Celestine's fics (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} celescribbles) wrote,@ 2007-12-12 19:52:00 |
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Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter summary: The outcome of the war had not been kind to Knockturn Alley, whose business had thrived under Voldemort’s rule. Now many shops were closed and their unsavoury tenants had all fled. It was only temporary, Draco guessed - they’d come back when the Ministry stopped arresting every suspicious-looking individual taking his dog out for a walk. And despite all the Ministry’s efforts, the wizarding world wouldn’t be miraculously rid of all its bad seeds. After all, Draco thought, he was still here.
She was standing in front of him, smiling, her long red hair tumbling down her back. He sensed more than heard that she had missed him, that she was happy to be so close to him again. It was snowing outside but Harry felt hot, flushed, unsettled.
From the corner of his vision, he thought he could see a Snitch and didn’t know what it was doing here, in this empty room, but that didn’t matter, because now he was taking Ginny in his arms, entwining his hands into her lush, silky mane, and kissing her, without holding back anything, and he thought he felt the sun shine now.
“Harry…”
He laid her down on the floor, felt her soft skin, saw her smile and her beautiful eyes.
“Harry…”
His desire for her was so strong that he willed himself to remain lying there, touching her, even though he could feel himself slipping away, and everything around him dissolving.
“Harry!”
He opened his eyes and shut them again, wanting to keep Ginny in his mind, to hang on to the delicious, pleasurable sensation his dream was giving him. But the voice was insistent and finally he couldn’t shut it out any longer.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered sleepily, sitting up and throwing his legs over the bed. He yawned and stretched, then felt around for his glasses and shuffled over to the fireplace across the room. Hermione’s face was staring up at him with a smile.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you up. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d still be in bed, even if it is Saturday.”
“What time is it?” he asked, giving another yawn.
“It’s almost ten. I wanted to know if I could drop by Grimmauld place this morning, but if you’d rather I come later…”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry said, smiling at her. He hadn’t seen Hermione in over a month, and was glad that she was finally back in England. “Just give me half an hour, okay?”
“All right. I’ll bring some breakfast over.”
No sooner had Harry showered and finished dressing than he heard a quiet knock on the door
“I’ll get that, Kreacher,” he called to the House-elf, who was scurrying about in the kitchen.
He opened the door to a radiant Hermione who immediately flung her arms around him and gave him a tight hug.
“Oh, Harry, it’s so wonderful to see you!” she exclaimed. “I missed you and Ron so much when I was in Australia… Look, I brought you back something! Two things actually – I hope you like them. I took a lot of pictures too, but they’re not developed yet, I’ll have to show them to you as soon as they are -”
Harry laughed. “Settle down, Hermione – here, let me take your coat. Wow, you’ve got quite a tan!”
“Australia is wonderfully sunny this time of year,” she said as Harry led her to the kitchen, and almost tripped over a bucket. She looked around, wide-eyed, at the plastic covers that had been placed on the furniture and the stripped, bare walls. “Goodness, what’s happening here? Are you redecorating the entire place?”
“Yes, that’s the idea,” Harry admitted. “I started last week.”
If truth be told, he had been thinking about it for a much longer time than that, but he’d been hesitant to do it, not because he thought it would be like betraying Sirius or even Regulus, but because he thought it might upset Kreacher. Indeed, the House-elf didn’t look particularly pleased at the idea, even though he tried to keep face and not say anything that would irritate his master. In the end, however, Harry had finally decided to take action and redecorate the place that he and Ron would be living in – as long as they didn’t change anything in Regulus’s room, perhaps Kreacher wouldn’t mind so much.
“I’m going to need some help, though – I’m not going to be able to get this done alone,” he added. “I was thinking of inviting everyone over for a painting party after Ron arrives. We’d have the ground floor finished at the very least.”.”
“That’s a great idea,” Hermione said. “Are you planning on working on the rooms as well?”
“Yes, some of them - I was thinking Ron and I could both use a study, and there’ll be a couple of guest rooms… but I’m leaving Sirius and Regulus’s rooms as they are,” he continued, feeling slightly uncomfortable for some reason. It made him wonder, deep inside, what Molly, or Andromeda, or anyone else who had lost someone in war did with the things of the dead, sorting through them, keeping one particular object or two close at hand to soothe the pain and preserve the memory…
Hermione sensed his unease. “Come on,” she said, “don’t you want to see your presents?”
