AN: Another rather long one

Overly Talented Screw-Up

Harry lit up a cigarette while he was trying to find the Camden Town tube station from the unknown street he spent the night in. He couldn't be very far off, but Harry was blessed with no sense of direction at all. His mind was still circling around Draco and he didn't pay too close attention to his surroundings.

He had buried the idea of a relationship that night. There was no specific reason why, because his feelings had never changed. There had just never been a right moment again.

And no more right moments were about to come. He blinked a couple of times to get rid of the traitorous teardrops, that were forming in his eyes, but there were to many. They kept rolling down his cheeks, to the tip of his nose and from his chin onto his coat. He couldn't bring himself to bother wipeing them away.

Dragging one foot in front of the other, subconsciously and probably in many circles, he finally reached the station.

Numbly, he sacked down on the first available seat on the Northern line train, with everything else around him tuned out.

He only half paid attention to the stops, so that he wouldn't miss the one he had to get off. Normally he had the number of stops in his head, but today he felt like a tourist, travelling for the very first time.

He didn't recognise any of the stops he was passing, their names only a mere blur of a chain of letters with no point and reason behind.

The only other passenger had left, and Harry was all by himself in the carriage, which was weird, because no one is ever alone in a carriage on the London tube. That just didn't happen and it increased his feeling being totally out of place and space.

His mind drifted back to the time two years ago.

The television screen provided him with the missing puzzle pieces the next morning. It was headline news.

Draco had rolled to his stomach during the night and was still fast asleep. He probably would be for the next couple of hours, considering whatever kind of drugs he took last night. Trying not to wake him up with some unnecessary noise, Harry turned the volume on the television low enough that Draco couldn't hear it, and then sat cross-legged in front of the old fashioned box to watch the news while eating his breakfast cereal.

The news had been their usual on this Thursday morning: International politic affairs, economy still low, Manchester United won last night's football game and Madonna had a new boy toy.

Suddenly there was a picture of Draco filling the screen.

The scene seemed to have taken place in an ice skating ring. A crowded one. But it wasn't ice skating, what most of the people had in mind that moment. Their expressions reached from shock to utter disbelief as they witnessed a high profile football manger spanking a boy, probably half his age, in the middle of the ring, with his belt, both seemingly enjoying the attention.

Harry's eyes jumped from the TV to Draco and then back, trying to un-see what he was seeing.

This was outrageous! Unbelievable. Disgusting! How in the world...

Why would Draco do such a thing?

He wasn't that kind of person! That was very uncharacteristic. Draco was a sweet, down to earth dude. A bit on the crazy side, ...

okay, a bit more on the crazy side...

or maybe very crazy...

very crazy and attention craving...

crazy enough to...

Harry gulped. Loudly. From this point of view, a very naughty encounter with a famous person on an ice skating ring would totally be Draco's thing.

Harry had to shake his head to get the mental picture back out of his head. He hadn't tried to think of this moment for the last twenty three months, but there it was, the moment in history that crushed Harry Potter's heart to pieces.

This was the first day, they had the paparazzi standing in front of their house and the beginning of celebrity parties, covers on the gossip tabloids, and a one-hundred-thousand pound pay check for Draco, courtesy of celebrity Big Brother.

Harry often wondered whether this was a calculated career move, or a spur of the moment thing, but never again was the name Victor Krum mentioned, and Harry never asked.

The underground kept on moving, and Harry dared to look at the next station's name, wondering how many stations he was already past the one he had to get off.

Burnt Oak got announced. He was almost all the way up to Edgware! He wasn't only a few stations down, he also managed to take the wrong train!

Whether it was coincidence or karma, Harry didn't know, but he realised with a shudder that he ended up being quite close to his parent's house. He hadn't seen them in ages.

After their argument about universities, appropriate future careers, and their disappointment at their son working in a warehouse, Harry had slapped the door close behind him, and never went back. His mother tried to call a few times, but Harry was to thick-headed to pick up his phone.

The last time he had seen them was the week after he had met Draco, and he had been his replacement family ever since.

Now that he was gone, maybe it was time to make amendments?

