Disobliging Habits Chapter 1: The Celestial City, a harry potter fanfic

Title: Disobliging Habits

Author: aevum245

Rating: MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY for explicit language, ideologically sensitive material, violence, and intense sexual content.

Warning(s): Slash, minor character death, mentions of rape, abuse, and sexual assault.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and various situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. This piece of fiction is used for entertainment purposes only and retains no intentions of soliciting for cash value or profit. I claim no ownership of the created characters nor their affiliated backgrounds and information. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note (PLEASE READ): This story was posted originally 3 years ago under the title "Lack of Color" and was never updated nor completed. I have taken down the original and republished the story under this new title. There have been some edits made to reflect what I imagine is more sophisticated writing. I intend to carry this story to it's completion this time around. I will be updating approximately every two weeks. I hope you enjoy it! I am truly looking to improve my writing (hence my return to this story), so please be sure to leave feedback if you have any.

Chapter One - The Celestial City

Some of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From the evil which never arrived.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The final days of Spring were unquestioningly warmer than normal. The populous of London streets busied themselves with ice cream and the sing-song melody of the endemic mockingbird. Flowers and other vegetation were the only witness to the suppressed wild-life which clung to to the shadows in awe-inspired fear. The lights of the city dazzled and sparked, blinding a deer here or startling a raccoon there. Every once in a while, an unfortunate rabbit would surmise the courage to bound across one of the many vast London streets. In one lamentable moment, the life of the innocent would be whisked away by the heart of human progress. A little boy brandishing wicked blond hair and inquisitive emerald eyes stopped to stare at the fresh carcass of the poor animal, suddenly losing interest in his dessert. A small frown is all he can manage before his mother whisks him away to join the rest of humanity in their monotonous agenda.

The sun was nearing its descent from view and, like clockwork, the bright lights of the city exploded over the horizon. Defying natural law, no man or woman was deterred by the loss of the sun and pranced around the gravel with little remorse for its twelve-hour leave. A corner cafe' explodes with the sound of rock music. A brawl begins just outside a local pub. Children chase each other in a domesticated park. A group of women gossip about the new neighbors quirks and idiosyncrasies. The lights still shine; each a star in a crowded constellation. A slender brunette shuts his curtains to hide from the celestial city.

Harry James Potter turned from the bleak window to his contrastingly dimmed living room. The flat rested comfortably on the third floor of a relatively new housing complex residing near London's busy streets. The noise didn't bother Harry. No, the noise made him happy. The speeding cars and laughing children reminded him that life went on without his presence. But the lights! Those damned lights!

He sullenly sunk into his black and blue laced armchair and breathed through his nose with manual restraint. As any nobody would notice, time did not treat the Wizarding World's "wonder boy" too lightly. Within a mere six years of the Second War's conclusion Harry had contracted numerous frown lines, a few fairly obvious gray hairs, and aged, sagging eyes. The only thing that seemed to stay the same about his visage was his stature. Miraculously, he had managed to keep in decent shape despite little physical exertion. Hermione told him he was lucky to have a metabolism with a black belt. Nonetheless, the lines around his eyes and the early-onset aging process made The Boy Who Lived much more unsightly than one would expect with a title so honored. He fingered his belt loop on his trousers, trying to busy his fidgety fingers.

Nagging agitation and annoyance prodded at the young man's temples. He shook a small orange and white cigarette from his pant pocket carefully and near-silently. An orange lighter with scratch marks grasped tightly in his shaky left hand, Harry struck the wheel. A stationary ball of flame exploded from the tip, superseding the initial spark. The paper caught flame and whispy clouds appeared from the end. Harry grimaced as he took one slow, drawn-out puff of the nicotine roll.

He did not enjoy this 'filthy habit', as he titled it. He scowled at Ron for it and refused to allow anyone see him perform it. The call of the nicotine claimed him when the well of anxiety once again began to fill with fierce sea-water. The waves always brought along with them undesired recollections and memories. "No sailor was ever made strong on a calm sea." 'Screw the sailor. I don't have sea-legs.'His only other consolation was the whiskey which rested comfortably in his kitchen. Once his urges would resurface, Harry would gladly down the harsh liquid and pass out on any surface his flat allowed. Harry glanced around his painfully familiar surroundings to avoid all conflict with reflection. Not that he was one who could easily avoid any type of conflict. Danger was the hunter; he the north. The compass always pointed towards him. Disarm the magnet; confuse the hunter.

'I wonder how the Bermuda Triangle is this time of year?'

The walls were painted a deep red and complimented the low lighting. The kitchen, also low lit, was a dull amber and bled into the darker red of the living room. A few scattered oak tables and chairs surmised the decor and were nothing profound. A tall teak cabinet stood in the back corner near the drawn window. Muggle books lined the shelves, but on the top shelf - where no one could see without standing on a stool of some kind - a small chest contained the last remnants of Harry Potter's Wizarding Life. Remnants is a strong word. They didn't survive; they didn't prevail, either. They just were. Is that too bloody hard to understand?

