoon he watches Sky News broadcasts about George Bush’s programme of tax reforms and wonders if Potter is upset that he, Draco, is dead. Probably not. He’s probably still celebrating.
Elton John’s PA calls Ramone and arranges a rehearsal in LA for February 18th. Draco gets the feeling that Marshall isn’t going to help him out at this particular performance; a feeling that is reinforced by the way the toothpaste attacks him whenever he walks into the bathroom.
Draco considers faking his (sorry, Marshall’s) death and letting everybody else deal with the consequences, but he doesn’t want to let Marshall down. It’s an unfamiliar emotion, which he thinks maybe might be called loyalty but prefers to refer to as “being a stupid bastard”. Besides, he could do without spending the rest of his life covered in Colgate Whitening. Instead, he plays the song that Elton’s PA and Paul Rosenberg decided should be performed until he knows the lyrics off by heart.
“ - write you but you still ain’t phoning. Calling. Calling? Crap.”
Draco glares at the CD player until the track skips nervously back to the beginning.
“ - left my pager, my - what’s a pager? This is bloody hopeless. English aristocrats should not try to imitate American rappers. It just isn’t healthy.”
The CD scritches sympathetically.
“ - signed an autograph for - fucking bollocks. Elton is going to laugh in my face and then hex me into next August.”
A cobweb of frost spins itself over the mirror.
“ - we should be - this is pathetic
and my hair looks like I cut it
with a chainsaw, like a ferret
gnawed it off, and, God, I
might as well just end it
all this second -”
Draco pauses. What did he just say? He tries again.
“Um, Potter is a pervert and I saw him in the paper
with his girlfriend, name of Granger, and
he acts just like a stranger when he sees me in the street,
even though we work together. Um, I - ”
A ghostly fist punches him hard in the shoulder.
“Yo, bitch, you doin’ good.”
“Marshall?”
“’Sup?”
“You punched me quite hard and, um, your hand is sort of in my lung.”
"Shit, dog, I'm sorry."
Draco wheezes. "Don't worry about it. It's fine."
[part seven]