(no subject)
Oohhh, I wrote something. *wiggly eyebrows* Angst. Yes, am retreating back to the dark side.
Title: Harold
Rating: PG
Pairing: H/D
Author: August Fai, of course.
Summary: You've been asked to babysit the new neighbor's son for an afternoon. And he is familiar. A little too familiar.
Words: 1,943
There's something odd about this little boy, you decide. Besides the fact that he has messy blonde hair that absolutely refuses to lay flat (you've seen his mother-also blonde-try an infinite number of times in the past ten minutes), and that he wears glasses that are fixed together with tape, and that he is skinny, and small, and--well--rather bratty, he's just...familiar. Everyday. A natural occurrence.
"We just moved in the neighborhood," says his mother, embarrassed. Look, woman, don't be scared, you want to comfort her, but she won't meet your eyes. "And we can't find anyone else for him, so..."
"No, it's fine," you respond. What prompted you to move into a family-oriented area anyway? The white picket fences; trim-cut lawns? Or maybe it was the sunshine. "I understand. It won't be a problem."
Two years ago you would have laughed in her face and walked out the door. Now, though, you're different. Even ferrets can change their spots.
The boy looks at you, thumb edging near his mouth even though he looks past that thumb-sucking age. But what do you know about children?
"What's your name?" you ask him, trying to be friendly. That's the one thing you have to work on--your attitude. Even your professors told you that. (Some spots don't change, then.)
"Harold," he says, a lisp almost evident. He narrows his eyes like he wants to say more but you get the feeling that no matter how long you wait there, he won't say a word, and if he does, he'll scream it. Probably pound the wall with his little fist, too--whatever, your mind suddenly says, and your attention turns back to the boy, who is staring at you.
You stare back. Hard.
To avoid the inevitable awkward silence, the mother starts prattling on about something while she fishes in her bag for her keys and tells Harold to look in the closet for her shoes ("The black ones, there's a love, no, the other black ones"). She gives you a wan smile and kisses her son on the head. "Buh-bee, Harold," she croons weakly, and then budges open the door. "You have my number," she says at the last moment to you, through the crack, like she doesn't want to look at you any longer. "If you need anything..."
"Good-by," you say just as the door clicks shut. You have half a mind to call her bitch, but there's a child in your presence.
He's still looking at you.
"So, Harold," you say, a tad forcefully (and the smile is fake as well). "Have anything to do?"
Harold sticks his thumb in his mouth with--what's that, defiance? You fume. He's doing it to spite you. You can almost see the grin around the appendage. "I'm goingfowatchdertelly," he mumbles, and retreats for the living room.
The telly--? Oh. It takes you a minute to remember what that big boxy thing is. After all, you're still adjusting.
By the time you enter the room (it took you awhile--they've got a rather nice carpet in the house), Harold is curled up round a pillow and his thumb is out of his mouth. As he notices you're in the room, though, he shoves it back in. This time, he does grin.
"Take your thumb out of your mouth," you snap. "You're too old for that."
There's a pause, and he does take it out, though reluctantly. He looks at you with wide, fearing eyes. Oh shit, you made him cry, you think, and immediately search your mind for tactics on how to avoid this. Nothing comes to mind, and then suddenly, there is an inaudible popping sound (of course it was there for your imaginative purposes) and Harold starts to speak.
"Missster? What's your name? An' how come you're here? How old are you? Where do you work? Are you married?" He leans forward and his glasses slip down his nose and skew to the right. You roll your eyes.
"Cheeky little bugger," you mutter, and that's familiar too, dammit. "You're nosy," you say louder, and then are surprised at how he giggles and falls off the sofa.
"Lots of people say," he says, furrowing his brow and grinning, "say that, say that I'm nosy. But I want to know. Answer, answer, please?" He sticks out his lower lip and makes a whining sound. Kid is talented, you think, and then automatically back it up with and spoiled, and a stupid brat.
You fix your eyes on the telly, where a brightly colored cartoon dog is harassing a brightly colored and four-fingered person--at least, you think it's a person. But you didn't expect it to make sense since it is, after all, Muggle television, and that stuff is for the ones who have succumbed--
Something crawls onto your lap. It is not furry or soft, so it can't be an animal. You look down--tentatively, because you were trained to except anything upon looking down--and yes, there he is.
"Harold," you say, through gritted teeth. "Get off."
"Norrrrr," he mumbles, smiling toothily. "Not until you answer my questions. It's not nice, you know. To not answer a question."
You know. You've suffered the consequences, once, twice--more--before. It’s not like you can distinctly remember it, as the human subconscious blocks terrible, unwanted memories, but there are snatches of what it felt like.
A shudder runs through your body and you disguise it as a hacking cough. “Sorry,” you say as Harold wrinkles his nose, “I’m sick. And yeah, it’s not nice to not answer a question, but it’s not nice to ask lots of prying ones, either.”
On his face is a blank stare. “Prying?”
