A Dedication.

Draco used to stand next to the lake in a suit whenever a storm passed by. Did it for a number of years. Smoking his black cigarettes, while the rest of us hid inside. I used to see him through my kitchen window. Like clockwork, when a storm passed by, he'd be standing there. Always in a nice suit. Back after we had graduated from Hogwarts.

We lived in these tall white houses. With ugly flower shutters and cut lawns. Draco lived two doors down. We often shared a beer. Stayed that way for two years. Before I headed off to University. And Draco became lost to the darkness. Poisoned by the same blood which used to make him so proud. We often talked about blood. Sipping beers together in those ugly white houses.

Never asked Draco about why he stood out in the rain. Not sure he knew I noticed. Not sure he cared.

Draco's house was always spotless. He lived alone; his parents gone. I stayed with my grandfather. Grandpa was nearly senile then. Kept talking about his kids as if they were still there. Uncle had left years before. Dad was gone too. Always mixed me up with them. I hated the suggestion. It felt like he lived in the land of his dreams. Where his children did no wrong. Where the blood was washed from our hands. Draco was a good escape. Allowed me to have a real conversation. Kept me sane.

The fridge in Draco's house was always empty except for a collection of expensive cheese and a case of beer. I'd enter his house, pop open a can, and sit on his couch. All the surfaces bare. All of the pictures removed. We'd finish a case over a night. Made sure not to stop too soon. We became numb and drunk. Unable to focus on our hands. Unable to remember those crimes.

There were many of us living on the block suffering from the same disease. The same infection turning our skin rotten; decaying our teeth. It was a self styled prison of refugees. Those who had been on the wrong side. Whether they had a choice or not. The white houses were a series of grave stones marking the streets. A memorial to the past. A dedication to the failure. Grandpa still talked as if the cause was still alive. Like there were still battles to be won. I often thought of smothering him. Not sure where the feeling came from. Just built up in the back of my mind. It was an ugly time. Draco and I stayed drunk and drugged. Stealing my grandfather's prescriptions. Ugly, all of it.

Blaise and I had made a pack. Never to return to this awful hobble. Be it this block, or another. We wouldn't be swept into it. Not to join their ranks, with their bigoted thoughts and dirty blood. Blaise was gone now. Unable to judge my failure. His laugh silenced. Thought I heard it sometimes, when I was full of beer and Oxycontin. Not sure of anything then, though. Not sure about a lot of things. Blaise was a gentle guy. Didn't deserve the fate he received. Trapped in that awful play; forced to perform. A real life tragedy.

I'd been an outsider for most of it. Only associated by name really. Why I got off on the first round of pardons. But by name still felt real enough. Still on the wrong side. Can never get rid of a name either. Whenever I scrubbed off the dirt, my skin, the blood, the name always stayed.

At the time, I used to imagine that was what Draco used to do in the rain. Try to become clean. Can't imagine how cold it would have been; his clothes soaked through. Wearing a full suit. The cigarettes too moist to burn. A cleansing in nature. That's not my theory now though.

Not sure if he wanted to be, but Draco had been involved. He was not lucky like me. And when you get deep. Waist deep. You're trapped. In the snare, the more you move, the tighter it gets. Pulls on your neck till you're chocking. Gasping. Draco never got out. He lost everything. Forced to sit still and watch.

The days barely changed while we were there. Hours bleeding into other hours. Day became night. Conversations shared about little. Stuck in a nauseous stasis.

"Hey man," I greeted entering his door.

"Hey Nott." Draco replied from the other room.

I walked into his kitchen, grabbed the case of beer and brought it into his living room. Lounging on the couch, I opened the first bottle.

"Something about these sunny days. They bug me." I said.

"Haven't noticed." Draco said entering the room.

"I was walking around earlier outside. Down by the lake."

"Was it nice?"

"As nice as that lake ever is. Saw some rabbits together."

"Yeah? Cute buggers?"

"No. Sickly things. Blind, with the split eyes. Drooling all over the grass."

"Hope you didn't get too close to them. Those sorts of things are never good."

"I actually walked up to them. Tried to see them more closely. Maybe understand what was wrong with them." I said.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked, forcefully. "What good would have come from getting close? They're all dead anyways. What was ailing them is not going to matter when they die. Wouldn't matter if you died from it too either."