When they got to the kitchen, Kreacher served tea, greeting Hermione with an air of civility. Harry unwrapped his gift - she had got him a large magnet the shape of a koala bear that suggested, when asked, wholesome and healthy snacks to have between dinners in a twangy Australian accent. The second gift was actually breakfast.
“They’re Lamingtons,” Hermione explained as she took the cakes out of the paper bag. “Typical Australian treats. My mother became quite a pro at making them last year.”
Harry thanked her and unwrapped one carefully. “So the spell – it’s all gone, right?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes, it’s all gone. The hardest part was explaining to them why I’d done it, but I think they understood. The important thing is that everything is all right, but… well, it must be strange for them to think that if I’d – if anything had happened to me, they would’ve never seen me again, and not even realised it.”
Harry took a bite of the cake – it had a sweet, chocolaty taste with hints of coconut, and was a welcome distraction from the conversation. He didn’t like to think of these things more than he had to. Even though the danger was gone, it still made him feel queasy.
“I got you a present too,” he said. “For your birthday. I didn’t dare send over to you from so far away. I was afraid it might get lost, but you got my owl, right?”
“Yes, and I got one from Ron too, and a card from Ginny and Luna,” she said, grinning. “It was really nice of you to think of me.”
Harry took his wand out of his pocket and summoned a clumsily wrapped gift from his room. It was a leather bookmark that automatically directed you to a passage you couldn’t find in a book if you gave a brief description of it. Hermione was delighted and they had a second helping of Lamingtons.
“So, you’re staying at your parents’ place right now?”
“Yes, but I’m going to The Burrow this afternoon and staying there until Sunday night,” Hermione said, blushing slightly. “I understand Ron’s been feeling rather down, staying there alone.”
“He told me he wanted to stay with George for a week or so, then I hope he’ll move in here. I know that he’s worried about George but… It can’t be good for him to be living with his own brother too long. He’ll go mad.”
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, Ron’s not made to live with one of the tw– oh Merlin. I’d better watch my tongue. It makes me feel so awful, just thinking about it.” For a moment, it looked as though her eyes were filling with tears, but she quickly blinked it back. “How is Ginny, by the way? Is she feeling any better?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably. There was that sharp, knowing Hermione-look again. He knew she expected him to have sent Ginny an owl at Hogwarts, but the truth was, he didn’t dare to do it for fear of not getting any reply.
“I don’t really know,” he murmured. “I – well, she hasn’t owled or anything. And I think she’s perfectly fine not hearing from me either.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, I’m not going to have to set you straight again on that, am I?”
Harry didn’t reply, and looked down at his fingers which were sticky with icing. He didn’t particularly like to talk about the difficulties he had taking his mind off Ginny, missing her to the point of pain, and seeing no easy way to mend their relationship until they saw each other again. It made him feel terribly vulnerable.
“How about that job the Ministry offered you?”
She sighed and shook her head, but didn’t press the subject. “I’m going to accept. It sounds like an interesting deal, and I really want to work somewhere where I can be informed immediately of the important decisions they’re making.”
“Join the club, although it’s not all exciting news and fantastic changes all the time,” Harry said. “I reckon you’ll get as just as many stares as I am. And unfortunately, the war hasn’t rid the Ministry of stupid people.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Prophet – it’s just as bad as before. Sensationalism on every page, teary confessions, daily updates on Ministry arrests… I’m actually thinking of cancelling my subscription.”
“Well, what did you expect them to do? That’s what the wizarding community’s asking for right now. They don’t want to hear about anything else. Besides, where else would you get your news?”
“I know, but… well, I guess I just expected people like Rita Skeeter to simply disappear after the war. It’s silly, of course. There’s just no word of all the problems we’re going to have to face, and all the work we’re going to have to do.”
Hermione gave him a little tap on the shoulder. “Of course not. That’s what people like you and me are for, Harry.”
He laughed. They continued to talk of Ministry politics while sipping their tea, then the subject turned to Hogwarts and their former classmates. By noon Hermione was planning aloud a little housewarming get-together she was going to throw once she’d found a flat.
“And of course, you’ll come over as soon as my photos are done – oh dear, it is that time already?” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I have to meet Mum for lunch.”
