Sand Castles & Fingerpaints
I wrote this story for The Hex Files Birthday Drabbles, but it got away from me. It's for lady_aubrey; her chosen words are: goblet, defile and gear. This is Chapter One.
Author: Kudra_23 (me! also known as Kudra, Kudra23 and Kudra_007)
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I charge nothing.
*** written for lady_aubrey’s birthday, using: goblet, defile, gear
Thanks so much to Sevfan for being my beta!
CHAPTER ONE
Harry had a headache the size of Dudley’s arse. In fact, Harry could say without question that he’d rather sing an ode to said arse than be in his present location: seated beside Rufus Scrimgeour at an awards ceremony. It was considered a position of honor to be placed at the head table, brushing thighs with the most esteemed Minister for Magic. He’d hoped that once he fulfilled his crap destiny and offed His Snakeliness, people would leave him to his fingerpaints and sand castles, but no such luck.
So here he was, chugging goblet after goblet of wine, and staring rather rudely at his dedicated followers. He fingered his homemade necklace for comfort; he’d chosen each creamy shell himself from his very first trip to the beach last week, and considered it his finest achievement. Apparently, several hundred witches and wizards disagreed, for they said nothing of the spectacular necklace, and focused only on his erstwhile defeat of old Voldie.
The Dark Lord had amassed an army of witches, wizards and magical creatures. He’d completed a blood ritual to drain magic from his followers, and thus, had never been more powerful. He had an arsenal of Dark offensives and counteroffensives. Harry had love and a Muggle shotgun. Once he’d AK’d Nagini, the final Horcrux, to Voldemort’s supreme displeasure, he’d tossed his wand aside and pulled the shotgun from his cloak. Tom was amping up for a bit of verbal repartee, and was rather surprised when his head exploded. Thankfully, his magical thievery left his followers weak, kittenish, and ripe for a slap down by the Aurors.
Now, the ungrateful wretches he’d saved were torturing him to show their thanks. Hermione herself, the traitor, had come to drag him from his new home in the ruins of the house at Godric’s Hollow. She’d subjected him to a boring speech about his creepy mourning behavior, and how he needed to take his esteemed place in Wizarding society.
Said society, after a spread in every Wizarding paper featuring photos of the Boy Who Lived looking scruffy and unkempt, fingerpainting the crumbling walls of his parents’ old house, had once again grown slightly divisive in their loyalties. Most hailed him for his victory, and used grieving as a handy excuse for his odd behavior. There was a small faction, however, that judged him a dangerous and Dark wizard just waiting to become the next half-blooded despot.
“And now,” Percy Weasley boomed, interrupting his thoughts, “Let’s hear from the Man of the Hour, our world’s greatest Hero and Defeater of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!” A roar of cheering and applause met this announcement.
Harry, startled, rose reluctantly from his seat and headed for the podium. He’d been forewarned, of course, that a speech was required, but every word he’d attempted to write in advance had sounded trite and dishonest. ‘Maybe I can get away with being like Dumbledore,’ he thought, sadly reflecting on the deceased Headmaster. ‘Dumbledore could say, “Pollywumps and Scittlehinks; one never knows which to choose,” and everyone would cheer madly.’
Hermione nodded primly from her place in the front row, and then elbowed Ron sharply until he produced a weak smile. The redhead had expected the end of the war to be one long celebration, but his best mate had chosen now to go off the deep end, spending most of his time at that creepy, decrepit house. Most of the upscale parties had a very selective invite list, and Harry had refused to attend a single one, thereby dooming Ron to the less glamorous festivities of the Weasley clan and the Order.
Ron hadn’t thought he could ever feel like more of a sidekick than he did at Hogwarts, but here he was, watching Harry deal ungraciously with the adulation and praise of thousands, and feeling rather bitter. The git wasn’t even wearing dress robes! Instead, he sported dirty Muggle jeans, trainers, a long-sleeved black t-shirt that was spattered with paint, and an ugly necklace made of string and shells. His hair was a riot of black with swatches of bright color where he’d run his hands through it. He was the Lord of both Potter and Black fortunes, and could’ve afforded to look better than a Malfoy, but no. He was more interested in building sand castles than living in a real one. If Ron was relegated to being Harry Potter’s sidekick, he wanted to reap the benefits of his position, damn it!
