FIC: The Way Down - 5/9
Title: The Way Down
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 7.8K, 70K overall
Warnings: later, there is sex, but not much violence.
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: -Thanks to kjp_013 for the super quick beta.
-This is now finished. The hope is to post once a week. Hopefully.
-Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 5
Harry saw Malfoy even more after that.
Harry liked to come by the Ministry for lunch, where he could meet with Malfoy and Hermione.
“Don’t tell Ron about our clandestine meetings,” Malfoy once said when they were in a bistro.
Hermione had just rolled her eyes. “It’s hard for him to get away from the shop at lunch time.”
“Then don’t tell Harry.”
“I’m sitting right here,” said Harry.
“What doesn’t he want you to know?” Hermione asked Harry.
“About our affair,” said Malfoy. “Our monkey affair.”
Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Do I want to know about our monkey affair?”
“You really don’t,” said Harry.
Malfoy smiled winningly. “Pretty much everyone wants to know about our monkey affair.”
“I do find myself strangely intrigued,” said Hermione.
Malfoy beamed.
Harry frowned. “He has Scandinavians.”
“I have all types.”
“I never noticed.” Hermione was often very neutral when she spoke to Malfoy, except when she cracked up giggling. Malfoy always beamed those times, too.
“You were my first,” Malfoy told her.
Hermione blushed, which made Malfoy switch off the beaming in favor of a blazing smile of triumph.
Really, when you thought about it, Malfoy was such a flirt.
Before that day he’d kissed him, Harry hadn’t thought about it. He thought about it now.
He watched him with Hermione, with Teddy, at Quidditch. He watched him when they went to the pub and when Malfoy came over to Harry’s flat to watch television, which he claimed was better at Harry’s because Harry had a better set. Malfoy had picked it out.
It was becoming an obsession, watching Draco Malfoy. Harry supposed it had always been a habit with him.
“Can I meet Sinclair?” he asked, the next time he came by for lunch and Malfoy was heading back to work.
Malfoy talked about Sinclair more than he talked about other people.
From Malfoy’s impressions, Harry would have guessed the Sinclair was wispy and slight, a small fellow with acne probably, and very poncy clothes like Percy, now that Percy was able to afford them. Upon meeting Sinclair, Harry supposed he needed to question the validity of Malfoy’s impressions. Harry never sounded as horribly moody as Malfoy always made him sound at any rate, and then there was Sinclair.
Sinclair was an enormous bloke, taller than Malfoy even, and wider than three of Malfoy. He had a full beard like Hagrid’s, big burly arms like Hagrid’s, lumberjack clothing like Hagrid’s, and in fact all of him was a dark-skinned, smaller-though still enormous-version of Hagrid, which made Harry guess that Malfoy must not very much like Sinclair.
“This is the bloke with the Pygmy Puffs?” Harry asked incredulously.
“Puffs,” said Sinclair. “They were once Puffs.”
“Now you’ve done it,” Malfoy said.
Sinclair’s voice was just has high and soft as Malfoy had always made it, which was very shocking in that enormous body. It went on and on as Sinclair tried to explain the breeding tragedy of the Puff line, which had created the race of pygmies. Sinclair had pictures of Puffs hung up in his cube, and a model Puff paperweight, and a monthly Puff calendar. If they had been cats it could have been Umbridge’s cube, except with a seventeen stone man inside.
But Malfoy apparently knew all sorts of things about Puffs as well, for they were both talking about them with animation, and Sinclair was grinning as Malfoy discussed the line of Puff kings. Malfoy meanwhile appeared to be hanging off Sinclair’s every word, which was just how he was whenever he was around Hermione.
Harry coughed. “Puff kings?”
“Are you into Puffs at all?” Sinclair asked.
Harry coughed again. “No.”
“Draco knows all about them.”
“I’m not an expert.” Malfoy paused. “We know more than most experts.”
“Experts!” said Sinclair in disgust. “We’re writing a paper.”
“You’re writing a paper,” Malfoy said. “I’m making it a brilliant paper.”
Sinclair nodded in agreement. “Malfoy’s an authority on tons of creatures.”
Malfoy preened. “I am, rather.”
“Who are you, then?” Sinclair asked Harry.
“That’s my friend Harry,” Malfoy said.
Sinclair looked surprised. Harry felt surprised. The only one who wasn’t surprised was Malfoy, who looked happy.
“Malfoy talks a lot about you,” Sinclair said.
Harry’s surprise bordered on shock, along with something tight twisting in his chest. “Does he?”
“Yes. You’re rather different than I expected, though.”
“Am I,” Harry said, and the thing twisted tighter. It was the monster. It was going to-
“I thought that you would have-” Sinclair made a vague gesture. “A long dark coat. And wear only black.”
“He would if he’d thought of it,” said Malfoy, looking as though he wished Harry had thought of it really. “And he would stand on top of buildings. His coat would flutter in the night, and children in their houses would know that they were safe. Knowing a Champion of Justice watched over them.”
“My coats don’t flutter,” said Harry.
“Did you know Muggles carry mechanisms in their belts that shoot out ropes and various abseiling equipment?” Malfoy turned to Sinclair. “So they can get where they are going, despite not being able to fly. And Muggle auto-cars work like the Knight Bus; they can adjust their size, only it is a machine and not magic.”
“That’s not really true,” Harry told Sinclair, because apparently Malfoy had been watching Batman.
“It’s on the thing I told you about,” Malfoy said. “The television.”
“Malfoy does know quite a lot about Muggles.” Sinclair seemed rather apologetic.
Malfoy seemed smug. “I told him about the hand mixer.”
Harry seemed like he might be getting a headache.
“Television sounds interesting,” Sinclair went on. “If only they could fit Puffs onto that tiny screen.”
“Cinemas have bigger screens. Maybe Malfoy will show you one one day.” Harry wondered if what looked like blatant affection on Malfoy’s part was actually ardent dislike, because otherwise Harry couldn’t think of a reason Malfoy would blanch at seeing a film with Sinclair, but Malfoy definitely looked paler.
Leeched of color like that, Malfoy never looked very nice. He wasn’t actually good looking, which Harry hadn’t noticed since Hogwarts. That certainly wasn’t how he had been thinking of Malfoy, who was all bright hair and twitchy smiles and long legs when Harry thought of him. Seeing him now as Sinclair might see him, significantly unhandsome, somehow only made that image brighter. Malfoy looked so very sharp, all angles, like he’d be brittle if you touched him.
“Maybe some time,” Sinclair was saying kindly to Malfoy, “when you’re not busy.”
Malfoy squared his shoulders, molding them into a sure, square form. For a moment, he looked inscrutably at Harry, and then politely turned to Sinclair. “I am not busy. Friday next.”
“Really?” said Sinclair.
“Why not?” Malfoy said carelessly, in his brisk way. “We could take Libanos and the kids, and go to a Muggle theater. They make the floors stick, so that you can’t leave. There is popcorn; it will be brilliant. I will show you how to use the Muggle money-”
“Are you sure?” said Sinclair, and that was when Harry realized Sinclair must have asked Malfoy before. Harry could imagine it, Sinclair asking Malfoy to the pub, Sinclair asking Malfoy to dinner, why don’t you come over and meet Libanos and the kids, and Malfoy drawing himself up in his very posh and distancing way and saying things like, I don’t know; I’m very busy; I have important things to do; perhaps another time.
Sinclair would have thought Malfoy was putting him off. Harry had thought he was putting him off when Malfoy had done it to him.
This was what Malfoy looked like when he was afraid, Harry realized. The look had changed significantly since Hogwarts.
“I can make time.” Malfoy spoke airily. “Libanos is so lovely. And the children adore me, really.”
“He met them at the Christmas party,” Sinclair told Harry.
“You went to the Christmas party?”
“I go to parties.” Malfoy’s voice was a little less crisp. “I’m a party animal.”
“He really isn’t,” said Sinclair.
“I’m glad you went,” said Harry.
“I like parties,” said Malfoy.
“He thought there would be waltzing.” Sinclair smiled at Malfoy in an affectionate way. Malfoy appeared too pink to notice. “He brought crumb cake.”
“Malfoy, you brought crumb cake?”
“That is what you do for parties, Potter. I would not expect someone as ill-bred as you to know.”
“Before that we thought he might be a vampire,” Sinclair went on.
“He is pasty,” Harry agreed.
“It was either that, or a government spy. Or he had a bird on the side. With him always being so busy.”
“He was busy for me as well,” Harry said, also looking at Malfoy.
“Really? For you?” Sinclair seemed surprised.
Malfoy was beginning to look hunted around the eyes. “I’m a very busy person!”
“Must be baking all that crumb cake,” Harry guessed.
Sinclair said, “It was very good.”
“How come you never make me crumb cake, Malfoy?”
Malfoy flushed red and put his nose into the air. “I don’t have to be treated like this in my place of employ.”
“Next Friday,” Sinclair said. “A film?”
For just the barest moment Malfoy hesitated. Harry said, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Libanos and the kids. I hear they adore you.”
Malfoy’s nose was still in the air. “They do, rather.” He turned to Sinclair. “Then Friday. But we’re not bringing this delinquent.” He flapped a hand at Harry. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know how to waltz.”
*
The more Harry watched Malfoy, the more it occurred to him Malfoy’s life wasn’t perfect. In fact, he seemed to be wearing rather thin.
At first Harry worried the kiss thing was going to be a problem, but if anything, Malfoy seemed friendlier, as though knowing now where he stood, he didn’t have to wonder. He perked up when Harry popped by; he got content like a cat when he curled up on Harry’s floor to watch his television. He looked at Harry sometimes with a rather absent fondness Harry was fairly certain Malfoy would have wiped clean of his face had he known that it was there. He forgot more often than not to not sound affectionate when making use of insults.
But Malfoy was so tired sometimes, and there were circles under his eyes. He didn’t say anything about it, only held his shoulders more squarely. Harry of course tried asking if anything was wrong, but Malfoy only looked at him strangely and murmured, “Nothing; why do you ask?” Things would have been much easier if Malfoy hadn’t been so determined to appear perfect to the world.
The other week Ron had asked Harry over a game of wizarding chess, “How are things?”
“What do you mean how are things? I’m about to lose my queen.” Harry sighed and moved.
“Yeah, but . . .” Pursing his lips, Ron moved his rook, which slashed down the queen. “Check.”
