warnings: Slash. AU with no magic. Rentboy!Harry. But it's quite tame, really.
ashes, ashes.
by elissa echo
On Monday, Harry finds Ron kicking him out of their flat.
Get out, Harry. Just get the fuck out!
He pushes Harry out, who stumbles backward and then falls as Ron throws a trunk out after him.
Something akin to dignified rage seeps through Harry, but he doesn't bother acknowledging it; Ron, he knows, has every right to never want to see him again.
He may not be the most observant bloke in the world, but he can tell when Harry is out every night fucking other men.
-
Monday night finds Harry at a bar, drinking casually and not doing much aside from looking dismally into his drink.
Got a light? comes a voice to his right.
Don't smoke, Harry answers, not looking up. He figures he should, should take this opportunity and try to get a few Galleons out of the man next to him.
Harry hopes the man will go away and leave him to wallow in his own self-misery, but he doesn't. Instead, he sits down next to Harry and orders a gin and tonic.
What the fuck's got you all wrapped up in yourself?
Kicked out of my flat, Harry says.
Did you deserve it? The man doesn't blink an eye.
Harry nods.
Then why the fuck are you here?
It's complicated.
Well, he says, taking a long sip, I can empathise with that, at least.
-
Harry wakes with a pounding headache in a strange bed on Tuesday. It does not, for all intents and purposes, even appear to be a bed.
His back complains about the springs digging into his spine and he feels uncomfortable dips—a couch then. No wonder he feels like hell.
Wearily, he opens his eyes; he still has his clothes on and though now they are hopelessly wrinkled, clothes in the morning almost always mean no payment.
He feels no motivation to move as the events from the day start swimming back.
Flash.
Get out, Harry.
Flash.
What the fuck's got you all wrapped up in yourself?
Flash.
I'll find a room.
Flash.
There'll be nowhere to stay.
Flash.
Another drink, please.
Flash.
This is my address.
Flash.
Zacharias Smith.
Flash.
Zacharias pulls open the blinds.
Fucking hell, you could have at least warned me! Harry moans, snapping his eyes shut. He folds an arm across his face.
It's noon, Zacharias says in response. I figured if you weren't up by now, you were dead.
Clearly, you were wrong, Harry remarks dryly. His head is pounding, tiny hammers cracking away at his skull. Please tell me you've got something for this. He makes vague waving motions around his head.
For a suspended moment the only sound in the room is breathing. Then Harry hears footsteps padding away from him, the clink of glass and metal.
Here, Zacharias says and holds out a cup to him. The conglomerate inside looks like a liquid version of the mud pies Dudley used to make him eat, with streaks of yellow that Harry tries not to associate with phlegm. Harry desperately misses the days of sobering spells and pain charms. Drink it, Potter. I'm not going to kill you.
Harry drinks it—now he's certain Zacharias is a compulsive liar and tries not to associate the gooey strings with come. It wouldn't be the first time he swallowed come before breakfast, but he'd rather avoid it if possible.
A stirring starts in his stomach. You bastard, he manages, and then he's clapping his hand over his mouth and hoping he can find the bathroom.
He does, just barely in time, and when he flushes and looks up, Zacharias is standing there with a smug look on his face.
That ought to teach you not to drink so much.
Fuck you.
Zacharias cocks his head. I'm not that hard-pressed.
Harry snarls. As I recall, you used to like it. Zacharias doesn't argue.
Instead, he points. Toothbrush, towels; you can use them while you're here.
Harry nods his thanks. He looks at the ground. Are you just going to stand there?
Zacharias laughs, smiling. He steps back. All yours, he says, amused, and closes the door.
Harry strips down and turns the water to as hot as he can stand. He steps in. The water beats down on his abused body, seeping in to thaw him out. If he could just stay here all day, washing away his old sins, scrubbing them clean with Zacharias's unscented white soap, scrubbing until he is rubbed red raw, Harry feels he might gain some measure of peace.
He wonders, absently, if he can drown himself in the shower, but dismisses the thought when he remembers Zacharias's penchant for cleanliness.
-
Six hours have passed since Harry stepped out of the shower and five of those were spent convincing Zacharias that he does not need his charity.
You're not sleeping well, he observes.