"Don't worry. They ran away. Guess they could still hear."

"Good."

"It's weird, can't remember the last time I saw something alive around here. Like really alive."

"A sign of the times," he said.

There was a particularly nasty storm one day. Raged for hours. Draco stood in the rain, by the lake. I kept passing by my kitchen window. Stealing glances. He wore his suit. The clothes drenched. Staring into the lake. Never moved, throughout the whole affair. His blonde hair wet and muted. Must have been out there for the whole thing. Standing. Stoic. Alone with the droplets of water. As the hours passed by. Never moved from his spot. His hands were shaking by the end. Cigarettes too wet to smoke. Must have been cold. Bone chillingly cold. Cutting through his skin. Splitting his limbs. Yet he stood out there, stubborn.

Got real sick afterwards. A fever burning his head. Bedridden for days. Each breath followed by a series of coughs. A body barely there. Covered in hot sweats. Skin pale as a ghost. Swear I could look right through him. Pass my hand through his chest. He never mentioned the storm. I never enquired about the cause. I sat in silence by his bed. Watching. Hoping he would be alright.

Around that time, I entered my father's room for the first time. Looking for some clues. An answer hidden somewhere. A note, or even an excuse would do. I found nothing. Only discovered my father's old collection of records. A stack of different symphonies and operas. I started to listen to them. Play them in my attic room. Loud. Til I could feel it. My body moved. The room shaking with the vibrations. Playing into my whole being. Cut off from the rest of the world. Existing as one with the music. Feeling only the music. Suspended. Touched. And distracted.

Listening to those records was the only time I ever felt at home, in that ugly white house. My grandfather was somewhere else. Not my problem. Unaware if the bastard was even there. Let me imagine he wasn't. Like the house used to be when I was a child. Back when it was my home. When there was hope. And life on our block. Not the dead which filled it then. Not that white which painted the street. Those ugly fucking houses.

I brought the record player into Draco's room during his sickness. Placed it in the corner. Put on "Tristan und Isolde". The most beautiful of the records. A piece larger than anything ever written. We sat in our usual silence. Draco ghost like. I smoked cigarettes by his side. Soaking in the sounds of the Opera.

Near the end, Draco spoke. "Do you know the story of Tristan and Isolde?"

"No," I said.

"Neither do I. I wonder what they are singing about. It must be a tragedy."

"Seems likely."

"How sad. Imagine being a character. Always dying by the end. Facing the fate written into the story. An inevitability. Although, I guess that's true of all of us. We all die. We're really all just waiting for our own final note." Draco said.

"I guess so. Our fate isn't as immediate though. We still have many more years before we need to face that." I held the black cigarette between my fingers.

"You know, I keep trying to imagine they're singing about great joy. And that things will work out in the end. They'll be able to be together, and be happy. But," he wavered. I brought the cigarette to my mouth. Inhaled. "But I can't imagine it. I can't. I just can't see how things could turn out okay." Draco held his face in his hands, and cried. I put my hand on his shoulder. In a silence filled with his weeps.

After that, I felt like I knew why Draco stood out in the rain. He was not trying to be cleansed. He was not trying to be washed clean of his former sins. He was crying. A standing eulogy. Paying respect to the past. A personal funeral, in the rain. To all that he had lost. Standing there, alone in the rain. A proud boy, hiding the tears running down his face.

Voldemort was killed near Plymouth by a group of Aurors, days before we graduated from Hogwarts. The pureblood revolution ended prematurely, before it became a true civil war. Draco was with the Dark Lord at the time. A number of students in seventh year left school to fight for a side. Half the class never finished school. Like a coward, I kept my head down. Fought for neither side. Stayed neutral at the school, finishing my classes. Wish I had picked a side. Been against the Death Eaters. I only respected them out of a misguided sense of family obligation. A regret which churned in my stomach. Like I had swallowed decaying teeth.

Draco never spoke of his time with Voldemort. The Death Eaters were a violent group. Largely targeting civilian groups. Muggles or mudbloods. I read the charges eventually laid upon Draco. It's hard to judge from the outside. The extent his hands were forced. Whether he really had a choice. Still, he lived with a huge weight on his shoulders. He did things. Saw things. Things which would never go away.