“But what?” Harry put his knight in the line of attack.
Ron frowned. “I mean, how are things. Things like . . .” Ron looked up from the board, the game apparently having lost interest for him. “You know, mate, last year, you were gone a long time.”
Ron had never even mentioned it until now, and it was almost a whole year after he’d first come out of Chimera Downs. “I know,” was all Harry said.
Ron nodded, moving his bishop. They didn’t talk for a few minutes, trading pieces. Then Ron said suddenly, “How’s Malfoy?”
Harry looked up quickly. Ron appeared intent on the board. “Malfoy’s fine.”
“Mum likes him.” Ron moved his knight.
Harry took it with his rook. “Because he’s a suck up.”
Ron laughed, casually pushing his pawn to its final square. “He always was.”
Giving up, Harry tipped his king. “Why are you asking about Malfoy?”
Ron shrugged, sitting back. “Dunno. He’s your friend, isn’t he? And anyway, he’s someone to keep your eye on. Never know what he’s up to.”
Suddenly, Harry wanted to tell Ron about the accidental kissing, and the monster, and how hard it was to just go forward living life when the life he had known before had never been his to live. But Ron was sitting there drinking a butterbeer with all his casual grace and ease, and Harry wished even more that he could have conversations like this with Malfoy, conversations that went like this:
How are you now? Because I was worried about you before.
And when he had gotten an answer, Ron had said, And how are your friends? How is life?
How is it going, Malfoy?
But Harry was used to conversations that went like this with Ron, where they didn’t have to say a thing and yet said everything. Malfoy wasn’t like that.
He wouldn’t like it to be like this, Harry knew, where he felt like Ron knew everything, all about him, and Harry knew everything too.
“How’s Hugo?” Harry asked, and they went on talking about his family, while Ron answered the real questions that lay underneath.
*
Harry was thinking of this one day when he asked Malfoy, “How come you’ve never introduced me to Goyle and Parkinson? I introduced you to Ron and Hermione.”
Malfoy was at Harry’s flat to watch television again. “You didn’t introduce me,” he said, not taking his eyes from the tv. “I introduced myself, remember? On the train.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on, Malfoy. That was like fifteen years ago.”
Malfoy wore a scathing little frown. “You didn’t want to know my friends then.”
“You’re the one who started insulting Ron right from the go.”
Malfoy turned back to the tv. “As though you weren’t forming judgments about Vince and Greg the second you saw them.”
“Maybe I want to get to know them.”
“What for?”
Harry shrugged. “They’re your friends.”
When Malfoy turned to Harry, he was sneering in a way Harry hadn’t seen in a long time. “Want to judge them, Potter? Want to fling mud at us? How about some Polyjuice?”
“Come on, Malfoy. That was forever ago.”
“Does that really matter? Crabbe and Goyle wanted to kill you, you know. Parkinson wanted to serve you up to the Dark Lord.” Malfoy’s eyes blazed with anger in his sharp, pale face. “I was going to kill Dumbledore. Don’t you remember?”
“But you didn’t.”
“Want to know why? It was because I’m weak. Not because I developed a conscience, or because I thought it might be wrong. It’s because I wasn’t brave enough. Didn’t have the courage. And-”
“I won’t ask them over if you don’t want me to.”
Malfoy was livid. “I don’t like pity, Potter.”
“I don’t pity you.”
Malfoy hesitated. “Then what is it?”
Shrugging, Harry said, “I don’t know. I wanted to.”
“I don’t.” Malfoy hunched in on himself, looking pointy everywhere.
“Okay.” Harry pretended to go back to the files from Gringotts. He didn’t know why he’d mentioned Parkinson and Goyle at all, just that he’d been thinking about Ron.
Malfoy folded his legs up in front of him and put his chin on his knees, wrapped tight as though to keep the world out. He watched television like that for a while, and Harry thought he wasn’t actually watching. When finally Harry got engrossed in one of the Goblin clauses on one of the papers, Malfoy spoke again.
“You could go to Chigwell.”
“What?”
“Chigwell. It’s where the Goyles live.”
“You said,” Harry began.
“I said I didn’t want you inviting them here. I go down there every week or so. I could bring you with me.”
“Do you really want to?”
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “If you want to.”
Harry looked at him, the line of his neck, the turn of his jaw. He could see one ear, hair curling under it. Now that Malfoy was older, his hair wasn’t a perfect blond. Parts of it were dull as dishwater, not brown but not white either.
“I want to,” Harry said.
*
The Goyles’ house in Chigwell looked disconcertingly like the house on Privet Drive, with its brick chimney, straight shingles, and other houses all in a row on either side. It wasn’t where Harry had pictured the Goyles to be living at all.
Once they got closer, Harry began to notice that the details of these houses made them much different than Privet Drive. The neighbors had hedge-clippers going without someone holding them, and the house across the street had a garden full of Flutterby Bushes and Fanged Geraniums.
The Goyles’ house had tiny statues clinging to the eaves and the corners of the gutter. They watched Malfoy and Harry start up the path, and stuck out their tongues. “Gargoyles,” Harry said. “Go figure.”
“They look sort of like you.” Malfoy stopped at the bottom of the path. “Now shut up and be nice, or we’ll just turn around and go right home.”
Malfoy had been stiff ever since they’d planned this, his narrow shoulders square and sharp. “Then can I invite them to my flat?”
“No. And if you behave like a prat, I’ll never take you anywhere again. You . . .” Malfoy took his arm, as though afraid Harry might go up without him, his expression serious. “You do know not to insult someone in their own home, don’t you?”
“Of course. That’s just common courtesy.”
“Okay.” Letting go, Malfoy straightened his robes. “You just never know with Gryffindors.”
“For instance,” Harry continued. “I would never tell someone in their own home that their face looks like the blast end of a Skrewt.”
“I’ve always been articulate.” Malfoy sounded pleased.
“I wouldn’t say anything like that that,” Harry pointed out.
“You’re hardly that colorful,” Malfoy said, walking up the path. “You’re a sort of beige. I am-I am a rainbow of wit and ingenuity.”
“And you don’t know if you’re gay.”
“Be silent,” Malfoy said, sounding whimsical, before pressing the Goyles’ bell.
*
On first sight after all these years, Parkinson and Goyle reminded Harry of the Dursleys. Parkinson was slender and slight next to Goyle, who was still built like a slowly bulging brickhouse. They were neither of them beautiful, which had grown more pronounced with time. Parkinson’s face was angular and shadowed, while Goyle’s sagged and opened to rather frog-like eyes, and a loose-looking mouth.
“I see you actually brought him,” was the first thing Parkinson said. Her voice was high and girlish, with a horrible little giggle Harry vaguely remembered from school.
“It’s Potter,” Goyle said. They had obviously been informed of Harry’s coming, but Goyle still looked surprised, his voice slow and thick.
Harry wondered if, like the Dursleys, Goyle made Parkinson bring him butterbeers as he listened to Quidditch on the wire, while Parkinson cleaned and cleaned and Goyle never exerted himself to pick up a broom.
“Hello,” Harry said politely.
“Yes, hello,” Malfoy said beside him.
“Well, you might as well come in,” said Parkinson, and opened up the door.
“We weren’t sure he would actually bring you,” Goyle explained as they all came in.
The inside of the house was very regular, with pictures in frames and a square hearth. There were big stuffed chairs and shelves of books that most likely never got read. At first, Harry started to feel it was more and more like Privet Drive, but then he saw all the pictures moved. The blanket on the chair was Slytherin colors, and over the hearth there were hooks for broomsticks. The books on the shelves were all magic ones, and the bony gray cat in the corner could have been a hundred years old.
“I’m still not convinced he’s not under some kind of spell,” Parkinson said as they came into the room. “You can sit here, Potter.”
“That’s how come we have to check to see,” Goyle said. He sounded apologetic for some reason.
“Check what?” Malfoy frowned.
The Goyles were still both standing, looking down at Harry, and as Malfoy looked from the couple to Harry, he began to look alarmed.
“Yes, er,” said Harry, “check what?”
“I see you’re still a scarhead,” Parkinson said, frowning down. “Check.”
“Hey, do you want something to drink?” Goyle asked.
“Harry Potter,” Parkinson said shrilly. “Are you still a specky git? Check.”
Harry looked around for a way to escape. Malfoy was standing at the mouth of the corridor. He looked very pale, his mouth held tight in that way it got when he was unhappy, the way that Harry didn’t like. Harry turned uncertainly back to the Goyles.
“How about some wine?” Goyle said.
“Gregory, stop,” Parkinson said, whirling on him. “Your inquisitioning sucks.”
“Oh,” Goyle said, and turned to Harry. “Um, Potter. Have you . . . got Draco under a spell? Like, an evil dark one? I’ve been meaning to ask you that ever since Draco first started, you know, going on and on about you.”
“Really,” Parkinson said, gesturing at Harry, who was looking from one to the other helplessly. “He’s a Gryffindor.”
“Gryffindors can be evil and dark,” Goyle said. “There’s nothing that says Gryffindors are automatically good or anything, or that Syltherin is automatically dark.”
“Am too automatically dark,” Parkinson said, and turned back to Harry. “What do you think about Draco Malfoy?”
“I’m hoping he’s going to get me out of this?” Harry glanced over at Malfoy. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”
Malfoy looked as though he would be sick. “I didn’t know they were going to-”
“No one expects the Goyles’ Inqu-”
“That’s enough, Pansy,” Malfoy snapped.
“Right,” Goyle agreed. “Do you like roast?”
“It’s our favorite Muggle show,” Parkinson said.
“Er, roast?” Harry asked.
Parkinson looked appalled.
“Don’t,” Malfoy said in a warning voice to Parkinson.
Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Do you think Draco is controlling and manipulative and thinks entirely too much of himself?”
“What?” Harry said. “No. I mean, sometimes.”
Malfoy whirled on him. “Thank you, Potter.”
“You do give a lot of unsolicited advice,” Harry said.
“Why can’t it all just stop?” Malfoy asked. He looked ghastly.
“That’s what we’re having, Salisbury steak,” Goyle went on.
“Questions, Greg,” Pansy said. “In the form of questions!”
“Right,” Goyle said again. “Potatoes?”
Parkinson turned back to Harry, who felt a little like he was watching a Muggle tennis match. “Are you frightened, Potter?”
“A little?”