There's nothing you can do about it, insists Harry.
You're not eating well, either. I have something that you could—
I'm fine.
Zacharias tells him, no, he's not, and that he's not letting him leave until he's convinced Harry will survive.
-
Harry goes out for a walk Tuesday night. He manages to make a few Galleons; now his head hurts because the bloke liked pulling his hair. When he returns, Zacharias is out of sight and the couch has been pulled out into a twin bed.
Harry ignores the small flood of warmth that creeps into his body. He doesn't care.
Really.
He spends a particularly long time brushing his teeth before climbing into bed. The sheets twine around his legs like vines, compelling him to lie still. It might be a problem if Harry ever wanted to leave.
-
Wednesday brings with it the scent of coffee and scones to Harry's nose.
Coffee? He sits up.
Want some? Zacharias holds up an empty mug. Harry assents and waits for Zacharias to bring the coffee to him.
Harry thanks Zacharias and cradles the hot mug in his hands, blowing on it and swirling the liquid around a bit.
Zacharias takes his coffee black, Harry observes.
Why did you—
I don't think that's a good breakfast topic. Zacharias gets off the bed and wanders to the window. He sets the coffee cup down on the windowsill and picks up a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out.
He lights it, takes a few drags, and Harry frowns.
"Cigarettes will kill you."
Zacharias tilts his head to examine Harry. Everything's bad for something; I just like rolling them all into one lethal weapon.
He throws Harry a pointed look, but opens the window and blows the smoke outside.
-
By Wednesday night, Harry tries not to notice how easily they've fallen into routines, but as he sets the table and Zacharias brings over two plates of linguini or fettuccini or some other "ini" pasta and Harry pours two glasses of cheap red wine, noticing is inevitable. But routines mean nothing, Harry tells himself. Even giants have routines, and none of them get along with each other.
Over supper, Zacharias asks why Harry was kicked out.
Harry throws down his fork and storms out in a huff.
He isn't outside for a minute before Zacharias jogs up behind him.
"What the fuck was that about?"
Harry's silence permeates through the air to sink into Zacharias. He shifts on his feet: ball to toe, ball to toe.
"Potter." He swallows deeply. "I didn't mean to offend."
Harry still says nothing.
"You're living in my flat. I think I have some right to know why."
"Because you said I could. If I've got this all wrong, let me go get my stuff."
"Quit with the melodramatic shit; I don't need it."
Harry doesn't take a moment to think about it. "Are you kicking me out now?"
"No!" Zacharias shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. "What I'd prefer is for you to come back inside and finish eating."
This time Harry does think about it briefly. He assents, and the two go back inside. Harry twirls his pasta around his fork, while Zacharias sucks his up. They look at each other.
"Bugger," says Harry.
"It's cold," Zacharias finishes.
-
Zacharias brings both plates to the microwave and reheats the food, watching Harry from over the counter. They eat, drink wine, and make small talk. Harry asks what Zacharias does for work, and Zacharias tells him that he employs himself, and right now he's working on freeing the prisoners of Azkaban.
Harry stares at him as though he's insane, and Zacharias wonders if insanity is a plausible reason to keep Harry in his flat.
If not, he decides sometime that night, then Harry's undeniably talented mouth is.
-
But over breakfast on Thursday, Zacharias says, casually, that Harry can't stay.
"I thought you weren't going to kick me out."
"I'm not. I am. It's for your own good." Go back to Ron, he wants to say, but he doesn't.
"What is this? Wait until you can fuck me again, and then kick me out?" Harry's voice is thick, coated with pain, and he sounds as though he's had this type of experience with men before. Zacharias refuses to meet Harry's eyes.
But Zacharias doesn't really want Harry to leave, and Harry doesn't know if he's got anywhere else to go, and in the end, Harry goes shopping for some new clothes and hangs them next to Zacharias's clothes in the closet.
He could love you, Zacharias thinks, but he just lets Harry set his toothbrush next to his and doesn't say anything more.
-
During dinner on Friday night, Harry asks in between mouthfuls of lemon chicken (which, he admits, is excellent, and if Zacharias didn't start preaching about the dangers of capitalism and consumerism and some other apparently controversial social issues, Harry would buy him a restaurant) why Zacharias had hated him in school.