When I returned from Hogwarts, I discovered my father gone. No note. No message. No word. Gone. Only my grandfather, with his dementia and alzheimers. My grandfather new what happened to my father. But the memories were gone. He held the answers to my questions, but was no longer able to tell me. Was my father dead? In hiding? With Death Eaters? The bastard had no idea. Could not even differentiate between my father and I. Often referred to me as him. Almost to worsen the insult. I begged him. Cried. Gained nothing.

My grandfather had done enough damage. Poisoned my family. Lead us to ruin. Lost my mother and uncle to his suggestions in the first Voldemort Revolution. Never got to meet my mom. Their actions dictated by my grandfather's bigoted thoughts. His sense of family obligation. Now my father was gone too. Leaving me alone with him. I wished he were dead.

After Voldemort's death, there was a crackdown on Death Eater sympathizers. People rounded up. The losers shamed, and brought forward for their crimes. A raid on a pureblood neighbourhood near Sutton turned especially bloody. The Death Eaters retaliating with force. Many caught in the crossfire. Many dead. I still remember reading Blaise's name in the paper. Like a dream. Like a swift blow. My reaction was guttural: to vomit. And then to cry.

The Ministry changed tactics after the failure in Sutton. All of us who were members of known sympathetic pureblood families were put in a legal limbo. Not allowed to work, study, travel, or associate. Until we were either pardoned or charged. A reverse onus. Guilty until proven innocent.

Took nearly two years for the first round of pardons to be released. My name was on the list. A surreal moment. Like I had awoken from a terrible nightmare. I could leave the block. Escape the ugly white house. Leave my grandfather to his own devices. I was free. But something in me did not let me leave. I could not abandon the rest of them. To discard Draco. Like my father had done to me.

One night, after the pardons had been released, we sat together in Draco's living room. Sharing a case of beer. Splitting three packs of cigarettes arraigned on his coffee table. Like we had done throughout the last two years. Drunk, we were sharing stories of our past. Revelling in nostalgia.

"Remember how you, me, and Blaise used to talk in the common room of Slytherin?" Draco asked.

"Yeah." I replied.

"We used to make plans. Decide our futures. Always said we'd study at Saint George University together. Rent a flat downtown in London." Draco said joyfully. Smiling in his recollection.

"I remember. You were insistent on a loft. Didn't matter the price. Just needed to be loft." I said.

"Hey man, lofts are cool. Just think how many girls we could have picked up if we lived in a loft. Those things are carte blanches to get laid. We'd just mention we live in a loft, and bam! They'd be all over us," Draco said with a laugh.

"Maybe for you. I'm about as smooth as a rough razor around girls."

"You're too hard on yourself Nott. It's a skill. We'd just go dancing regularly. Learn the ropes. Pick up on the subtleties. You'd get the hang of it."

"I guess so."

Draco smiled. "You know, I always imagined this girl with an ugly dress. Like a lime green. Slim fit. Not even particularly attractive. With blonde hair and long legs. Whenever I thought of going dancing, and girls, this was the girl who came to mind. Every time. And even when I thought of picking up multiple girls, they were are forms of the girl in the ugly green dress. For all the promiscuity I talked about, that's never what it looked like in my mind. Just the girl in the green dress. My life's only love."

"At least you're setting your standards high," I joked.

Draco frowned and punched me in the shoulder. With a stoic face he said "don't insult her man. She's serious business. I won't hear words against her." His stern face betrayed by his giggles, and the two of us shared laughter. "Speaking of serious business, what are you planning to do? You can actually do some this now, eh?"

"To be honest, I haven't really thought of it. Sort of content where I am now. You know?"

"Don't even joke about that." Draco frowned. "Seriously, what are your plans?"

"I really haven't though about it. I don't know. Doesn't feel right to leave." I said, staring away.

"That's bullshit. There's nothing more right than to leave this fucking place. I'd given anything to escape. The only thing which is stuck here is death."

"I don't want to though. I don't want to abandon you, Draco. This place is nearly unbearable as it is. I can't imagine staying without you. I don't want you to stay without me."

"Please Nott, don't think like that. You'd only be abandoning me if you stayed. If you stay, then you have abandoned your life. Given up your hope. There's nothing worse you could do to me than that. Far worse than leaving me here. Please, promise me you won't. Promise you'll leave here and live. Really live. Not this purgatory we have been stuck in."