“Excellent,” Goyle said, beaming. “One last final question, then. Blueberry pie, or black?”
“I like blackberry,” Harry said.
“Good,” said Goyle.
“Are you quite done?” Malfoy said, sounding cold.
“Yes,” said Parkinson. “We have mead and daisywine, too, if you want it.”
“That’s nice.” Malfoy finally came into the room. He didn’t quite look at Harry. “I think this was a mistake.”
“What?” Harry said. “No. It’s fine.” After all, Ron had done much the same to Malfoy when Harry had first brought him.
“Someone’s touchy.” Parkinson frowned, picked up a plate of exploding chocolates, and offered them to Harry.
“There’s pie,” said Goyle.
“Thank you,” Harry said, and took a chocolate. It exploded into cream and cherries in his mouth.
Malfoy came to him, looking so furious Harry wondered whether he’d spoiled some kind of Pureblood protocol where you didn’t eat before your host, or something like that. His hand clamped over Harry’s wrist, and he leaned into Harry’s ear. “We can leave.”
Harry tried to swallow his chocolate. “Did I do something-”
Malfoy’s face instantly softened. “No.” He loosened his hand on Harry’s wrist, but didn’t take it away. “No, Harry. It’s just-they’re being so-”
Goyle lumbered across the room. “I’ve got to check on the steak.”
Parkinson put down the plate of chocolates. “Have you heard Succubus Soul Stealers’ latest album?” she asked, a trifle loudly. “It’s amazing.”
“Afraid not,” said Harry.
Malfoy gave Harry a strange, unfathomable look, and let go of his wrist.
“Don’t loom,” Parkinson told Malfoy. Malfoy straightened up, but didn’t move away, as though he thought he could be some kind of shield. “You know I hate it when you loom. I really like the song, ‘The World Can Just Avada Kedavra’.”
“I like Celestina Warbeck,” Harry said.
Parkinson’s eyes were in danger of coming out of her head. “Do you?” she said, sounding delighted.
“Pansy,” said Malfoy.
“Yeah.” Harry looked uncertainly at Malfoy. “So you don’t like Muggle rock?”
“Sting?” Parkinson waved a dismissive hand. Suddenly Harry wondered if she had gotten that gesture from Malfoy, or whether Malfoy had actually gotten it from her.
“I like Disembowlment and the Gorguts. They’re Muggle. And Cephalic Carnage.”
“Those sound interesting.”
Parkinson perked up. “They do, rather, don’t they?”
“What sort of music is that?”
“Death metal. Do you care for it?”
“I can’t say as I’ve heard it before.”
“Oh, but it’s divine. Shall I loan some to you?”
Harry was proud that they seemed to be acting perfectly civil, yet Malfoy looked spikier than ever.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Goyle.
“What about my muffins?”
“Muffins?” Goyle looked blankly at Parkinson. “Oh. I forgot the muffins.”
“How could you forget my muffins?” Parkinson was incensed. “Go and check my muffins, Gregory.”
Goyle turned away, and within a few seconds, came back. “I don’t know how to check muffins,” he said sheepishly.
“Muffins are like Hufflepuffs,” Parkinson told him. “You poke them with a stick.”
Goyle went away, and Parkinson said something else about a band called Decapitation and making a mix tape, and then Goyle came back. “I poked them with a stick,” he said. “Now they have holes. Does that mean they’re done?”
Parkinson threw her hands up and went into the kitchen.
“I’ll help,” said Malfoy, and went after her. Somehow the expression on his face did not lead Harry to think he’d be having one of his kitchen conversations that ended up with him looking like he’d won the House Cup afterwards.
Goyle was left shifting in the doorway. “Er.”
Harry looked over at him. He had taken off his robe, probably due to the heat of the kitchen. He had on a t-shirt underneath that read, “We went to Disneyland and all I got was this t-shirt.”
“Nice shirt,” said Harry.
“Got it in France,” Goyle said proudly. “On our honeymoon.”
“Isn’t Disneyland Muggle?” Harry asked.
“Oh yes,” Goyle said. “It’s horrible. Have you been on the ‘it’s a small world’ ride?”
“I’ve never been to Disneyland.”
“It has robots from different countries. Say, you were raised by Muggles. Can you tell me how robots work?”
Parkinson came back out of the kitchen in a frilly apron that reminded Harry sickeningly of Petunia. Under it, though, she had taken off her robes. Instead of something floral printed as Petunia would have worn, she wore something black and very severe that went all the way up her neck and made her body look even more angular than it was. That reminded Harry of Snape.
Malfoy meanwhile had drawn a mask over his face. He glanced at Harry, but Harry couldn’t interpret his expression, and Malfoy looked away. “Dinner is ready!” Parkinson announced with determined gaiety. “Don’t worry. Malfoy didn’t help.”
Dinner consisted of roast and muffins, peas and sweetcorn and potatoes with some strange sauce Harry didn’t know, but that tasted good.
“Have you ever noticed sweetcorn looks like teeth?” Goyle asked. “Of course, they’re not the right color. Unless you don’t brush quite-”
“Quidditch,” said Parkinson, in a suddenly decisive tone.
Malfoy kept glancing at Harry in that inscrutable way.
“Do you follow Quidditch, Potter?” Parkinson went on.
“Some,” said Harry.
“The Harpies are the best.” Parkinson seemed to think this was a mere statement of fact.
Malfoy glanced at Harry again, and this time Harry knew exactly what he was thinking. “Yeah,” Harry said. “Though Malfoy likes the Cannons.”
Goyle seemed confused. “Why would anyone like the Cannons?”
“The Harpies have that Seeker,” said Parkinson. “She’s the reason they win anything at all. The rest of that team hasn’t got even half the talent she has.”
“Pansy has a crush, rather,” Goyle said.
“Pfft, on a Weasley,” said Parkinson, then added thoughtfully, “She’s the fittest witch I’ve ever seen.”
“Except for her elbows,” Goyle said. “Pansy’s got the fittest elbows.”
Harry couldn’t actually believe they were having this conversation.
Malfoy, apparently could. “I thought you said there was pie,” he said tightly.
“There is.” Parkinson looked pleased. “Gregory, bring us pie.”
“Okay,” Goyle said, and started clearing plates. “Do you want ice cream, Potter?”
While Goyle went and got the pie, Harry drank the rest of his glass of wine. “I thought you would have had house-elves,” he said, finally putting his finger on maybe why it was so strange that Parkinson had cooked muffins, and Gregory Goyle was in the kitchen getting Harry Potter ice cream.
Parkinson turned to Malfoy accusingly. “You told us he had half a brain.”
Malfoy frowned. “I never said he used it.”
It was then Harry remembered how the Goyles and the Parkinsons had been stripped of their estates. The Malfoys had too, but Harry had had time to get used to that.
“Anyway, isn’t that against Granger’s laws?” Parkinson asked.
“She hasn’t gotten them passed,” Harry said. “And she’s a Weasley.”
“Right,” Parkinson said. “I forgot. And there’s a rugrat. How is it-he doing, by the by?”
“My godson is fine.” Harry paused. “Thank you.”
“See,” Parkinson said pointedly to Malfoy. “We can be polite.”
“I never said,” Malfoy began, but then Goyle came in with the pie and ice cream.
“Have you ever wondered why we call a Quaffle a Quaffle?” Goyle asked, after he had passed out the plates and they were eating. “Why not just a ball? How about a Snitch? It isn’t like they snitch at all.”
“It’s archaic,” Malfoy said. “Snitches used to be used to send secret messages. That’s why they’re so hard to catch.”
“So they couldn’t get intercepted,” Parkinson supplied. “That’s the problem, of course. If you do intercept them, they just blab to anyone. Got no guts, those.”
Malfoy stared steadfastly at his plate.
Harry looked at him, and said into the silence, “I got a message from a Snitch once.”
“Really?” Goyle looked interested. “What was it?”
“It told me I was going to die.”
There was another silence. Parkinson turned to Malfoy and raised both brows. “Is Potter always this dramatic?” Her voice was teasing.
Malfoy glanced at him again. Harry was beginning to wonder if maybe he was doing something wrong, since Malfoy kept looking at him and Harry couldn’t figure out what he meant by it. His eyes swept back to his plate. “Usually,” he murmured.
After they were done, Goyle got out brandy. Parkinson stood up. “Now it is time for the ladies to withdraw,” she announced, “while the men stay behind with their brandy. Possibly so that the ladies can smoke like chimneys and do lewd things to each other while talking about how daft the menfolk are. Come along, Draco.”
Malfoy slid his eyes toward Harry, and then stood up.
“You’re a lady?” Harry asked.
“If Pansy will be doing lewd things to me, I’ll be anything she wants.”
“Coming?” Parkinson was tapping her foot.
Malfoy gave Harry another unfathomable look, and went.
“Are they serious?” Harry asked, after they had left.
“Um.” Goyle thought for a while. “About the smoking? Probably.”
“I meant about the. You know. Lewdness.”
Goyle began to frown. “Pansy’s my wife.”
“Yes, but I thought-”
Goyle began to get worked up. “Fidelity might not mean much to Gryffindors-”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way.”
Goyle began to calm down. “Oh. Okay.”
There was a silence. Harry’s mind was working fast. He wanted to be polite, but the only thing he could think of was, “So, is Draco still making you transform into a girl?” and it just didn’t seem very amiable somehow. “So,” he said instead, after a while. “How are you and . . . Quidditch?”
So they talked Quidditch for a while. Goyle was not only eloquent on the subject of Quidditch; he could even be passionate. And even though it didn’t quite feel like talking to Ron or Seamus or Dean-the way things used to be with Dean anyway-it didn’t feel like talking to Gregory Goyle, either.
“You were a good Beater in school,” Harry said. He realized he hadn’t thought about it very much before.
“Thanks. Those were really the days. Can’t handle the Bludger nearly so well now.”
“You still play?”
“Oh. Well, sometimes. Pansy too.”
“She never played at Hogwarts.” Harry was still surprised. “She said she didn’t care for it.”
“She doesn’t care for following pro teams,” Goyle said. “But she likes to play. She knows I like to and-besides, it’s something to do.”
“What position is she?”
“Oh. You know.” Goyle looked uncertain for some reason. “We sort of . . . bat the Bludgers back and forth.”
She wouldn’t actually play a position, Harry realized. Like Malfoy, Goyle and Parkinson probably had a limited number of people with whom they might play Quidditch.