“No problem. It was really great to have you here,” Harry said, sitting up. They thanked Kreacher for the tea and made their way to the front door.
“Oh, is that a picture of Teddy?” Hermione asked as Harry was getting her coat. She was looking at a small photo next to an unsealed letter. “Did Andromeda send you this?”
Harry nodded. “She invited me over to see him but I haven’t had a chance to go yet.”
“That’s too bad, he’s so adorable… Well, I’m sure you’ll find the time soon enough.”
They hugged briefly and Harry watched from the doorstep as Hermione walked away, her frizzy hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders. He felt a sudden pang of envy when he pictured her arriving at The Burrow, where Ron was waiting for her, and where Molly would have no doubt prepared a scrumptious dinner, but then closed the door and quickly shook the thought away.
He had work to do. There were things to plan. And no good would ever come out of feeling sorry for himself, or dwelling on a dream that had long since disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a curious stirring and a dreadful feeling of emptiness.
“You won’t forget, will you, Malfoy? The 12th is next week.”
Draco halted and glanced over his shoulder at the short, skinny man sitting in a beat-up armchair, gnawing on an unlit pipe. He forced back the sneer that was coming to his face and gave the barest of nods.
“I won’t forget, Mr Marbrack,” he replied coldly.
The man looked at him with a look of pure loathing. “You were one day late last month,” he went on. “And last night I heard noise coming from upstairs until all hours – I don’t want that happening again, do you hear me?”
Marbrack went to bed at nine every evening, and seemed to think that the entire world should fall silent after that hour. Narcissa had simply been putting away some dishes. The crabby old miser’s constant complaining made Draco want to shove his pipe down his throat and slam the door behind the miserable establishment his lodger called “home,” but of course that was impossible.
“We’ll be more careful.”
Marbrack seemed to have run out of complaints and settled back into his chair, opening the Daily Prophet. Draco walked out the door into the dank, grey morning. His steps took him through the small, winding streets of Knockturn Alley without him even having to think about it. Living here, he had realised how well he’d grown to know Knockturn Alley, having gone so many times with his father, and even more so in the past two years. That wasn’t to say he was particularly fond of it.
“Won’t you come here, pretty boy?” a hoarse, cackling voice called from a doorstep. “I’ve got breakfast for you right here…”
Draco barely glanced at the slatternly witch, badly disguised with a crude glamour charm, and stalked on. He was used to such unappealing sights by now, even early in the morning, but it made him wonder where the good, respectable wizards of the world went to pay for sexual favours. The only brothels he’d ever seen were all in Knockturn Alley, and he couldn’t imagine wanting to go inside for all the Galleons in the world, let alone pay for it.
The outcome of the war had not been kind to Knockturn Alley, whose business had thrived under Voldemort’s rule. Now many shops were closed and their unsavoury tenants had all fled. It was only temporary, Draco guessed - they’d come back when the Ministry stopped arresting every suspicious-looking individual taking his dog out for a walk. And despite all the Ministry’s efforts, the wizarding world wouldn’t be miraculously rid of all its bad seeds. After all, Draco thought, he was still here.
But it was rather depressing to walk along a rampart of boarded doors and broken windows. A hairy wizard, clad in dirty rags, was slumped against an abandoned doorstep, an empty bottle in his hand. Draco gave a shudder of disgust and steered away from him. A few minutes later, he arrived at the juncture between Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley. Usually, Draco exited to the Muggle side of London through a passage next to Marbrack’s house, but today he had to drop by the post office. To avoid undue pestering and questioning from his landlord, he’d asked for his owls to be left there. He also didn’t want any of his old schoolmates to find out where he was staying.
Draco looked around, uncomfortable. As dark and disquieting as Knockturn Alley was, he felt somewhat protected there, as there was no chance of running into anyone he knew. In Diagon Alley, he was out in the open.
He took a deep breath and quickly headed down the street, looking down at his feet, passing by the colourful window displays of the stores that were just opening. Quidditch goods, clothes, sweets and treats of all kinds… once, Draco would have gazed at any of this with the aloof eye of a spoiled child, used to getting anything he wanted. Now, he felt rather amazed that such things still existed, and that some people had the time to indulge in them.