Harry looked out over the crowd from behind the podium. The large amount of wine he’d consumed was rather evident in his slightly swaying posture, and the way his hands gripped fiercely at the stand to steady himself. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and Harry winced, wishing for the solitude of his house. They were all staring at him like a bug under a microscope, waiting for him to be their hero, to live up to their impossible expectations. He was to speak grandly of his defeat of the Dark Lord, his desire to become an Auror to continue the fight against big, bad wizards, and thank the Ministry and fans profusely for their ‘support’.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly, and when witches everywhere cooed, he flinched. “Thanks for… you know, the Order of Merlin and all that. I really appreciate it.” He paused, fully aware that he sounded about as grateful and sincere as a Hippogriff getting an enema. Screw that. “It’s just hard to feel like I deserve an award for murder,” he said honestly.
Dead silence followed his words. Hermione shook her head in defeat and Ron glared balefully, feeling that he could’ve given a much better victory speech.
Harry continued, “It’s just, everyone likes to say I defeated the Dark Lord, because that’s a much nicer, safer, and more applaud-able way of putting it. In point of fact, I shot Tom Riddle and his head exploded. One of his eyeballs came to land at my feet.” A pause. “I stomped on it.”
The crowd murmured their displeasure. Children wailed, mothers glared, and his friends and family looked at him reproachfully. The only calm expression belonged to Remus Lupin.
“I’m just saying,” he struggled to explain, “Why applaud me? I’m the weapon. Applaud the Healers and the Aurors and the teachers. Give them Orders of Merlin, First Class. Not the dirty politicians. Not the assassin. There’s no hero here, just a boy with a split soul and blood on his hands.”
Scrimgeour was motioning frantically for him to shut up. Harry grinned maniacally at him, and turned back to the crowd.
“I’m not a hero, but I’m not a demon either. It’s too easy to place all your hopes and fears on one target rather than seeing the big picture. The real heroes and demons are amongst you.” He looked pointedly at Scrimgeour. “I’m supposed to wax poetical about the Ministry’s supreme and laudable efforts, but it’s a bunch of bloody bullshit. The Ministry, whether run by Fudge or Scrimgeour, has been systematically against supporting the war effort throughout Tom Riddle’s entire reign.”
At this, the crowd leaned collectively forward in their seats, suddenly interested in what he had to say.
“If it hadn’t been for a band of renegades and vigilantes organized by Albus Dumbledore, and several loyal spies, we’d be sporting Death Eater gear and hailing our new autocrat.” Harry eyed them, looking incongruously harsh and serious in his tattered attire. “The Dark Lord is dead, but the war at home will take even more cunning and effort. The demons in our midst don’t have handy identifying tattoos, but they’re doing just as much damage to our society as the Death Eaters. We let ourselves be divided by fear of our differences. We nearly lost this war because of our prejudiced stance on other races, like vampires, werewolves, giants and banshees. Our troubles aren’t over because Tom Riddle’s head exploded.”
With that, he descended the dais and exited the large amphitheater. Dead silence hailed the end of his speech. He’d promised Hermione that he’d attend the party following the ceremony, but he desperately needed time alone first. Why had he gone off like that? No one was really listening. People were people, whether or not they could wave a magic wand. They didn’t change. That’s when he spotted Draco Malfoy skulking in the shadows of the anteroom.
“Potter,” Draco said neutrally.
Harry grinned, still feeling rather sloshed. “Ah, Malfoy, semi-evil Defiler of Puppies and Christmas,” he greeted. “I’m feeling marvelously disingenuous tonight, so it’s lovely to see you.”
Gray eyes widened fractionally. “Rather loose with the wine, were we?”
“Perpetually so.” Harry sniffed the air for clues. “What brings you here to this fine establishment?”
Draco grimaced. “A clause in my acquittal. I’m expected to suck a little collective Ministry dick.”
“Hmm, how typical,” Harry commented. “Scrimgeour’s got a sweet spot between his dick and his balls. Just lie back and think of England,” he advised.
The ex-Slytherin looked rather bemused. “I’ll remember that.” After a pause, “Nice tirade.”
“Heard that, did you?”
Draco nodded. “I do believe that’s what the Sonorus was for,” he drawled. “I must say that’s the most interesting victory speech I’ve ever witnessed. And Voldemort gave quite a few, I’ll have you know.”
“Well, it’s good to know I got the last word, on many levels.” Harry eyed Draco, who was dressed impeccably, as per usual. His silver-lined black robes were cut perfectly to fit his trim figure. “Seems a waste of such a smashing outfit to hide it in the shadows,” he commented.