“Sometimes Malfoy plays with us.” Goyle sounded almost defensive. “Then he and Pansy seek. And I beat on both, so it’s a sort of three-way play. Pansy’s diverse. She could’ve been a stand-by player, if she’d wanted.”
“You could play with us.” Harry didn’t know where the sudden impulse came from, or why he acted on it. “We play every fortnight. Just a few of us, nothing serious. If Parkinson can play any position, our side needs a Chaser periodically, and Dean’s team needs a Beater.”
Audrey was pregnant, and Quidditch was a bad idea in the final trimester. Molly said she knew from experience. George said he knew from experience any spawn of Percy’s was a bad idea; Percy said George was a bad idea, to which Malfoy said Weasleys in general were a bad idea, he knew that from experience, and Zacharias, who wanted to get on with the game, had agreed.
Still, it didn’t mean that inviting Goyle to play with them was a good idea, no matter how much Zacharias wanted to get on with Quidditch. It had been difficult enough getting them to play with Malfoy, and even if they seemed alright with Malfoy now, it didn’t mean they would be alright with the Goyles.
“Wow, that’s really great, Potter,” Goyle said. “Thanks.” He did look like he thought it was great for several moments, but gradually his face recovered its rather stolid expression. “It probably isn’t a good idea, though.”
“Malfoy plays.” Harry frowned, unsure of why he was pressing it. It was possibly because Goyle was wearing a t-shirt from Disneyland, or maybe it had something to do with Malfoy. “Look, if it’s because we’re Gryffindors, or were in the DA, or that sort of-”
“It’s not that.” Goyle sighed. “I mean, it’s Pansy. She would never. She doesn’t like . . .” He sighed again. “Well, also, she doesn’t like Granger. Or the Weasleys.”
Harry snorted. “Seemed to like Ginny well enough.”
“That’s because Mrs. Weasley-Thomas is brilliant,” Goyle said, almost as though apologizing.
“You don’t hate Hermione and the Weasleys too?”
“I haven’t got anything against them.” Goyle shrugged. Harry had always thought it made him look shiftless, as though he hadn’t a thought of his own. He wondered whether it was just that Goyle was agreeable.
“You don’t?”
“Why should I? Oh,” Goyle said. “You mean because of at Hogwarts.”
“Yes, because of at Hogwarts.” Hearing Goyle refer to it like that, it sounded like centuries ago, rather than several years, and Harry felt kind of foolish for bringing it up at all.
“Mostly we were defending Draco. You three never singled me or Vince out the way you did him.”
“He singled us,” Harry began, but Goyle went on.
“Though I think maybe you or someone was responsible for me waking up without my robes in a cupboard once in second year. But,” he continued, shrugging, “that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.” Harry noticed for the first time that Goyle’s frog-eyes were quite friendly. “Hey, maybe we could do two on two.”
“Really?” Goyle perked up. “Wow. That’d be great.”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
Later, Goyle and Harry found Parkinson and Malfoy on their back patio, enveloped in a warming spell which only let in the briskest hint of night. Parkinson’s head looked like it was floating in the darkness; a floating white hand brought a slender cigarette holder to her mouth. The smoke spooled out of it to frame her face in a classic, black and white kind of way, and for the first time ever in his life, Harry found her pretty.
Malfoy looked less pale and less classic. In fact, he looked very real, standing there next to Parkinson and her dramatic smoke. His skin was tinted pink, and his mouth had the line beside it. His eyes were very clear as he looked at Parkinson, and Harry thought that he must find her pretty, too.
Then Malfoy saw that Harry had come out, and the light in his eyes went away. The strange, expressionless mask he’d been wearing all evening returned.
“Hey Pansy,” said Goyle. “What have you been talking about?”
“Oh, the usual,” trilled Parkinson.
“Lucius?” asked Goyle. “Or Potter?”
Harry looked at Malfoy, who wouldn’t look at him.
Parkinson waved her hand again in the way that Malfoy had. “A little from column A, a little from column B. What have you been talking about?”
Malfoy squared his shoulders and faced the night.
“Potter thought we might do two on two,” Goyle said, sounding pleased. “You know, with him versus Draco seeking, you and I beating. It’ll be brilliant.”
The line of Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened further, if that was at all possible.
“I get him!” Parkinson exclaimed.
“What?” Harry said, distracted by Malfoy’s backside.
“I get him, I called it,” Parkinson said. “You’re on my team, Potter.”
“What? You don’t even like me.”
“And Gregory does?” Parkinson said. “He’s a puppy; he likes everyone. Don’t you?” She turned on Goyle.
“I like you, so I must.”
“You’re obviously the best choice,” Parkinson told Harry, and turned on Malfoy. “You’re going down.” Then Harry had to wonder again whether it was Malfoy or Parkinson who had made that their favorite phrase first.
“Maybe Malfoy will catch the Snitch,” Harry tried, because Malfoy still wasn’t looking at him.
After a long, strung out moment, Malfoy finally turned around. “That’s-that’s very generous, Potter.” His tone was faintly ironic.
Harry frowned. “Malfoy, what’s got in to you?”
Parkinson was looking at Malfoy in a sympathetic way, as if she knew exactly what had got into him. “He just doesn’t want to lose to me; that’s all,” she said quickly.
“I’m not going to lose.” Malfoy’s shoulders still were squared.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want,” Harry said, feeling like he was always saying that to Malfoy, because he could never understand what Malfoy did want.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy said crisply, and tsked. “Goyle! Pay no attention to these bedlamites.”
“Hey,” Parkinson said. “I resent that.”
“This bedlamite and this slutty excuse for a sophisticate.”
“Hey-no, wait. I quite like that. Go on.”
“Goyle.” Malfoy’s voice lowered. “We must plan a scheme of under-handed lowdown dirty cheating the likes of which the world has never known before we joined our illustrious forces and-”
“We’ve joined forces before,” Goyle said. “At Hogwarts. Remember?”
Malfoy flapped a hand. “I said pay attention! Hey,” he said, turning to Harry. “Do you know where to get some Felix Felicis?”
“I do,” Harry said.
“You are so dead,” Parkinson told Goyle and Malfoy. “And you, Harry Potter, are a consummate fraud, a veritable snake in the grass. I always knew it; I tried to tell them, and they insisted you were just pure and stupid, but I guessed at your secrets. I upheld your honor. I always knew you were a cheater.”
“Thanks?” said Harry.
*
Late that night Harry and Malfoy Apparated back from Chigwell to Harry’s flat. “Your friends are weird,” Harry said.
Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He had still been rather silent, once he was done threatening to slay them at Quidditch. Harry still wasn’t sure what was up with him, why he had been so prickly when he and Goyle had come outside. Maybe Malfoy had been having an important conversation with Parkinson, and he’d resented the interruption. Maybe he really had been thinking Parkinson was pretty. Maybe he and Parkinson really did have lewd-
“My friends aren’t Weasleys, so of course there’s much to be said for them.”
Harry snorted and was going over toward the kitchen when Malfoy suddenly turned around and said, “Thank you.”
“What for?”
Malfoy had his shoulders hunched up. “For being . . . you were . . . kind.”
Harry took a step toward him, his brow furrowing. “What’re you talking about?”
“You were so . . . I mean, for instance, the Quidditch.”
“I asked them to play Quidditch because I thought it would be fun.”
Malfoy nodded. “Thank you.”
“For being what, normal? Human?”
“Well, yes, I mean, you know, sometimes you’re not very. You’re all, ‘must behave like a raving lunatic. Must gnash teeth. Must be feral animal of the woodlands and everything’. Sort of like a rabid dog, which-” He abruptly cut himself off, as though just becoming aware that words were coming out of his mouth.
“You’re thanking me for not being a rabid dog.”
Malfoy nodded. “Now you’re catching on.”
Harry grunted and turned away. “Thanks a lot. I’ve been really trying. I don’t even foam at the mouth any more. Really, it’s quite-”
Malfoy had followed him, and now caught his wrist. “Not everyone would have.” His eyes searched Harry’s face. “You acted like a human being. It’s just that not everyone would have.”
Harry faced him, annoyed. “It’s simple decency.”
“Decency’s never simple.” Malfoy’s hand was warm, gently encasing his wrist. “And not many people are. Not to me. Not since-they aren’t.”
The annoyance fell away. “Malfoy.” Harry wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but somehow his hand moved toward Malfoy’s neck.
Malfoy flinched, and Harry hastily drew his hand away, barely brushing Draco’s throat. “You don’t need to worry,” Harry said thickly. He cleared his throat. “About me being decent, I mean. Not anymore.”
Malfoy nodded. “I just didn’t expect it.”
“You should,” said Harry. “You deserve more than that.”
Malfoy looked surprised, and then his eyes went very soft. “Harry,” he said.
Harry didn’t know why and he certainly didn’t mean it to, but his gaze drifted down to Malfoy’s mouth.
Swallowing, Malfoy pulled away. “Even if you’re not hermiting and throwing tree stumps, you really need to work on some things.”
“Really.” Harry swallowed also and looked away. “Great.”
“Yes.” Malfoy was nodding now. “You still need a girlfriend and you still kind of mumble when you talk to people. I was thinking we could try this potion-”
“For mumbling?”
“For your hair. It’s also still bad.”
“Why a girlfriend?”
“Because frankly, Harry, a goblinfriend is beyond your pay-grade. I’ve found this nice little witch who works in the office. She’d be perfect. She’s a little crazy, just like you like, brown eyes like the Weaselette-”
“That’s enough,” Harry said, and began to usher him out.
“But she breaks all the rules. I know you like that, and she-”
“Out,” Harry said, and pushed him.
“Fine. Don’t meet the love of your life. For that matter,” Malfoy added thoughtfully, “don’t have a life.”
“Goodnight, Malfoy.” Harry started to close the door.
“Harry.”
“What now?”
“I . . .” Malfoy stood there for several long moments with nothing to say, which was unusual for him. His eyes rapidly flicked over Harry’s face.
Harry could feel the monster, and he wanted to close the door. He could feel the shudder, the aching and the clawing; it had not been there since he had kissed-
Malfoy’s eyes, which had been so soft, changed just like iron shields. His features suddenly masked in the same way, his face white and narrow, his dark jacket drawn up tight around him. Then he said, “Good night,” perfunctorily and walked away.