Help wanted. Position available. All applications will be considered. Many stores had posted these signs on their doors, a sure sign that the wizarding world was getting back on its feet. Draco paused in front of one shop and peeked briefly inside, but walked on before anyone could see him.
He would have to find a job, eventually. There was still some money in their vault at Gringotts – his father had had the sense, at least, to take some precautions when things had started to go awry – and that would take care of their rent and expenses for a couple of months, but after that… Marbrack was charging them three times as much as the run-down flat was worth, and that would drain them of their savings fast enough.
Pushing these troublesome thoughts to a corner of his mind, Draco arrived at the post office. The clerk gave him a withering look.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I was wondering if there was any post for me. Post box number 345.”
The clerk disappeared for a moment and came back with a small pile of letters. Draco thanked him and left.
There were a couple of letters from the Ministry – more rejected requests and inquiries, no doubt – and one from Pansy. Draco shoved the letters into his pocket, a uncomfortable feeling building in his chest. Deep inside, there was only one hand whose writing he longed to see among the letters, but there was a small chance of that happening anytime soon. Prisoners in the security ward of Azkaban weren’t allowed to receive and send owls. Still, he knew that when he came back to their flat, his mother would be waiting for him with a flicker of hope in her eyes that would disappear as soon as she would see the expression on his face. And Draco was tired of being the bearer of bad news.
It was still too early to go to the Ministry, and Draco wandered around for a moment, undecided as to what he should do. He craved some hot tea, and a warm place where he could read his letters. Would they kick him out of the Leaky Cauldron? Were they even allowed to do that, if he had enough money to pay for his drink? He decided to take a chance, and headed towards the pub, his stomach tightening.
He was a Malfoy, after all. He wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by lesser wizards. But the usual mantra was quite ineffective against the suspicious, unfriendly looks he was given upon entering the pub. Draco ordered a tea, looking pointedly down at the counter, and sat down in the furthest corner of the room.
The first letter he took out was Pansy’s. She’d been writing more and more often lately, but the content of her letters made it sound as if something wasn’t quite right, as if she was blathering on about superficial things in order to cover up a deeper problem. She kept complaining that she was bored and desperate and doing nothing – never once did she mention any acquaintances she might have made, or sights she might have seen, and she always finished her letters with a ridiculous flourish of sentiments that was too much, even for her.
And this letter was no different. I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing to do here. I dream of your sweet kisses every night.
Draco was not an idiot, and Paris was not the arse-end of the world. Pansy was hiding things from him, and he didn’t know whether he should be sad, angry or indifferent. It seemed wrong not to care if one’s girlfriend was lying and probably screwing around or Merlin knew what, but it seemed so far away and detached from him that he couldn’t really bring himself to feel anything but a mild sense of irritation.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once he’d thought himself genuinely attached to Pansy – with her cunning, her sharpness, her surprisingly normal giddiness at little attentions he had for her, little compliments he made on her appearance. She was hard and brittle but unreserved in her efforts to secure him at her side, and they’d fumbled together towards their first sexual experiences. It was all Draco knew of satisfaction at the time, and it had seemed like a world of possibilities opening before him.
But now it was the last thing on his mind, and all of Pansy’s misgivings came glaring back at him. Her inability to understand him, to support him, to make him feel as though he was something more in her eyes than an expensive set of robes and a Prefect’s badge. He had encouraged it back then, feeling flattered and in control. But since the end of the war, every owl she sent him made him want to stuff all these memories in a trunk somewhere and never open it again.
He should break things off with her. He would if he wasn’t sure she would do it first. Draco didn’t want to give her the easy way out. Pansy needed to pay for – for what exactly? For making him believe he was something.
“Your tea.”
Draco folded the letter back up and looked up to see the bartender walking away, and a tepid cup of tea sitting on the table. He pushed it away dully, his mind empty. Then, suddenly, an image of Potter having breakfast popped up in his mind. There was table full of eggs, bacon, steaming coffee, and Potter sitting in the middle of it all in his pyjamas, arms drooping at his sides, looking forlorn and sheep-like, as he always had.
It was an incongruous thing to think about, but then Draco felt at times as though he was losing his mind. He shook his head, slapped a few Galleons on the table and left, leaving the tea untouched to complete the process of becoming ice cold.
There was another long day ahead, and it wasn’t starting out any better than the last.
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