The keys to the Black and Potter family vaults, the Peverell family Invisibility Cloak, a few Wizarding textbooks, and his eleven inch Holly wand with a phoenix feather core were the only items in his immediate possession. The only other magic related object was his floo-infused fireplace that was only routed to The Burrow and Ron and Hermione's house in Scotland. Harry attempted to avert his eyes from the chest, but he could not tear his attention away from it's alluring aura. He tried to admire the items it contained, yet he only felt malice and rage fill his heart at the thought of their presence.

The television set was on and some arbitrary soap opera filled the otherwise silent abode. The single-touched cigarette burned to ash and Harry stood to dispose of it in the exquisite fireplace. A thump sounded from somewhere and Harry flicked his head to the door in horrified shock. As if someone had flipped a switch - a broken switch, like the kind you see in an 80's horror movie - in his head, Harry rushed to the treacherous wooden door. His shaky hands unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked , unlocked the mechanisms. If the door dare betray him, he was comfortable burning it. Set the fire; burn the witch! Lock ,unlock, lock, unlock.

His breath became raspy and stretched out. Once he was certain the door would not betray him, he ran a trembling hand through his unruly hair. Sea legs...sea legs. Can you buy those online? Tapping his feet he settled back down to watch the television. Fidgeting fingers shuffled through the seemingly endless channels with seemingly endless apathy.

"President Ruthorford announced the United States' Senate's Declaration of War today..."

Harry flinched. Let's avoid contemplation on this bright evening. He quickly and efficiently changed the channel to a harmless episode of a 90's sitcom with a surface-level plot. His eyes once again distracted, and the television was put to little use. Funny how one little word makes its way around the brain. Down the ear canal and straight into the cerebral cortex. Can it affect the hippocampus; make it remember things it doesn't want to? His frontal lobe sure thought so. But the brain anatomy is just so bothersome.

Without warning, the telephone rang

"Hello?"

Yes, this is he.

Not interested.

Thank you, Ma'am, but I'll have to pass.

Have a pleasant evening".

Almost immediately following, the phone rang once more.

"Ma'am, I told you I'm not inter-".

An excited yelp sounded on the receiver and Harry bit his lip in surprise. The line cut off and he was left to stare at the phone in complete bewilderment.

He found him. He actually found him. Draco almost smiled. His labors did bear some fruits, which was a huge relief. Relief wasn't exactly an emotion he was too familiar with the past few years. It was strange to feel. His shoulders felt less heavy, as if an invisible burden had released its grasp- albeit reluctantly. With great care, he placed the strange muggle device back on its metallic pedestal. He still wasn't entirely sure how the black wires and speaker box worked, but, without a doubt in his mind, the voice he had heard belonged to the man he was searching for. Funny how the brain works. Remembering the things you don't want to remember and forgetting the things you do.

But it worked out for the best in the grand scheme of things. 'Right? But who's scheme?' More importantly: What is the grand scheme of things? Is it his life, the life of the Malfoy, or perhaps the life of everyone he now stood around? What did they offer to his destiny? 'You don't even believe in fate, you twit.' Charming fancy to entertain nonetheless.

The ragged blond boy stood awkwardly and out-of-place in a corner telephone booth on one of London's many crowded streets. He tried, and failed, to ignore the judgmental stares of those crowded around him. He felt their eyes like daggers in his back. Breathing heavily and attempting to focus, a worn Draco Malfoy produced an equally worn scrap of paper from his robe pocket. A list of numbers and unfamiliar addresses was scrawled nearly illegibly across the margins. Five address-phone number combinations were scratched out furiously. Draco circled the number he had just dialed and its corresponding address with great joy. His eager and unrested hands shuffled themselves around the paper, creasing it in three places like his father had done so many times with his top secret business letters. He remembered seeing him fold letters with care so many times when he was a young boy, peering in on the patriarch's study.

That recollection stung at the youngest Malfoy as he attempted to keep his mind oriented on the task at hand. He stepped cautiously out of the sauna of a telephone booth into the cool breeze of London evenings. With his head held low, he beelined towards the nearest bus stop. Many dangerous and heavy thoughts loomed over the young man's head, yet he still managed to walk with purpose and stride. Attention from on lookers seemed to radiate towards him. Draco began to feel extremely uncomfortable with the painful stares of muggle common-folk. Sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. 'Lovely. As if you didn't stick out enough.'