Go to: Chapter 6
This entry was originally posted to Dreamwidth. Read Comments | Reply
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 7.8K, 70K overall
Warnings: later, there is sex, but not much violence.
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: -Thanks to kjp_013 for the super quick beta.
-This is now finished. The hope is to post once a week. Hopefully.
-Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 5
Harry saw Malfoy even more after that.
Harry liked to come by the Ministry for lunch, where he could meet with Malfoy and Hermione.
“Don’t tell Ron about our clandestine meetings,” Malfoy once said when they were in a bistro.
Hermione had just rolled her eyes. “It’s hard for him to get away from the shop at lunch time.”
“Then don’t tell Harry.”
“I’m sitting right here,” said Harry.
“What doesn’t he want you to know?” Hermione asked Harry.
“About our affair,” said Malfoy. “Our monkey affair.”
Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Do I want to know about our monkey affair?”
“You really don’t,” said Harry.
Malfoy smiled winningly. “Pretty much everyone wants to know about our monkey affair.”
“I do find myself strangely intrigued,” said Hermione.
Malfoy beamed.
Harry frowned. “He has Scandinavians.”
“I have all types.”
“I never noticed.” Hermione was often very neutral when she spoke to Malfoy, except when she cracked up giggling. Malfoy always beamed those times, too.
“You were my first,” Malfoy told her.
Hermione blushed, which made Malfoy switch off the beaming in favor of a blazing smile of triumph.
Really, when you thought about it, Malfoy was such a flirt.
Before that day he’d kissed him, Harry hadn’t thought about it. He thought about it now.
He watched him with Hermione, with Teddy, at Quidditch. He watched him when they went to the pub and when Malfoy came over to Harry’s flat to watch television, which he claimed was better at Harry’s because Harry had a better set. Malfoy had picked it out.
It was becoming an obsession, watching Draco Malfoy. Harry supposed it had always been a habit with him.
“Can I meet Sinclair?” he asked, the next time he came by for lunch and Malfoy was heading back to work.
Malfoy talked about Sinclair more than he talked about other people.
From Malfoy’s impressions, Harry would have guessed the Sinclair was wispy and slight, a small fellow with acne probably, and very poncy clothes like Percy, now that Percy was able to afford them. Upon meeting Sinclair, Harry supposed he needed to question the validity of Malfoy’s impressions. Harry never sounded as horribly moody as Malfoy always made him sound at any rate, and then there was Sinclair.
Sinclair was an enormous bloke, taller than Malfoy even, and wider than three of Malfoy. He had a full beard like Hagrid’s, big burly arms like Hagrid’s, lumberjack clothing like Hagrid’s, and in fact all of him was a dark-skinned, smaller-though still enormous-version of Hagrid, which made Harry guess that Malfoy must not very much like Sinclair.
“This is the bloke with the Pygmy Puffs?” Harry asked incredulously.
“Puffs,” said Sinclair. “They were once Puffs.”
“Now you’ve done it,” Malfoy said.
Sinclair’s voice was just has high and soft as Malfoy had always made it, which was very shocking in that enormous body. It went on and on as Sinclair tried to explain the breeding tragedy of the Puff line, which had created the race of pygmies. Sinclair had pictures of Puffs hung up in his cube, and a model Puff paperweight, and a monthly Puff calendar. If they had been cats it could have been Umbridge’s cube, except with a seventeen stone man inside.
But Malfoy apparently knew all sorts of things about Puffs as well, for they were both talking about them with animation, and Sinclair was grinning as Malfoy discussed the line of Puff kings. Malfoy meanwhile appeared to be hanging off Sinclair’s every word, which was just how he was whenever he was around Hermione.
Harry coughed. “Puff kings?”
“Are you into Puffs at all?” Sinclair asked.
Harry coughed again. “No.”
“Draco knows all about them.”
“I’m not an expert.” Malfoy paused. “We know more than most experts.”
“Experts!” said Sinclair in disgust. “We’re writing a paper.”
“You’re writing a paper,” Malfoy said. “I’m making it a brilliant paper.”
Sinclair nodded in agreement. “Malfoy’s an authority on tons of creatures.”
Malfoy preened. “I am, rather.”
“Who are you, then?” Sinclair asked Harry.
“That’s my friend Harry,” Malfoy said.
Sinclair looked surprised. Harry felt surprised. The only one who wasn’t surprised was Malfoy, who looked happy.
“Malfoy talks a lot about you,” Sinclair said.
Harry’s surprise bordered on shock, along with something tight twisting in his chest. “Does he?”
“Yes. You’re rather different than I expected, though.”
“Am I,” Harry said, and the thing twisted tighter. It was the monster. It was going to-
“I thought that you would have-” Sinclair made a vague gesture. “A long dark coat. And wear only black.”
“He would if he’d thought of it,” said Malfoy, looking as though he wished Harry had thought of it really. “And he would stand on top of buildings. His coat would flutter in the night, and children in their houses would know that they were safe. Knowing a Champion of Justice watched over them.”
“My coats don’t flutter,” said Harry.
“Did you know Muggles carry mechanisms in their belts that shoot out ropes and various abseiling equipment?” Malfoy turned to Sinclair. “So they can get where they are going, despite not being able to fly. And Muggle auto-cars work like the Knight Bus; they can adjust their size, only it is a machine and not magic.”
“That’s not really true,” Harry told Sinclair, because apparently Malfoy had been watching Batman.
“It’s on the thing I told you about,” Malfoy said. “The television.”
“Malfoy does know quite a lot about Muggles.” Sinclair seemed rather apologetic.
Malfoy seemed smug. “I told him about the hand mixer.”
Harry seemed like he might be getting a headache.
“Television sounds interesting,” Sinclair went on. “If only they could fit Puffs onto that tiny screen.”
“Cinemas have bigger screens. Maybe Malfoy will show you one one day.” Harry wondered if what looked like blatant affection on Malfoy’s part was actually ardent dislike, because otherwise Harry couldn’t think of a reason Malfoy would blanch at seeing a film with Sinclair, but Malfoy definitely looked paler.
Leeched of color like that, Malfoy never looked very nice. He wasn’t actually good looking, which Harry hadn’t noticed since Hogwarts. That certainly wasn’t how he had been thinking of Malfoy, who was all bright hair and twitchy smiles and long legs when Harry thought of him. Seeing him now as Sinclair might see him, significantly unhandsome, somehow only made that image brighter. Malfoy looked so very sharp, all angles, like he’d be brittle if you touched him.
“Maybe some time,” Sinclair was saying kindly to Malfoy, “when you’re not busy.”
Malfoy squared his shoulders, molding them into a sure, square form. For a moment, he looked inscrutably at Harry, and then politely turned to Sinclair. “I am not busy. Friday next.”
“Really?” said Sinclair.
“Why not?” Malfoy said carelessly, in his brisk way. “We could take Libanos and the kids, and go to a Muggle theater. They make the floors stick, so that you can’t leave. There is popcorn; it will be brilliant. I will show you how to use the Muggle money-”
“Are you sure?” said Sinclair, and that was when Harry realized Sinclair must have asked Malfoy before. Harry could imagine it, Sinclair asking Malfoy to the pub, Sinclair asking Malfoy to dinner, why don’t you come over and meet Libanos and the kids, and Malfoy drawing himself up in his very posh and distancing way and saying things like, I don’t know; I’m very busy; I have important things to do; perhaps another time.
Sinclair would have thought Malfoy was putting him off. Harry had thought he was putting him off when Malfoy had done it to him.
This was what Malfoy looked like when he was afraid, Harry realized. The look had changed significantly since Hogwarts.
“I can make time.” Malfoy spoke airily. “Libanos is so lovely. And the children adore me, really.”
“He met them at the Christmas party,” Sinclair told Harry.
“You went to the Christmas party?”
“I go to parties.” Malfoy’s voice was a little less crisp. “I’m a party animal.”
“He really isn’t,” said Sinclair.
“I’m glad you went,” said Harry.
“I like parties,” said Malfoy.
“He thought there would be waltzing.” Sinclair smiled at Malfoy in an affectionate way. Malfoy appeared too pink to notice. “He brought crumb cake.”
“Malfoy, you brought crumb cake?”
“That is what you do for parties, Potter. I would not expect someone as ill-bred as you to know.”
“Before that we thought he might be a vampire,” Sinclair went on.
“He is pasty,” Harry agreed.
“It was either that, or a government spy. Or he had a bird on the side. With him always being so busy.”
“He was busy for me as well,” Harry said, also looking at Malfoy.
“Really? For you?” Sinclair seemed surprised.
Malfoy was beginning to look hunted around the eyes. “I’m a very busy person!”
“Must be baking all that crumb cake,” Harry guessed.
Sinclair said, “It was very good.”
“How come you never make me crumb cake, Malfoy?”
Malfoy flushed red and put his nose into the air. “I don’t have to be treated like this in my place of employ.”
“Next Friday,” Sinclair said. “A film?”
For just the barest moment Malfoy hesitated. Harry said, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Libanos and the kids. I hear they adore you.”
Malfoy’s nose was still in the air. “They do, rather.” He turned to Sinclair. “Then Friday. But we’re not bringing this delinquent.” He flapped a hand at Harry. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know how to waltz.”
*
The more Harry watched Malfoy, the more it occurred to him Malfoy’s life wasn’t perfect. In fact, he seemed to be wearing rather thin.
At first Harry worried the kiss thing was going to be a problem, but if anything, Malfoy seemed friendlier, as though knowing now where he stood, he didn’t have to wonder. He perked up when Harry popped by; he got content like a cat when he curled up on Harry’s floor to watch his television. He looked at Harry sometimes with a rather absent fondness Harry was fairly certain Malfoy would have wiped clean of his face had he known that it was there. He forgot more often than not to not sound affectionate when making use of insults.
But Malfoy was so tired sometimes, and there were circles under his eyes. He didn’t say anything about it, only held his shoulders more squarely. Harry of course tried asking if anything was wrong, but Malfoy only looked at him strangely and murmured, “Nothing; why do you ask?” Things would have been much easier if Malfoy hadn’t been so determined to appear perfect to the world.
The other week Ron had asked Harry over a game of wizarding chess, “How are things?”
“What do you mean how are things? I’m about to lose my queen.” Harry sighed and moved.
“Yeah, but . . .” Pursing his lips, Ron moved his rook, which slashed down the queen. “Check.”