Zacharias laughs, short and sharp, before saying, "It was kind of hard not to. Who did you think you were, some sort of demigod?"
Harry chokes on his food, spluttering. "Excuse me?" he asks, indignant.
"Oh, don't even deny it," Zacharias says, dismissing Harry's protests with a wave of his hand. "Strutting around, starting up the DA, acting as though everyone should believe you just because you were Harry Potter." Zacharias pauses and appears to be mildly lost in thought, or in memory. "You know, Potter, you really weren't all that likeable."
"Thanks," mutters Harry, and Zacharias shrugs.
"You asked. I mean, really, you would just tell us what to do, like you knew so much more than us, like we were all somehow inferior to you because we hadn't defeated Voldemort single-handedly—" Zacharias is waving his fork around, a piece of meticulously balanced chicken balancing precariously on the tip. Harry watches it warily. "—but you know what? I think you've got an inferiority complex, not a superiority complex." He looks thoughtful. "Funny, that."
"What makes you think I've got an inferiority complex?" Harry demands, springing into defence mode.
Zacharias, after swallowing a sip of wine, says, "You go rent yourself out to whoever has a few sickles. What is it? Two for a hand job, three for a blowjob, seven for letting yourself be fucked and degraded? Well," Zacharias adds, anger growing swiftly, "I suppose the degradation is what you're there for, after all. You don't need the money, you could have any bloke you want—"
"Shut up." Harry speaks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, paper thin and ready to break. He puts down his fork. "If that's your opinion of me, then I suppose you won't mind if I leave, will you?" Not waiting for a response, Harry scoots his chair back and starts walking toward the door.
Zacharias watches in silence for exactly three seconds before he gets up so quickly he knocks his chair back and hits the table with his knees, the wine in his glass sloshing out onto his plate. "Don't you dare walk out that door, Potter."
Harry turns back, places his hands on his hips, and then down at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"Why shouldn't I?"
Zacharias doesn't have an answer for him, not one that he can voice, and Harry leaves, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Zacharias finds he almost would have preferred a slam.
-
When Harry doesn't return for several weeks, Zacharias begins worrying. He contacts Seamus, who knows Weasley's last whereabouts.
One Saturday night, Zacharias ducks behind some bushes and waits to see who returns.
He's not surprised that when he hears footsteps on the sidewalk, they belong to Ron and Harry.
Zacharias is, however, surprised when Ron refuses to let Harry inside. He's not sure what that means, not sure if he wants to know.
-
The next morning, Zacharias wakes up and begins working on the layout for a pamphlet for freeing all the prisoners in Azkaban because he doesn't have faith in the justice system and hears a knock on the door.
He opens the door and greets Harry: "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came to pick up my stuff." His voice is dull, his eyes duller, and Zacharias has to wonder where the man slept.
"Weasley kicked you out again, didn't he?"
"I suppose you were right."
"Of course I was right." Zacharias has no earthly idea what Harry is talking about, but with Harry's penchant for small talk, he knows he'll find out soon enough.
"I must have an inferiority complex if I keep coming back to you."
Zacharias steps aside and lets Harry inside.
-
"Ron knew about us," Harry admits sometime much, much later, head tucked under Zacharias's arm. Zacharias has lost track of the days now that Harry's here, because time no longer seems to matter.
"There was never an 'us,' Potter." He lights up a cigarette and doesn't do anything when Harry makes a face.
"Not officially, I know, but—"
"There was never an 'us,' Potter," he repeats.
"He kicked me out and told me to come back because, well, he knew that..."
Closing his eyes, Zacharias pretends not to hear. Zacharias knows that he cannot allow himself to get attached to Harry Potter, that dating Harry Potter would be disastrous for his campaigns.
And that is why when Harry takes his cigarette from between his fingers, plods over to the window, and squashes out the flame, Zacharias starts feeling anxious and suddenly wants to kick Harry out of the flat.
But he doesn't, and two days later, Zacharias comes home to find his pamphlet completed and a pile of snapped-in-half cigarettes next to it.
Sticky-noted to the table, Zacharias reads: "These things'll be the death of you."
And to himself, Zacharias disagrees; Harry will.
But somehow, that seems okay.
29 January, 2005