Draco returned the favor, gray eyes skimming Harry from head to toe, missing nothing. He was reminded of the article in the paper showing the Boy Who Lived fingerpainting in his dead parents’ house. Draco doubted the rumors that his behavior was due to mourning. Harry’s emerald eyes had a glow about them, and his face an expression of animated ease. The jeans fell low on his hips, and the dark shirt didn’t quite meet his waistline when he moved, showing flashes of golden skin.
“Quite an interesting choice for a Wizarding ceremony in your honor,” Draco observed.
Harry sighed. “I know. They wanted me to come looking like you, the epitome of youth, wealth, and power.”
“You wouldn’t be you if you dressed like me,” Draco replied.
Harry swooned. “What wit! Such Slytherin cunning!” Draco glared, causing Harry to smirk. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “When I want to know the meaning of life, I’ll be sure to come straight to you for more pearls of wisdom.”
“At least I don’t look like a madman,” Draco retorted. “And I don’t go ‘round spouting truth at a Ministry do.”
“You’re right, of course.” Harry sighed. “I’ve figured out why Dumbledore rattled off such random nonsense all the time.”
“Why’s that?”
“He couldn’t stand to spout the Ministry’s party line nonsense, and it wouldn’t help to tell the truth, so he resorted to nonsense in its purest, and most benign, form,” Harry theorized.
“Cease and desist, Potter!” Draco ordered. “I’m experiencing wholly unwanted feelings of respect for the dodgy codger.”
Harry laughed. “He was a manipulative old coot, there’s no mistaking that,” he conceded. “I just always saw him as the lesser of the dodgy codgers.”
The sound of hundreds of witches and wizards rising from their seats and preparing to leave brought the duo back to the present. “Well, I must dash,” Draco murmured.
“Will you be at the party?” Harry asked, hoping, rather bizarrely, that the answer was yes.
Draco nodded. “Unfortunately. Scrimgeour won’t be satisfied until he’s orchestrated my complete and utter humiliation. Snape’s too.”
“Mmm,” Harry concurred. “He despises you both even more than I do.”
Gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “And almost as much as he despises you,” he added. “Well, I’ll see you at the party, then. From opposite sides of the room, of course, as heroes and puppy defilers don’t mix.” He slipped out the door just as the loud crush of people began exiting the amphitheater.
Author: Kudra_23 (me! also known as Kudra, Kudra23 and Kudra_007)
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I charge nothing.
*** written for lady_aubrey’s birthday, using: goblet, defile, gear
Thanks so much to Sevfan for being my beta!
CHAPTER ONE
Harry had a headache the size of Dudley’s arse. In fact, Harry could say without question that he’d rather sing an ode to said arse than be in his present location: seated beside Rufus Scrimgeour at an awards ceremony. It was considered a position of honor to be placed at the head table, brushing thighs with the most esteemed Minister for Magic. He’d hoped that once he fulfilled his crap destiny and offed His Snakeliness, people would leave him to his fingerpaints and sand castles, but no such luck.
So here he was, chugging goblet after goblet of wine, and staring rather rudely at his dedicated followers. He fingered his homemade necklace for comfort; he’d chosen each creamy shell himself from his very first trip to the beach last week, and considered it his finest achievement. Apparently, several hundred witches and wizards disagreed, for they said nothing of the spectacular necklace, and focused only on his erstwhile defeat of old Voldie.
The Dark Lord had amassed an army of witches, wizards and magical creatures. He’d completed a blood ritual to drain magic from his followers, and thus, had never been more powerful. He had an arsenal of Dark offensives and counteroffensives. Harry had love and a Muggle shotgun. Once he’d AK’d Nagini, the final Horcrux, to Voldemort’s supreme displeasure, he’d tossed his wand aside and pulled the shotgun from his cloak. Tom was amping up for a bit of verbal repartee, and was rather surprised when his head exploded. Thankfully, his magical thievery left his followers weak, kittenish, and ripe for a slap down by the Aurors.
Now, the ungrateful wretches he’d saved were torturing him to show their thanks. Hermione herself, the traitor, had come to drag him from his new home in the ruins of the house at Godric’s Hollow. She’d subjected him to a boring speech about his creepy mourning behavior, and how he needed to take his esteemed place in Wizarding society.