“But what?” Harry put his knight in the line of attack.
Ron frowned. “I mean, how are things. Things like . . .” Ron looked up from the board, the game apparently having lost interest for him. “You know, mate, last year, you were gone a long time.”
Ron had never even mentioned it until now, and it was almost a whole year after he’d first come out of Chimera Downs. “I know,” was all Harry said.
Ron nodded, moving his bishop. They didn’t talk for a few minutes, trading pieces. Then Ron said suddenly, “How’s Malfoy?”
Harry looked up quickly. Ron appeared intent on the board. “Malfoy’s fine.”
“Mum likes him.” Ron moved his knight.
Harry took it with his rook. “Because he’s a suck up.”
Ron laughed, casually pushing his pawn to its final square. “He always was.”
Giving up, Harry tipped his king. “Why are you asking about Malfoy?”
Ron shrugged, sitting back. “Dunno. He’s your friend, isn’t he? And anyway, he’s someone to keep your eye on. Never know what he’s up to.”
Suddenly, Harry wanted to tell Ron about the accidental kissing, and the monster, and how hard it was to just go forward living life when the life he had known before had never been his to live. But Ron was sitting there drinking a butterbeer with all his casual grace and ease, and Harry wished even more that he could have conversations like this with Malfoy, conversations that went like this:
How are you now? Because I was worried about you before.
And when he had gotten an answer, Ron had said, And how are your friends? How is life?
How is it going, Malfoy?
But Harry was used to conversations that went like this with Ron, where they didn’t have to say a thing and yet said everything. Malfoy wasn’t like that.
He wouldn’t like it to be like this, Harry knew, where he felt like Ron knew everything, all about him, and Harry knew everything too.
“How’s Hugo?” Harry asked, and they went on talking about his family, while Ron answered the real questions that lay underneath.
*
Harry was thinking of this one day when he asked Malfoy, “How come you’ve never introduced me to Goyle and Parkinson? I introduced you to Ron and Hermione.”
Malfoy was at Harry’s flat to watch television again. “You didn’t introduce me,” he said, not taking his eyes from the tv. “I introduced myself, remember? On the train.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on, Malfoy. That was like fifteen years ago.”
Malfoy wore a scathing little frown. “You didn’t want to know my friends then.”
“You’re the one who started insulting Ron right from the go.”
Malfoy turned back to the tv. “As though you weren’t forming judgments about Vince and Greg the second you saw them.”
“Maybe I want to get to know them.”
“What for?”
Harry shrugged. “They’re your friends.”
When Malfoy turned to Harry, he was sneering in a way Harry hadn’t seen in a long time. “Want to judge them, Potter? Want to fling mud at us? How about some Polyjuice?”
“Come on, Malfoy. That was forever ago.”
“Does that really matter? Crabbe and Goyle wanted to kill you, you know. Parkinson wanted to serve you up to the Dark Lord.” Malfoy’s eyes blazed with anger in his sharp, pale face. “I was going to kill Dumbledore. Don’t you remember?”
“But you didn’t.”
“Want to know why? It was because I’m weak. Not because I developed a conscience, or because I thought it might be wrong. It’s because I wasn’t brave enough. Didn’t have the courage. And-”
“I won’t ask them over if you don’t want me to.”
Malfoy was livid. “I don’t like pity, Potter.”
“I don’t pity you.”
Malfoy hesitated. “Then what is it?”
Shrugging, Harry said, “I don’t know. I wanted to.”
“I don’t.” Malfoy hunched in on himself, looking pointy everywhere.
“Okay.” Harry pretended to go back to the files from Gringotts. He didn’t know why he’d mentioned Parkinson and Goyle at all, just that he’d been thinking about Ron.
Malfoy folded his legs up in front of him and put his chin on his knees, wrapped tight as though to keep the world out. He watched television like that for a while, and Harry thought he wasn’t actually watching. When finally Harry got engrossed in one of the Goblin clauses on one of the papers, Malfoy spoke again.
“You could go to Chigwell.”
“What?”
“Chigwell. It’s where the Goyles live.”
“You said,” Harry began.
“I said I didn’t want you inviting them here. I go down there every week or so. I could bring you with me.”
“Do you really want to?”
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “If you want to.”
Harry looked at him, the line of his neck, the turn of his jaw. He could see one ear, hair curling under it. Now that Malfoy was older, his hair wasn’t a perfect blond. Parts of it were dull as dishwater, not brown but not white either.
“I want to,” Harry said.
*
The Goyles’ house in Chigwell looked disconcertingly like the house on Privet Drive, with its brick chimney, straight shingles, and other houses all in a row on either side. It wasn’t where Harry had pictured the Goyles to be living at all.
Once they got closer, Harry began to notice that the details of these houses made them much different than Privet Drive. The neighbors had hedge-clippers going without someone holding them, and the house across the street had a garden full of Flutterby Bushes and Fanged Geraniums.
The Goyles’ house had tiny statues clinging to the eaves and the corners of the gutter. They watched Malfoy and Harry start up the path, and stuck out their tongues. “Gargoyles,” Harry said. “Go figure.”
“They look sort of like you.” Malfoy stopped at the bottom of the path. “Now shut up and be nice, or we’ll just turn around and go right home.”
Malfoy had been stiff ever since they’d planned this, his narrow shoulders square and sharp. “Then can I invite them to my flat?”
“No. And if you behave like a prat, I’ll never take you anywhere again. You . . .” Malfoy took his arm, as though afraid Harry might go up without him, his expression serious. “You do know not to insult someone in their own home, don’t you?”
“Of course. That’s just common courtesy.”
“Okay.” Letting go, Malfoy straightened his robes. “You just never know with Gryffindors.”
“For instance,” Harry continued. “I would never tell someone in their own home that their face looks like the blast end of a Skrewt.”
“I’ve always been articulate.” Malfoy sounded pleased.
“I wouldn’t say anything like that that,” Harry pointed out.
“You’re hardly that colorful,” Malfoy said, walking up the path. “You’re a sort of beige. I am-I am a rainbow of wit and ingenuity.”
“And you don’t know if you’re gay.”
“Be silent,” Malfoy said, sounding whimsical, before pressing the Goyles’ bell.
*
On first sight after all these years, Parkinson and Goyle reminded Harry of the Dursleys. Parkinson was slender and slight next to Goyle, who was still built like a slowly bulging brickhouse. They were neither of them beautiful, which had grown more pronounced with time. Parkinson’s face was angular and shadowed, while Goyle’s sagged and opened to rather frog-like eyes, and a loose-looking mouth.
“I see you actually brought him,” was the first thing Parkinson said. Her voice was high and girlish, with a horrible little giggle Harry vaguely remembered from school.
“It’s Potter,” Goyle said. They had obviously been informed of Harry’s coming, but Goyle still looked surprised, his voice slow and thick.
Harry wondered if, like the Dursleys, Goyle made Parkinson bring him butterbeers as he listened to Quidditch on the wire, while Parkinson cleaned and cleaned and Goyle never exerted himself to pick up a broom.
“Hello,” Harry said politely.
“Yes, hello,” Malfoy said beside him.
“Well, you might as well come in,” said Parkinson, and opened up the door.
“We weren’t sure he would actually bring you,” Goyle explained as they all came in.
The inside of the house was very regular, with pictures in frames and a square hearth. There were big stuffed chairs and shelves of books that most likely never got read. At first, Harry started to feel it was more and more like Privet Drive, but then he saw all the pictures moved. The blanket on the chair was Slytherin colors, and over the hearth there were hooks for broomsticks. The books on the shelves were all magic ones, and the bony gray cat in the corner could have been a hundred years old.
“I’m still not convinced he’s not under some kind of spell,” Parkinson said as they came into the room. “You can sit here, Potter.”
“That’s how come we have to check to see,” Goyle said. He sounded apologetic for some reason.
“Check what?” Malfoy frowned.
The Goyles were still both standing, looking down at Harry, and as Malfoy looked from the couple to Harry, he began to look alarmed.
“Yes, er,” said Harry, “check what?”
“I see you’re still a scarhead,” Parkinson said, frowning down. “Check.”
“Hey, do you want something to drink?” Goyle asked.
“Harry Potter,” Parkinson said shrilly. “Are you still a specky git? Check.”
Harry looked around for a way to escape. Malfoy was standing at the mouth of the corridor. He looked very pale, his mouth held tight in that way it got when he was unhappy, the way that Harry didn’t like. Harry turned uncertainly back to the Goyles.
“How about some wine?” Goyle said.
“Gregory, stop,” Parkinson said, whirling on him. “Your inquisitioning sucks.”
“Oh,” Goyle said, and turned to Harry. “Um, Potter. Have you . . . got Draco under a spell? Like, an evil dark one? I’ve been meaning to ask you that ever since Draco first started, you know, going on and on about you.”
“Really,” Parkinson said, gesturing at Harry, who was looking from one to the other helplessly. “He’s a Gryffindor.”
“Gryffindors can be evil and dark,” Goyle said. “There’s nothing that says Gryffindors are automatically good or anything, or that Syltherin is automatically dark.”
“Am too automatically dark,” Parkinson said, and turned back to Harry. “What do you think about Draco Malfoy?”
“I’m hoping he’s going to get me out of this?” Harry glanced over at Malfoy. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”
Malfoy looked as though he would be sick. “I didn’t know they were going to-”
“No one expects the Goyles’ Inqu-”
“That’s enough, Pansy,” Malfoy snapped.
“Right,” Goyle agreed. “Do you like roast?”
“It’s our favorite Muggle show,” Parkinson said.
“Er, roast?” Harry asked.
Parkinson looked appalled.
“Don’t,” Malfoy said in a warning voice to Parkinson.
Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Do you think Draco is controlling and manipulative and thinks entirely too much of himself?”
“What?” Harry said. “No. I mean, sometimes.”
Malfoy whirled on him. “Thank you, Potter.”
“You do give a lot of unsolicited advice,” Harry said.
“Why can’t it all just stop?” Malfoy asked. He looked ghastly.
“That’s what we’re having, Salisbury steak,” Goyle went on.
“Questions, Greg,” Pansy said. “In the form of questions!”
“Right,” Goyle said again. “Potatoes?”
Parkinson turned back to Harry, who felt a little like he was watching a Muggle tennis match. “Are you frightened, Potter?”
“A little?”
