Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: Light R
Pairings: Harry/Draco; Harry/Ginny; Draco/other
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, violence.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 100 x 13 = 1300 words
Summary: A lot can change in thirteen months.
Beta: None. u_u
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
She leaves at dusk, trunk floating behind her, fiery ponytail swinging as she doesn't look back even once.
Their row was not even bitter -- not as much as some they have had, anyway. Something about tickets to the Quidditch World Cup semifinals. She ran into one of her old Hogwarts dormitory mates and forgot to pick them up, and that made Harry blurt something: that she was as self-absorbed as ever or something equally daft.
Their last words to each other echo in Harry's mind. After a time he's not even sure which ones were his.
I thought you loved me.
They're at the Hog's Head on Saturday like always, but Aberforth's gone off to Edinburgh to see a travelling zoo, so conversation turns to The Breakup.
"I never thought about how to deal with you and Ginny breaking up," Ron says after the thousandth awkward silence.
"You're not the one who has to deal with it," Harry replies, staring at the dip in the foam at the top of his untouched pint.
Ron isn't listening. "I mean, you're my best mate. She's my sister."
"I'm not sure why you're saying that like it's news," Harry says with a sigh. "Let's talk about something else."
Harry stares at the bottle of cooking sherry on the top pantry shelf. He has no idea how to cook with it, but it's the only other ingredient in the kitchen that hasn't gone off. The first's a slab of smoked turkey.
He has vague notions about slicing the turkey, pouring the sherry over it and sticking the pot in the oven.
He can't face another dinner at Ron and Hermione's. They've never been too overt in their affections, but after five years together, there's an easy companionship there, an aura of togetherness even if they are nowhere near each other.
Harry's pantry population has increased and gained variety.
On the bottom shelf there are wines: nettle, turnip, elderflower, celery and beetroot, plain old grape, Berry Ocky Rot, even a bottle of Superior Red stashed in the very back, for special occasions.
The middle shelf is for the whisky: Ogden's Old, Blishen's, Schletters, White Rat -- in neat rows.
The top shelf gathers all the rest: a strange amber gin from New Zealand, fruit brandies -- plum, apricot, apple -- Quintin Black, knotgrass mead, daisyroot draught.
Harry likes to think of the three shelves as containing breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Or appetiser, main course, and dessert.
Harry's on his way back from the Ministry nurse's office -- his fifth killer headache in two weeks; Nurse Stovington's offers to set up a specialist appointment are growing more insistent, but of course Stovington's never had a hangover in his life -- when he sees Lucius Malfoy glide into the lift.
Harry doesn't follow him in; he waits to see where the lift goes.
What does a former Death Eater want with the Department of International Magical Cooperation?
The question turns over in his mind until it starts sounding like one of those bloody riddles and Harry's headache starts trying to return.
Harry comes home to the sound of glass breaking. Panic tears at him as he barrels through the kitchen doors, wand aloft.
"I can't -- bloody -- believe this!" Ginny hurls another bottle at the floor. "You're responsible for your team's lives, Harry; how dare you do this to yourself?"
The way the soft yellow wall-light shines through the little flyaway hairs on her head makes it look like she's aglow with fury, like a warrior goddess from a storybook.
Harry sinks down on the chair, the bottles forgotten.
"I miss you," he says. "Come back."
She lowers her head and the halo is gone.
Ron and Hermione look nervous; Neville's green with worry.
Harry takes another shot of Ogden's Old and laughs. "It's my birthday," he says. "I can have a drink on my birthday."
"That's your sixth, mate," Seamus points out. Never one for beating around the bush, is old Seamus.
"Isn't that Draco Malfoy?" Luna asks, pointing. "I didn't know you invited him, Harry."
Harry turns to see Malfoy lean across the table to kiss his companion.
"I didn't know he was gay," Seamus says.
Harry watches with narrowed eyes. He doesn't give a fuck whom Malfoy's snogging, but he's incensed to see Malfoy smiling so fucking happily.
"Did you get reassigned without my knowledge?" Robards asks Harry.
"No, sir, why?"
"You are Eagle Team Leader. Correct?"
"Then why are you acting like you've gained a seat on the Wizengamot?"
"I don't understand, sir."
"The Malfoys were tried and absolved. Let me be clear: I don't think justice was served. But it is not my job to deal out justice. Nor is it yours. Do I make myself clear?"
"No, sir. I haven't--"
"You will cease in your harassment of the Malfoy brat. If you so much as speak to him without being spoken to first, I'll have you prosecuted. Is that clear?"
Harry hurls the Daily Prophet against the wall. The pages flutter apart, landing all over the floor as though to cover up the shards that once glittered there: the bottles Ginny broke because she cared about Harry.
Because she cared about him. What a fucking joke.
Ginny Weasley spotted sharing a romantic moment with Puddlemere United's Oliver Wood.
"Didn't take her very long," Harry growls as he flings the pantry open. It's empty: he has kept his promise, hoping she would come back.
Didn't take you very long, either, a little voice chides, and Harry's face burns at the memories of his indecent dreams.
"This is my favourite chair in this bookshop, and you're sitting in it. You're also an eyesore. Would you mind leaving?"
That lazy drawl has always keyed Harry up, and tonight's no different, but he ignores it. If Malfoy is allowed to see Harry's eyes, he'll notice the inexplicable need he's fought for weeks, the hate-filled lust that defies description. His boss's orders are merely a distant thought.
"Potter, I'm talking to you."
"Bugger off. I'm not supposed to talk to you," Harry says, turning a page of the book he was not reading.
Malfoy leans down to peer into Harry's face.
Their eyes meet.
Harry used to count the hours until his next drink; now he counts the hours until he can walk into the next dirty hotel room where Malfoy will be waiting.
He can think of nothing but the way Malfoy snarls at him to lose the fucking clothes, the way Malfoy's pale lips stretch around his cock, the way he pours all his rage into Malfoy, who takes it, panting and screaming and leaving bruises on Harry's skin that don't heal because they can't stop fucking for a day, let alone a week.
Malfoy's cheating on his boyfriend, and Harry doesn't even care.
"You don't look like you're all there, Harry; is everything all right?" Hermione asks.
Yeah, I was just thinking that I'd rather be fucking Malfoy, Harry thinks, and hysterical laughter bubbles in his throat. He feels ashamed for thinking such a thing and angry at Malfoy for intruding into his time with his family. On Christmas.
He takes a contrite sip of eggnog and grins. "Woolgathering," he assures Hermione. "Everything is fine."
She wouldn't be fooled in any other circumstances, but Molly's filling her other ear with parenting advice, and Hermione puts a protective hand on her still-flat belly with a suppressed sigh.
Dusk brings snow clouds, and Harry lies back in his bed, hands behind the pillow, watching the flakes dance shyly through the open window. He'll have to shut it before he sleeps or they'll both catch their deaths.
Malfoy's trunk -- these are just a few necessities; don't you dare think I'm moving in with you -- lies unopened by the door. Malfoy had bent over to open it, but Harry hadn't given him a chance.
Tonight was different: softer, with moans and sighs instead of their usual desperate growling. Words instead of curses. Kisses, not bites.
I thought you hated me.