Said society, after a spread in every Wizarding paper featuring photos of the Boy Who Lived looking scruffy and unkempt, fingerpainting the crumbling walls of his parents’ old house, had once again grown slightly divisive in their loyalties. Most hailed him for his victory, and used grieving as a handy excuse for his odd behavior. There was a small faction, however, that judged him a dangerous and Dark wizard just waiting to become the next half-blooded despot.
“And now,” Percy Weasley boomed, interrupting his thoughts, “Let’s hear from the Man of the Hour, our world’s greatest Hero and Defeater of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!” A roar of cheering and applause met this announcement.
Harry, startled, rose reluctantly from his seat and headed for the podium. He’d been forewarned, of course, that a speech was required, but every word he’d attempted to write in advance had sounded trite and dishonest. ‘Maybe I can get away with being like Dumbledore,’ he thought, sadly reflecting on the deceased Headmaster. ‘Dumbledore could say, “Pollywumps and Scittlehinks; one never knows which to choose,” and everyone would cheer madly.’
Hermione nodded primly from her place in the front row, and then elbowed Ron sharply until he produced a weak smile. The redhead had expected the end of the war to be one long celebration, but his best mate had chosen now to go off the deep end, spending most of his time at that creepy, decrepit house. Most of the upscale parties had a very selective invite list, and Harry had refused to attend a single one, thereby dooming Ron to the less glamorous festivities of the Weasley clan and the Order.
Ron hadn’t thought he could ever feel like more of a sidekick than he did at Hogwarts, but here he was, watching Harry deal ungraciously with the adulation and praise of thousands, and feeling rather bitter. The git wasn’t even wearing dress robes! Instead, he sported dirty Muggle jeans, trainers, a long-sleeved black t-shirt that was spattered with paint, and an ugly necklace made of string and shells. His hair was a riot of black with swatches of bright color where he’d run his hands through it. He was the Lord of both Potter and Black fortunes, and could’ve afforded to look better than a Malfoy, but no. He was more interested in building sand castles than living in a real one. If Ron was relegated to being Harry Potter’s sidekick, he wanted to reap the benefits of his position, damn it!
Harry looked out over the crowd from behind the podium. The large amount of wine he’d consumed was rather evident in his slightly swaying posture, and the way his hands gripped fiercely at the stand to steady himself. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and Harry winced, wishing for the solitude of his house. They were all staring at him like a bug under a microscope, waiting for him to be their hero, to live up to their impossible expectations. He was to speak grandly of his defeat of the Dark Lord, his desire to become an Auror to continue the fight against big, bad wizards, and thank the Ministry and fans profusely for their ‘support’.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly, and when witches everywhere cooed, he flinched. “Thanks for… you know, the Order of Merlin and all that. I really appreciate it.” He paused, fully aware that he sounded about as grateful and sincere as a Hippogriff getting an enema. Screw that. “It’s just hard to feel like I deserve an award for murder,” he said honestly.
Dead silence followed his words. Hermione shook her head in defeat and Ron glared balefully, feeling that he could’ve given a much better victory speech.
Harry continued, “It’s just, everyone likes to say I defeated the Dark Lord, because that’s a much nicer, safer, and more applaud-able way of putting it. In point of fact, I shot Tom Riddle and his head exploded. One of his eyeballs came to land at my feet.” A pause. “I stomped on it.”
The crowd murmured their displeasure. Children wailed, mothers glared, and his friends and family looked at him reproachfully. The only calm expression belonged to Remus Lupin.
“I’m just saying,” he struggled to explain, “Why applaud me? I’m the weapon. Applaud the Healers and the Aurors and the teachers. Give them Orders of Merlin, First Class. Not the dirty politicians. Not the assassin. There’s no hero here, just a boy with a split soul and blood on his hands.”
Scrimgeour was motioning frantically for him to shut up. Harry grinned maniacally at him, and turned back to the crowd.
“I’m not a hero, but I’m not a demon either. It’s too easy to place all your hopes and fears on one target rather than seeing the big picture. The real heroes and demons are amongst you.” He looked pointedly at Scrimgeour. “I’m supposed to wax poetical about the Ministry’s supreme and laudable efforts, but it’s a bunch of bloody bullshit. The Ministry, whether run by Fudge or Scrimgeour, has been systematically against supporting the war effort throughout Tom Riddle’s entire reign.”
At this, the crowd leaned collectively forward in their seats, suddenly interested in what he had to say.