“Excellent,” Goyle said, beaming. “One last final question, then. Blueberry pie, or black?”
“I like blackberry,” Harry said.
“Good,” said Goyle.
“Are you quite done?” Malfoy said, sounding cold.
“Yes,” said Parkinson. “We have mead and daisywine, too, if you want it.”
“That’s nice.” Malfoy finally came into the room. He didn’t quite look at Harry. “I think this was a mistake.”
“What?” Harry said. “No. It’s fine.” After all, Ron had done much the same to Malfoy when Harry had first brought him.
“Someone’s touchy.” Parkinson frowned, picked up a plate of exploding chocolates, and offered them to Harry.
“There’s pie,” said Goyle.
“Thank you,” Harry said, and took a chocolate. It exploded into cream and cherries in his mouth.
Malfoy came to him, looking so furious Harry wondered whether he’d spoiled some kind of Pureblood protocol where you didn’t eat before your host, or something like that. His hand clamped over Harry’s wrist, and he leaned into Harry’s ear. “We can leave.”
Harry tried to swallow his chocolate. “Did I do something-”
Malfoy’s face instantly softened. “No.” He loosened his hand on Harry’s wrist, but didn’t take it away. “No, Harry. It’s just-they’re being so-”
Goyle lumbered across the room. “I’ve got to check on the steak.”
Parkinson put down the plate of chocolates. “Have you heard Succubus Soul Stealers’ latest album?” she asked, a trifle loudly. “It’s amazing.”
“Afraid not,” said Harry.
Malfoy gave Harry a strange, unfathomable look, and let go of his wrist.
“Don’t loom,” Parkinson told Malfoy. Malfoy straightened up, but didn’t move away, as though he thought he could be some kind of shield. “You know I hate it when you loom. I really like the song, ‘The World Can Just Avada Kedavra’.”
“I like Celestina Warbeck,” Harry said.
Parkinson’s eyes were in danger of coming out of her head. “Do you?” she said, sounding delighted.
“Pansy,” said Malfoy.
“Yeah.” Harry looked uncertainly at Malfoy. “So you don’t like Muggle rock?”
“Sting?” Parkinson waved a dismissive hand. Suddenly Harry wondered if she had gotten that gesture from Malfoy, or whether Malfoy had actually gotten it from her.
“I like Disembowlment and the Gorguts. They’re Muggle. And Cephalic Carnage.”
“Those sound interesting.”
Parkinson perked up. “They do, rather, don’t they?”
“What sort of music is that?”
“Death metal. Do you care for it?”
“I can’t say as I’ve heard it before.”
“Oh, but it’s divine. Shall I loan some to you?”
Harry was proud that they seemed to be acting perfectly civil, yet Malfoy looked spikier than ever.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Goyle.
“What about my muffins?”
“Muffins?” Goyle looked blankly at Parkinson. “Oh. I forgot the muffins.”
“How could you forget my muffins?” Parkinson was incensed. “Go and check my muffins, Gregory.”
Goyle turned away, and within a few seconds, came back. “I don’t know how to check muffins,” he said sheepishly.
“Muffins are like Hufflepuffs,” Parkinson told him. “You poke them with a stick.”
Goyle went away, and Parkinson said something else about a band called Decapitation and making a mix tape, and then Goyle came back. “I poked them with a stick,” he said. “Now they have holes. Does that mean they’re done?”
Parkinson threw her hands up and went into the kitchen.
“I’ll help,” said Malfoy, and went after her. Somehow the expression on his face did not lead Harry to think he’d be having one of his kitchen conversations that ended up with him looking like he’d won the House Cup afterwards.
Goyle was left shifting in the doorway. “Er.”
Harry looked over at him. He had taken off his robe, probably due to the heat of the kitchen. He had on a t-shirt underneath that read, “We went to Disneyland and all I got was this t-shirt.”
“Nice shirt,” said Harry.
“Got it in France,” Goyle said proudly. “On our honeymoon.”
“Isn’t Disneyland Muggle?” Harry asked.
“Oh yes,” Goyle said. “It’s horrible. Have you been on the ‘it’s a small world’ ride?”
“I’ve never been to Disneyland.”
“It has robots from different countries. Say, you were raised by Muggles. Can you tell me how robots work?”
Parkinson came back out of the kitchen in a frilly apron that reminded Harry sickeningly of Petunia. Under it, though, she had taken off her robes. Instead of something floral printed as Petunia would have worn, she wore something black and very severe that went all the way up her neck and made her body look even more angular than it was. That reminded Harry of Snape.
Malfoy meanwhile had drawn a mask over his face. He glanced at Harry, but Harry couldn’t interpret his expression, and Malfoy looked away. “Dinner is ready!” Parkinson announced with determined gaiety. “Don’t worry. Malfoy didn’t help.”
Dinner consisted of roast and muffins, peas and sweetcorn and potatoes with some strange sauce Harry didn’t know, but that tasted good.
“Have you ever noticed sweetcorn looks like teeth?” Goyle asked. “Of course, they’re not the right color. Unless you don’t brush quite-”
“Quidditch,” said Parkinson, in a suddenly decisive tone.
Malfoy kept glancing at Harry in that inscrutable way.
“Do you follow Quidditch, Potter?” Parkinson went on.
“Some,” said Harry.
“The Harpies are the best.” Parkinson seemed to think this was a mere statement of fact.
Malfoy glanced at Harry again, and this time Harry knew exactly what he was thinking. “Yeah,” Harry said. “Though Malfoy likes the Cannons.”
Goyle seemed confused. “Why would anyone like the Cannons?”
“The Harpies have that Seeker,” said Parkinson. “She’s the reason they win anything at all. The rest of that team hasn’t got even half the talent she has.”
“Pansy has a crush, rather,” Goyle said.
“Pfft, on a Weasley,” said Parkinson, then added thoughtfully, “She’s the fittest witch I’ve ever seen.”
“Except for her elbows,” Goyle said. “Pansy’s got the fittest elbows.”
Harry couldn’t actually believe they were having this conversation.
Malfoy, apparently could. “I thought you said there was pie,” he said tightly.
“There is.” Parkinson looked pleased. “Gregory, bring us pie.”
“Okay,” Goyle said, and started clearing plates. “Do you want ice cream, Potter?”
While Goyle went and got the pie, Harry drank the rest of his glass of wine. “I thought you would have had house-elves,” he said, finally putting his finger on maybe why it was so strange that Parkinson had cooked muffins, and Gregory Goyle was in the kitchen getting Harry Potter ice cream.
Parkinson turned to Malfoy accusingly. “You told us he had half a brain.”
Malfoy frowned. “I never said he used it.”
It was then Harry remembered how the Goyles and the Parkinsons had been stripped of their estates. The Malfoys had too, but Harry had had time to get used to that.
“Anyway, isn’t that against Granger’s laws?” Parkinson asked.
“She hasn’t gotten them passed,” Harry said. “And she’s a Weasley.”
“Right,” Parkinson said. “I forgot. And there’s a rugrat. How is it-he doing, by the by?”
“My godson is fine.” Harry paused. “Thank you.”
“See,” Parkinson said pointedly to Malfoy. “We can be polite.”
“I never said,” Malfoy began, but then Goyle came in with the pie and ice cream.
“Have you ever wondered why we call a Quaffle a Quaffle?” Goyle asked, after he had passed out the plates and they were eating. “Why not just a ball? How about a Snitch? It isn’t like they snitch at all.”
“It’s archaic,” Malfoy said. “Snitches used to be used to send secret messages. That’s why they’re so hard to catch.”
“So they couldn’t get intercepted,” Parkinson supplied. “That’s the problem, of course. If you do intercept them, they just blab to anyone. Got no guts, those.”
Malfoy stared steadfastly at his plate.
Harry looked at him, and said into the silence, “I got a message from a Snitch once.”
“Really?” Goyle looked interested. “What was it?”
“It told me I was going to die.”
There was another silence. Parkinson turned to Malfoy and raised both brows. “Is Potter always this dramatic?” Her voice was teasing.
Malfoy glanced at him again. Harry was beginning to wonder if maybe he was doing something wrong, since Malfoy kept looking at him and Harry couldn’t figure out what he meant by it. His eyes swept back to his plate. “Usually,” he murmured.
After they were done, Goyle got out brandy. Parkinson stood up. “Now it is time for the ladies to withdraw,” she announced, “while the men stay behind with their brandy. Possibly so that the ladies can smoke like chimneys and do lewd things to each other while talking about how daft the menfolk are. Come along, Draco.”
Malfoy slid his eyes toward Harry, and then stood up.
“You’re a lady?” Harry asked.
“If Pansy will be doing lewd things to me, I’ll be anything she wants.”
“Coming?” Parkinson was tapping her foot.
Malfoy gave Harry another unfathomable look, and went.
“Are they serious?” Harry asked, after they had left.
“Um.” Goyle thought for a while. “About the smoking? Probably.”
“I meant about the. You know. Lewdness.”
Goyle began to frown. “Pansy’s my wife.”
“Yes, but I thought-”
Goyle began to get worked up. “Fidelity might not mean much to Gryffindors-”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way.”
Goyle began to calm down. “Oh. Okay.”
There was a silence. Harry’s mind was working fast. He wanted to be polite, but the only thing he could think of was, “So, is Draco still making you transform into a girl?” and it just didn’t seem very amiable somehow. “So,” he said instead, after a while. “How are you and . . . Quidditch?”
So they talked Quidditch for a while. Goyle was not only eloquent on the subject of Quidditch; he could even be passionate. And even though it didn’t quite feel like talking to Ron or Seamus or Dean-the way things used to be with Dean anyway-it didn’t feel like talking to Gregory Goyle, either.
“You were a good Beater in school,” Harry said. He realized he hadn’t thought about it very much before.
“Thanks. Those were really the days. Can’t handle the Bludger nearly so well now.”
“You still play?”
“Oh. Well, sometimes. Pansy too.”
“She never played at Hogwarts.” Harry was still surprised. “She said she didn’t care for it.”
“She doesn’t care for following pro teams,” Goyle said. “But she likes to play. She knows I like to and-besides, it’s something to do.”
“What position is she?”
“Oh. You know.” Goyle looked uncertain for some reason. “We sort of . . . bat the Bludgers back and forth.”
She wouldn’t actually play a position, Harry realized. Like Malfoy, Goyle and Parkinson probably had a limited number of people with whom they might play Quidditch.