Just as he arrived at the nearest street corner, a tall red monstrosity similar to the smaller four-wheeled contraptions the muggles rode in pulled to the curb with a wheeze and a clunk of an engine. A large roar and hiss left the doors as they opened wide to swallow the men and women waiting patiently for their turn. Draco's eyes bulged from his head, and he desperately tried to keep calm. He repeatedly told himself that the mechanism would not cause him harm. This self-assurance did little to calm his quivering stomach which threatened to betray his dignity and release his lunch (or lack thereof) onto the street. As the muggles began to board the monster, Draco joined them from the rear with great trepidation. He delved into his shallow pockets as he ascended the clanking stairs. He pulled out the last of his muggle money and looked for a slot to place the coins. He was glad to be rid of the filthy currency that had been clattering in his pocket, drawing more stares as he walked down the confusing London landscape.

"Hey, buddy, you gonna pay or what?" A disgruntled driver practically growled at the odd blond fidgeting with his fingers. Draco felt his skin crawl and his heart skip a beat. The driver grunted and motioned towards a small basket with coins in it.

"Uhm. Coin...slots?" Draco offered in hopes of finding a more secure location for the last of his muggle money, ensuring his destination would come from this ride alone.

"It's broken. Just use the fucking basket, mate." growled the bus driver.

To avoid all conflict, Draco threw the last of his money into the basket and apologized to the increasingly pissed-off driver. As the bus started, Draco hastened to a seat and sunk towards the window.

His attempts to conceal himself did not go well.

"You're not from around here, are you mister?"

Draco's eyes dilated. His heart rate once again managed to increase as his thoughts raced in his head. Did they find him out already? What was going to happen to him? He couldn't go back! Biting his sore tongue he turned his head to face the source of his interrogator.

A girl about the age of eleven sat swinging her legs on the tall bus seat with a questioning look on her dreadfully cute and round face. Her auburn hair was tied into two pigtails, and she radiated a childish innocence. Draco practically reprimanded himself for being so afraid of as harmless a creature as her. His face turned a little red and he opened his vice-gripped mouth.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice cracking from neglect. The little girl giggled and he frowned back.

She scrunched her nose to answer his question; "You're dressed funny!", she said with bubbling laughter. Her laughter bubbled out of her like the froth at the top of a soda just freshly opened. Draco allowed a 'tuh' sound to pass his lips. He had no choice but to agree with her. Relative to those on the London streets, Draco stuck out like an apple in a stack of oranges. His dress robes had become quite the deterrent to his supposedly discrete plan.

"And," the little girl ventured, "You're looking for something". She smiled at him and sneaked lithely into his the seat next to him. Draco flinched, but he did not take his ever-watchful eyes off of her.

"Looking for something?" he said in a whisper. "How do you figure that?". A small giggle once again sounded from her saintly lips.

"You're lost. I can tell. My daddy says men don't look lost unless they're looking for something!". She swelled with pride and her smile reached her pointy ears. Draco laughed to himself and shook his head. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. the sound was curdled and ran across the skin like a cold cloth. A few seats ahead, a middle-aged woman shivered lightly.

"Your father sounds like a very smart man." Draco told her, exhaling loudly. Look at me, he thought, complimenting bleeding muggles. What have I become? Let's not open up that particularly terrible rebranding of Pandora's box, Draco.

"So...What are you looking for, mister?"

"Nothing".

"Everyone's lookin' for something".

Draco stared at her blankly. This girl was becoming quite irksome.

"An old...friend." he prompted. The blonde nearly choked on the last word. The small girl frowned; It didn't look pleasant on her, Draco concluded.

"Why did you lose him?".

"I'm sorry?".

"If you're looking for him that means you must have lost him". Her face was intent and focused on Draco's. He snorted but her expression did not soften. He suddenly realized, as if it hadn't been obvious, that it wasn't a rhetorical statement. Apparently this conversation was meant to continue. He silently wondered how long it had been since someone had asked a question of him.

"I...well...we didn't always see eye-to-eye all the time." he drawled, though it didn't contain the confidence that it once did. Draco attempted to suppress his laugh but failed miserably. 'Under-exaggeration of the century.' he thought caustically. The girl ignored his laugh and continued with her question reel.

"Oh, okay. Is that why you're so nervous?".

His eyes narrowed at the ever-increasing pain in the arse seated next to him. This girl was too inquisitive for her own good. In quiet disbelief he shook his head as the bus reared on. He soundlessly smoothed his robes trying his best ignore the difficult question. He settled on a vague answer in an attempt to satiate her curiosity, which he seriously doubted would happen.

"Yes. It is one of the reasons I'm a bit nervous." Draco shook the words out like marbles from a bottle. The girl scrunched her little nose again and it quickly became irritating to Draco. She digested his words and her eyes lit up like a full moon. Draco was quite startled.

"OH! I know!" She was bouncing on her tiny pink hands. "My daddy said when he first met mama he was really nervous, too! He said he counted backwards from ten, and when he got back to zero, he was calm and ready to face the world!" Her excitement and energy was a blinding contrast to Draco's downtrodden mood and expression of complete dissatisfaction. He almost drowned in her enthusiasm. There are worse ways to go.