"Alright Draco, I promise."

I left for University in Ireland a few months later. Sold the house and left my grandfather in a care home. Only brought a suitcase of clothes and my father's record collection with me. Started a new phase in my life.

Half way through my first year, charges were laid against Draco. First time I had read of his crimes. Draco hanged himself soon afterwards. In that ugly white house. Alone.

I still think of him regularly. Standing out there in the rain. Wearing his full suit. Crying.

...

There was a party I once attended. A fancy sort of affair. At a bar near the south side of London called No Where, rented out by the Ministry. Women wearing slender black cocktail dresses. A live band jamming what sounded like an Oscar Peterson tune. I wore a tailored jacket and no tie. Kept mostly to myself. Drank the complimentary wine. Chatted with a few people who passed by. Sharing a couple words, nothing more. Just tried to enjoy the music and my drink.

Near the end of the evening the crowd had become thin. I'd found a comfortable corner to concern myself in. A colleague from the University passed by and introduced me to his companion. Hermione Granger, someone I knew from my days at Hogwarts. A history which seems so distant now. My colleague passed on, interested in other things. Hermione stayed.

Her hair was long and tied back. She wore a dress to her knees with thin shoulder straps. A white necklace tied tight around her throat. The ensemble was attractive; slender in the cut. I could barely recognize her. Three rings around her right fingers, none on her left. She had aged well. Stood with confidence; held her whiskey glass firm.

"I hear you're a professor at Saint George University now Nott," she said, stirring her glass with her finger.

"Yeah. And please, call me Theo. I prefer if people don't call me Nott," I said.

"Sure, Theo. It's a good school. Best Wizarding University in Britain. Spent four years there getting my undergrad. You study there?"

"No, they wouldn't let me in because of ... I attended Clonfert in Ireland. Nice place. You work in the Ministry?"

"Yeah, as a lawyer. Just started actually. It's been taking some getting used to. Never lived in downtown London before. I was in Geneva the last couple of years."

"What were you doing there?"

"Working on the legal status of wizard refugees in developing nations. Might sound interesting, but it was mostly mindless paperwork. Looking forward to the change here, at least." she said.

"The novelty will wear off soon enough. London's a dreary place." I said.

"I have a nice flat close to the Ministry. Been going on these long walks. Watching the birds off the Thames. Seems lively enough. Haven't got tired of it yet."

She took a sip of her whiskey and continued. "You ever watch Manhattan?"

"The film?"

"Yeah."

"Years ago," I said.

"Woody Allen starts off the narration talking how much he adores the city. But not because it was nice. Loved the grime, the waste, the decay. I'd like to imagine I could like a city like that. Find the wonder in the faults."

She took another sip.

"It's nice to see you Theo. I don't think I've seen you since, you know. All of that stuff. I remember reading the first list of pardons in the paper. I was glad to see your name there. I always hoped you weren't involved. You always seemed better than the others," she said.

"I'd rather not talk about that. Many of them were on the wrong side, but I lost some friends in that mess," I said.

"I heard about Draco. Nasty piece of business."

"That's enough." I pushed past Hermione and walked towards the door.

"Theo stop!" Hermione called, grabbing my arm. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. You think I didn't lose friends too? We all suffered."

"I never said you didn't."

"Look. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. It was stupid. Can we start again?"

The band started another song. A slower jam. Felt like Miles Davis. A real soft horn blowing. Like Blue in Green.

"You like music?" I asked.

"A bit. Yourself?"

"I used to like it really loud, and really full. Like big band stuff. But I haven't been able to stand it for the longest time. Now I like these real smooth songs. The glassy stuff. Get me?"

"I don't know. When it's slow like this, I always think of back then. You know, when things were easier. When things felt simpler."

"That's the beauty of it. It's a lie. A beautiful lie."

Hermione touched my forearm delicately. "Can I have a dance?"

"Sure."

We moved in closer. Arm placed on arm. Alone on the dance floor. Our embrace fragile. The soft horn crying. Playing us away.

...

...

...

Author's Notes: This story is heavily influenced by the work and style of Haruki Murakami.

I hope you liked it.

Please Leave a Review.

Thanks. BJ.