“Sometimes Malfoy plays with us.” Goyle sounded almost defensive. “Then he and Pansy seek. And I beat on both, so it’s a sort of three-way play. Pansy’s diverse. She could’ve been a stand-by player, if she’d wanted.”
“You could play with us.” Harry didn’t know where the sudden impulse came from, or why he acted on it. “We play every fortnight. Just a few of us, nothing serious. If Parkinson can play any position, our side needs a Chaser periodically, and Dean’s team needs a Beater.”
Audrey was pregnant, and Quidditch was a bad idea in the final trimester. Molly said she knew from experience. George said he knew from experience any spawn of Percy’s was a bad idea; Percy said George was a bad idea, to which Malfoy said Weasleys in general were a bad idea, he knew that from experience, and Zacharias, who wanted to get on with the game, had agreed.
Still, it didn’t mean that inviting Goyle to play with them was a good idea, no matter how much Zacharias wanted to get on with Quidditch. It had been difficult enough getting them to play with Malfoy, and even if they seemed alright with Malfoy now, it didn’t mean they would be alright with the Goyles.
“Wow, that’s really great, Potter,” Goyle said. “Thanks.” He did look like he thought it was great for several moments, but gradually his face recovered its rather stolid expression. “It probably isn’t a good idea, though.”
“Malfoy plays.” Harry frowned, unsure of why he was pressing it. It was possibly because Goyle was wearing a t-shirt from Disneyland, or maybe it had something to do with Malfoy. “Look, if it’s because we’re Gryffindors, or were in the DA, or that sort of-”
“It’s not that.” Goyle sighed. “I mean, it’s Pansy. She would never. She doesn’t like . . .” He sighed again. “Well, also, she doesn’t like Granger. Or the Weasleys.”
Harry snorted. “Seemed to like Ginny well enough.”
“That’s because Mrs. Weasley-Thomas is brilliant,” Goyle said, almost as though apologizing.
“You don’t hate Hermione and the Weasleys too?”
“I haven’t got anything against them.” Goyle shrugged. Harry had always thought it made him look shiftless, as though he hadn’t a thought of his own. He wondered whether it was just that Goyle was agreeable.
“You don’t?”
“Why should I? Oh,” Goyle said. “You mean because of at Hogwarts.”
“Yes, because of at Hogwarts.” Hearing Goyle refer to it like that, it sounded like centuries ago, rather than several years, and Harry felt kind of foolish for bringing it up at all.
“Mostly we were defending Draco. You three never singled me or Vince out the way you did him.”
“He singled us,” Harry began, but Goyle went on.
“Though I think maybe you or someone was responsible for me waking up without my robes in a cupboard once in second year. But,” he continued, shrugging, “that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.” Harry noticed for the first time that Goyle’s frog-eyes were quite friendly. “Hey, maybe we could do two on two.”
“Really?” Goyle perked up. “Wow. That’d be great.”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
Later, Goyle and Harry found Parkinson and Malfoy on their back patio, enveloped in a warming spell which only let in the briskest hint of night. Parkinson’s head looked like it was floating in the darkness; a floating white hand brought a slender cigarette holder to her mouth. The smoke spooled out of it to frame her face in a classic, black and white kind of way, and for the first time ever in his life, Harry found her pretty.
Malfoy looked less pale and less classic. In fact, he looked very real, standing there next to Parkinson and her dramatic smoke. His skin was tinted pink, and his mouth had the line beside it. His eyes were very clear as he looked at Parkinson, and Harry thought that he must find her pretty, too.
Then Malfoy saw that Harry had come out, and the light in his eyes went away. The strange, expressionless mask he’d been wearing all evening returned.
“Hey Pansy,” said Goyle. “What have you been talking about?”
“Oh, the usual,” trilled Parkinson.
“Lucius?” asked Goyle. “Or Potter?”
Harry looked at Malfoy, who wouldn’t look at him.
Parkinson waved her hand again in the way that Malfoy had. “A little from column A, a little from column B. What have you been talking about?”
Malfoy squared his shoulders and faced the night.
“Potter thought we might do two on two,” Goyle said, sounding pleased. “You know, with him versus Draco seeking, you and I beating. It’ll be brilliant.”
The line of Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened further, if that was at all possible.
“I get him!” Parkinson exclaimed.
“What?” Harry said, distracted by Malfoy’s backside.
“I get him, I called it,” Parkinson said. “You’re on my team, Potter.”
“What? You don’t even like me.”
“And Gregory does?” Parkinson said. “He’s a puppy; he likes everyone. Don’t you?” She turned on Goyle.
“I like you, so I must.”
“You’re obviously the best choice,” Parkinson told Harry, and turned on Malfoy. “You’re going down.” Then Harry had to wonder again whether it was Malfoy or Parkinson who had made that their favorite phrase first.
“Maybe Malfoy will catch the Snitch,” Harry tried, because Malfoy still wasn’t looking at him.
After a long, strung out moment, Malfoy finally turned around. “That’s-that’s very generous, Potter.” His tone was faintly ironic.
Harry frowned. “Malfoy, what’s got in to you?”
Parkinson was looking at Malfoy in a sympathetic way, as if she knew exactly what had got into him. “He just doesn’t want to lose to me; that’s all,” she said quickly.
“I’m not going to lose.” Malfoy’s shoulders still were squared.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want,” Harry said, feeling like he was always saying that to Malfoy, because he could never understand what Malfoy did want.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy said crisply, and tsked. “Goyle! Pay no attention to these bedlamites.”
“Hey,” Parkinson said. “I resent that.”
“This bedlamite and this slutty excuse for a sophisticate.”
“Hey-no, wait. I quite like that. Go on.”
“Goyle.” Malfoy’s voice lowered. “We must plan a scheme of under-handed lowdown dirty cheating the likes of which the world has never known before we joined our illustrious forces and-”
“We’ve joined forces before,” Goyle said. “At Hogwarts. Remember?”
Malfoy flapped a hand. “I said pay attention! Hey,” he said, turning to Harry. “Do you know where to get some Felix Felicis?”
“I do,” Harry said.
“You are so dead,” Parkinson told Goyle and Malfoy. “And you, Harry Potter, are a consummate fraud, a veritable snake in the grass. I always knew it; I tried to tell them, and they insisted you were just pure and stupid, but I guessed at your secrets. I upheld your honor. I always knew you were a cheater.”
“Thanks?” said Harry.
*
Late that night Harry and Malfoy Apparated back from Chigwell to Harry’s flat. “Your friends are weird,” Harry said.
Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He had still been rather silent, once he was done threatening to slay them at Quidditch. Harry still wasn’t sure what was up with him, why he had been so prickly when he and Goyle had come outside. Maybe Malfoy had been having an important conversation with Parkinson, and he’d resented the interruption. Maybe he really had been thinking Parkinson was pretty. Maybe he and Parkinson really did have lewd-
“My friends aren’t Weasleys, so of course there’s much to be said for them.”
Harry snorted and was going over toward the kitchen when Malfoy suddenly turned around and said, “Thank you.”
“What for?”
Malfoy had his shoulders hunched up. “For being . . . you were . . . kind.”
Harry took a step toward him, his brow furrowing. “What’re you talking about?”
“You were so . . . I mean, for instance, the Quidditch.”
“I asked them to play Quidditch because I thought it would be fun.”
Malfoy nodded. “Thank you.”
“For being what, normal? Human?”
“Well, yes, I mean, you know, sometimes you’re not very. You’re all, ‘must behave like a raving lunatic. Must gnash teeth. Must be feral animal of the woodlands and everything’. Sort of like a rabid dog, which-” He abruptly cut himself off, as though just becoming aware that words were coming out of his mouth.
“You’re thanking me for not being a rabid dog.”
Malfoy nodded. “Now you’re catching on.”
Harry grunted and turned away. “Thanks a lot. I’ve been really trying. I don’t even foam at the mouth any more. Really, it’s quite-”
Malfoy had followed him, and now caught his wrist. “Not everyone would have.” His eyes searched Harry’s face. “You acted like a human being. It’s just that not everyone would have.”
Harry faced him, annoyed. “It’s simple decency.”
“Decency’s never simple.” Malfoy’s hand was warm, gently encasing his wrist. “And not many people are. Not to me. Not since-they aren’t.”
The annoyance fell away. “Malfoy.” Harry wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but somehow his hand moved toward Malfoy’s neck.
Malfoy flinched, and Harry hastily drew his hand away, barely brushing Draco’s throat. “You don’t need to worry,” Harry said thickly. He cleared his throat. “About me being decent, I mean. Not anymore.”
Malfoy nodded. “I just didn’t expect it.”
“You should,” said Harry. “You deserve more than that.”
Malfoy looked surprised, and then his eyes went very soft. “Harry,” he said.
Harry didn’t know why and he certainly didn’t mean it to, but his gaze drifted down to Malfoy’s mouth.
Swallowing, Malfoy pulled away. “Even if you’re not hermiting and throwing tree stumps, you really need to work on some things.”
“Really.” Harry swallowed also and looked away. “Great.”
“Yes.” Malfoy was nodding now. “You still need a girlfriend and you still kind of mumble when you talk to people. I was thinking we could try this potion-”
“For mumbling?”
“For your hair. It’s also still bad.”
“Why a girlfriend?”
“Because frankly, Harry, a goblinfriend is beyond your pay-grade. I’ve found this nice little witch who works in the office. She’d be perfect. She’s a little crazy, just like you like, brown eyes like the Weaselette-”
“That’s enough,” Harry said, and began to usher him out.
“But she breaks all the rules. I know you like that, and she-”
“Out,” Harry said, and pushed him.
“Fine. Don’t meet the love of your life. For that matter,” Malfoy added thoughtfully, “don’t have a life.”
“Goodnight, Malfoy.” Harry started to close the door.
“Harry.”
“What now?”
“I . . .” Malfoy stood there for several long moments with nothing to say, which was unusual for him. His eyes rapidly flicked over Harry’s face.
Harry could feel the monster, and he wanted to close the door. He could feel the shudder, the aching and the clawing; it had not been there since he had kissed-
Malfoy’s eyes, which had been so soft, changed just like iron shields. His features suddenly masked in the same way, his face white and narrow, his dark jacket drawn up tight around him. Then he said, “Good night,” perfunctorily and walked away.
Go to: Chapter 6
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