He made an attempt to blink away the initial shock. "Uhm...I'm not sure if that will solve anything." He chose his words carefully.

Not careful enough, however.

A sharp noise akin to that of a squeaky grocery cart erupted from the small character. "B-But, Mister! You have to! You just have to!" She was on the edge of her seat and on the verge of tears. The last thing Draco needed was a blubbering muggle child on his hands. Desperately, he tried to calm the girl.

"Alright," he shouted the words, "I promise!".

He stared at her while she fidgeted with a stray strand of hair. Curiosity overwhelmed him. He made to ask her a question, but the bus reared to a complete halt.

In a hurry he jumped out of the seat. In his haste, he had only one glimpse back at the crowded bus to attempt and get a look at the small brown-haired figure. She was staring out the window now, swinging her legs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

The bus lurched away from view and Draco turned to gaze down the desolate street. Not a face turned to stare at his rugged figure nor his overdressed attire. The night hung gloomily above his head and pressed like a dumb bell on Draco's weak shoulders. No moon shone above to guide his path, but the dim street lights guided his path down the chalked-up sidewalk

He urged his feet forward and gulped at the realization of his current endeavors. For a moment he thought of turning around but pushed forward with great self-persuasion. left foot, right foot, left foot.

Draco saw a dead rabbit in the street and sympathized with it.

His feet began to numb, but he knew it was now or never. We shall see if the Wizarding World's Savior had some saving left in him.

The apartment complex was quiet and near silent. He opened the double doors and gasped sharply when a loud creaking noise burst from the hinges.

The staircase seemed to go on forever. Number 356 played over and over again in his looping mind. Draco's thoughts quickened, but his heart was winning the race. He felt his heart ache to burst from the worn flesh of his chest.

Fear. The emotion gripped him and the walls seemed to close in around him, suffocating and stealing his breath. The stairs shouted at him as he pushed down on them with heavy feet. 'What the hell am I doing here?'

Draco considered turning around once more, but his iron-weighted feet refused to connect with his dark thoughts of retreat. 346,347,348...

The weakened blond figure stood like a gargoyle chipped away from the tower of babel itself, long after it turned to rubble. The wooden door was labeled with gold-painted numbers stuck to the exterior. He read the number 356 over and over again. His knees went weak and cowardice plagued his heart.

Knock once. Knock twice. Knock thrice. Who's door are you actually knocking on? Death? Death's treacherous son? Perhaps nothing at all. No door, no house, nothing. Always nothing.

"Who's there?"

Harry heard the knocks at the door. He didn't appreciate their presence, yet he was made to hear them all the same. They were tantamount to something he'd read once in an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Not that it matters much; Harry hated birds.

'Who doesn't hate birds?'

He muttered a half hearted "Who's there?" while staring down the door as if it was to blame for the intrusion. Harry glanced at the antique clock and frowned. It wasn't mail at this hour and the only people with gaul to visit him would floo in. Besides, he hadn't heard any news of visitors. The idea of ignoring the potential guest was quite appealing; however, his last remnant of courtesy seemed to be bubbling up in the wake of his alcohol consumption. His gut was telling him a decision to open the door would be catastrophic. Harry was almost certain that whatever lied on the other side of his worldly barrier would be the culprit of his almost certain suffering. He rarely gained happiness from the outside world. Doors that are forced opened cannot be closed.

Harry wondered when he had started to revert towards broken logic in order to validate himself.

He felt numb but reluctantly allowed his feet to glide him to the door. He stood there for a moment or two. His alcohol-induced bravery drained away from him. A shivering hand grazed the lock and pulled back as if it was engorged in fire. He bit his lip and clenched his fist at his sides. The uncut nails sank into the flesh but the only emotion he could feel was shame. One slow sorrowful step at a time, Harry backed away from the door and retreated to his armchair. The door stared back at him, unmoving. It's funny, really, the emotions an inanimate object can provoke in any given person. Harry had become rather susceptible to unwanted emotions these past few months.

"Don't look at me like that..." he muttered under his hoarse breath. Tilting his head back, the black-haired boy imbibed the rest of the whiskey, scorching his raw throat as it slid down the path to his empty stomach. Harry fought violently against the urge to get sick all over the coffee table in front of him. His stomach turned something vile, boldly pulsing behind his scarred skin. He was surprised his world-weary flesh was not yet used to the mistreatments he so frequently inflicted onto himself.

The bottle slipped from his hand and he brought his knees to his chest, resting his heavy head on one knee. The bottle rolled noisely across the stained carpet to rest against a pile of congruent bottles. He didn't have the energy to be disgusted in himself. Instead, he allowed, the comfort of darkness to surround him and he slowly faded into the sweetness of a dream-less sleep.