You can feel the side of your mouth twitch. “You know, like...unwelcome. Sort of rude, but not really. Invasion of privacy.” He rubs his forehead quizzically; bites his lip, and you have to look away-what’s with this kid, anyway? “And if you want to be nice, you shouldn’t ask questions like that.”
He looks at you, mouth gaping and eyebrows raised, his white cheeks tinged pink and his hair resembling a fuzzy towel, only longer. “Uhhh?”
Sigh. “Nevermind,” you mutter, and then as he smiles you find yourself inevitably giving in. “Fine. I’m twenty-seven, I work...in London, I’m here because your mother and father are both out and I just happen to be your neighbor, and my name is-“
You’re about to say it, tongue even touching the roof of your mouth in the beginning letter, when suddenly the door clicks open. Both of you turn backwards in unison to see who’s coming through, and yet neither of you bother to get up. Let’s wish they’re not after me, you think sourly.
A foot comes through the door first, followed by a suit pant leg and the brown edges of a briefcase. There is fiddling of the lock and a well-dodged curse-well, someone’s looking out for the kid, you think-and then a suit sleeve and a large hand.
You twist round to let Harold slide off your lap. It’s the father, of course, or the stepfather, or the boyfriend. The man of the house, in simpler terms. He must be rich, or the wife must, although with your first impression of her it’s more likely she’s highly dependable on her partner. Probably has a high-paying job, he does, and probably spends vacations in a family chateau in France...
“’Lo, Harold, and who’s that?”
...and probably sends Harold to an exclusive private school, and probably has three affairs with his co-workers, and probably eats dinner with his whole family at the same exact time, every night. Yeah, that’s Harold’s father, you bet. Mr. Big Shot.
“That’s the man next door, Dad, and he came to watch me ‘cos Mum’s gone out.”
“Alright,” Dad says, “and what’s his name? Did you ask?”
“I did,” Harold muses, “but he never told me-”
Where in the world is your left sock? Stupid kid must have pushed it off.
“Well, did you have fun?”
“Was only a short time, Dad, I don’t really know-“
Ah, there it is. Stuffed underneath the potpourri bowl.
“Excuse me.”
You turn around.
This is the moment, you know, where any sensible man your age would have smiled and nodded and introduced yourself. It is the time and place for manners and politeness and common courtesy, and of course you know that if you’d passed Mr. Big Shot (though no more, upon closer look) in the street, you wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But there’s time for second thoughts now, and third, and fourth, because he is your neighbor.
From enemy to lover to oblivious neighbor. What an odd process.
And then he starts to speak, Harry Potter does. “So I know we’re new and still adjusting, so this is really great of you, thanks...”
You smile. Yes, they are your new next-door neighbors now. You’ll be seeing each other more often. Even if he is older-looking than you are-though you’re the same age-with lines on his face if you concentrate and, oh my, is his hair a tad discolored, and with the wife-the wife, that’s what you’re the most surprised at. And the son, Harold. Of course. Harry, Harold, the hair, the expressions, the face. Everything down to the glasses.
If you weren’t who you were, you’d cry. But you’re not emotional enough. They trained you especially for that-why, you’d be surprised if you still had tear ducts.
“You know our number,” Harry says, and looks you in the eye. “Right?”
Yes, you do, but Harry doesn’t remember anything, of course. Voldemort took care of that. Voldemort took care of everything, which is why you are hiding in a Muggle suburban community, and why you wear long sleeves even in summer. It’s why you ran away from that estate on that cold, rainy night some eight years ago with a werewolf who assured your safety.
Harry didn’t get to run away. Harry didn’t get the bed and the candle and the room. He got the torture, and the end, and the pain. You should know; you heard it all, even six floors above. Pillows, silencing charms, the bottom of the bed-they don’t do anything. You know the truth. He got it real. You got the fairytale. He got the whole world, and you got the summarized, fluffed version.
You got to kiss him one last time before they made him leave, but he was dead to you already. Cold lips, cold hands. Never cold heart, you knew, but that was Harry Potter for you, even one who pushed you away when you cried.
(They removed your tear ducts after, if you remember-or not-correctly. But who cares now?)
So now you smile. “I’ve got it.” There’s a piece of paper in your pocket. “Right here. If something comes up...if you need me-”
“Yes,” he agrees, and grins. His eyes, you are thankful to see, are still green. “I think we’ll be seeing much more of you in the near future, Mr.-?”
Harold opens the door for you, and you step out, holding back. What would you have to say to keep you in this house forever? Be maid? Be lackey? Be nanny? You could try everything, but you know nothing would. Worlds apart, you both are, for the umpteenth time, and this time crossing them is not likely.
“Malfoy,” you say. “Draco Malfoy.”
Harry smiles, but it is not so wide this time. Like he’s thinking. Or possibly, something whispers, remembering.
Harold pushes hard. The door shuts behind you with an inaudible click.