“If it hadn’t been for a band of renegades and vigilantes organized by Albus Dumbledore, and several loyal spies, we’d be sporting Death Eater gear and hailing our new autocrat.” Harry eyed them, looking incongruously harsh and serious in his tattered attire. “The Dark Lord is dead, but the war at home will take even more cunning and effort. The demons in our midst don’t have handy identifying tattoos, but they’re doing just as much damage to our society as the Death Eaters. We let ourselves be divided by fear of our differences. We nearly lost this war because of our prejudiced stance on other races, like vampires, werewolves, giants and banshees. Our troubles aren’t over because Tom Riddle’s head exploded.”
With that, he descended the dais and exited the large amphitheater. Dead silence hailed the end of his speech. He’d promised Hermione that he’d attend the party following the ceremony, but he desperately needed time alone first. Why had he gone off like that? No one was really listening. People were people, whether or not they could wave a magic wand. They didn’t change. That’s when he spotted Draco Malfoy skulking in the shadows of the anteroom.
“Potter,” Draco said neutrally.
Harry grinned, still feeling rather sloshed. “Ah, Malfoy, semi-evil Defiler of Puppies and Christmas,” he greeted. “I’m feeling marvelously disingenuous tonight, so it’s lovely to see you.”
Gray eyes widened fractionally. “Rather loose with the wine, were we?”
“Perpetually so.” Harry sniffed the air for clues. “What brings you here to this fine establishment?”
Draco grimaced. “A clause in my acquittal. I’m expected to suck a little collective Ministry dick.”
“Hmm, how typical,” Harry commented. “Scrimgeour’s got a sweet spot between his dick and his balls. Just lie back and think of England,” he advised.
The ex-Slytherin looked rather bemused. “I’ll remember that.” After a pause, “Nice tirade.”
“Heard that, did you?”
Draco nodded. “I do believe that’s what the Sonorus was for,” he drawled. “I must say that’s the most interesting victory speech I’ve ever witnessed. And Voldemort gave quite a few, I’ll have you know.”
“Well, it’s good to know I got the last word, on many levels.” Harry eyed Draco, who was dressed impeccably, as per usual. His silver-lined black robes were cut perfectly to fit his trim figure. “Seems a waste of such a smashing outfit to hide it in the shadows,” he commented.
Draco returned the favor, gray eyes skimming Harry from head to toe, missing nothing. He was reminded of the article in the paper showing the Boy Who Lived fingerpainting in his dead parents’ house. Draco doubted the rumors that his behavior was due to mourning. Harry’s emerald eyes had a glow about them, and his face an expression of animated ease. The jeans fell low on his hips, and the dark shirt didn’t quite meet his waistline when he moved, showing flashes of golden skin.
“Quite an interesting choice for a Wizarding ceremony in your honor,” Draco observed.
Harry sighed. “I know. They wanted me to come looking like you, the epitome of youth, wealth, and power.”
“You wouldn’t be you if you dressed like me,” Draco replied.
Harry swooned. “What wit! Such Slytherin cunning!” Draco glared, causing Harry to smirk. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “When I want to know the meaning of life, I’ll be sure to come straight to you for more pearls of wisdom.”
“At least I don’t look like a madman,” Draco retorted. “And I don’t go ‘round spouting truth at a Ministry do.”
“You’re right, of course.” Harry sighed. “I’ve figured out why Dumbledore rattled off such random nonsense all the time.”
“Why’s that?”
“He couldn’t stand to spout the Ministry’s party line nonsense, and it wouldn’t help to tell the truth, so he resorted to nonsense in its purest, and most benign, form,” Harry theorized.
“Cease and desist, Potter!” Draco ordered. “I’m experiencing wholly unwanted feelings of respect for the dodgy codger.”
Harry laughed. “He was a manipulative old coot, there’s no mistaking that,” he conceded. “I just always saw him as the lesser of the dodgy codgers.”
The sound of hundreds of witches and wizards rising from their seats and preparing to leave brought the duo back to the present. “Well, I must dash,” Draco murmured.
“Will you be at the party?” Harry asked, hoping, rather bizarrely, that the answer was yes.
Draco nodded. “Unfortunately. Scrimgeour won’t be satisfied until he’s orchestrated my complete and utter humiliation. Snape’s too.”
“Mmm,” Harry concurred. “He despises you both even more than I do.”
Gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “And almost as much as he despises you,” he added. “Well, I’ll see you at the party, then. From opposite sides of the room, of course, as heroes and puppy defilers don’t mix.” He slipped out the door just as the loud crush of people began exiting the amphitheater.