Harry was no religious person per se, but he believed that something - or someone had led him here. In his eyes, there was no other explanation as how a natural born Londoner got lost on the underground. In Camden Town nevertheless!

Harry got off the tube, and switched platform sides. His parents lived in Hendon, which was only two stops down from were he was.

By the time he arrived, his heart started to ponder. They hadn't seen each other for such a long time. What would it be like to meet them again?

Would they be angry?

Were they still disappointed? Harry was still only a lowly warehouse worker. He knew that he wouldn't impress his parents with his interview appointment this afternoon. They denied him to study music in the first place. This was not a career choice in their mind. It was the 'Highway to Hell'.

Harry stopped for a moment.

Perhaps they had already written him out of their lives, mourned for a lost son, and would greet them with the biggest hostility they could muster.

Or, the almost three years they hadn't seen each other gave his parents time to think of what they've done wrong and were eager about a reunion.

He took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.

The way to his parent's house still felt familiar. This three years of abstinence were only a small number against the twenty-six years that he used to live here, walking this route almost every day of his life.

Some houses were painted in a new colour, and unfamiliar cars were parked in front of them.

Old Misses Rosenthal seemed to have completely redone the small yard in front of her house. He saw a group of small children emerging the place and running towards the playground. He spotted the small bikes parked at the side of the building and the colourful curtains on the first floor. Misses Rosenthal didn't seem to live there any longer at all.

For some reasons Harry was saddened by that. He was never close to Misses Rosenthal . Quite the opposite actually. She was the old, dragon-like hag, who constantly told him and Blaise off for playing too loud, talking too rude, and dressing like vagabonds. He didn't like her at all, but she was just a constant part of this side of the world. Her being gone reminded Harry of how much changed over this mere three years, and how certainly unknown the outcome of his visit was.

His fingers were sweaty when he rang the doorbell. A familiar loud and shrill tone screamed from the inside of the house.

The door had changed from a faded red colour to navy blue, but apart from that, nothing seemed to have changed over the years. From the outside, he could see the flowery beige curtains that had decorated the living room window for almost a century.

There was a shuffle inside and small, springy steps moved closer to the door. It wasn't hard to recognise his mothers bouncy walk.

The door opened a few inches with the security lock still hooked in its chain. A dark, curly head, similar to his own came into view when his mother peaked out from behind the door. Harry nervously smiled at his mother, but before he could stutter out a 'hello' the door closed into his face with a loud thud.

Harry gasped.

This was exactly the reaction he had been most afraid most afraid of.

Then he heard the security lock getting removed and the chain clinked with a loud banging noise onto the wooden door. The door was thrown open, and before Harry could register anything else, his mother had eloped him into a huge bear hug and was sobbing on his shoulder.

Awkwardly he patted her back, not really knowing what to say.

"Harry," he heard his mothers voice muffled against his coat. "It's you! It's really you!"

She held him at arm's length to get a proper look at her son. Shaking her head as if she still couldn't believe her eyes. "It's really you," she repeated again in a soft and shaky voice, before she crabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the house.

The soft, light blue carpet in the entrance hall had been replaced by a dark wood, and the flowery blue and white wallpaper changed to creme painted walls, but everything else was still the same. There were the same three black and white photographs of the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, that his dad took on a holiday to the States, decorating the wall next to the stairs towards the upper level of the house. And even the small cherry wood dresser next to the hat stand was exactly the same. The small superman sign, that Harry craved in as a young boy, was still shining brightly against the otherwise smooth surface.

A fresh, flowery smell came from the living room to his right, where his mother kept her orchids.

Harry had to steady himself while he removed his shoes, before he went further into the house, he had no longer control over his shaking and wobbly knees.

His mother stood quietly next to him, tears rolling freely down her face. She threw a small smile at him before she proceeded to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Harry followed short on her heels and sat down on the exact kitchen chair, he used to occupy as a child during their family breakfasts.

His mother put a cup of steaming hot tea in front of him, and then took a seat to his right, holding a cup of her own. She filled almost half of her cup with full fat milk, just the way she had always drunk her tea, then offered the small porcelain pincher to her son.

Harry thanked her quickly and added a few drops of milk to his own tea and started stirring it for a much longer time then necessary.

There was an awkward silence in the room, as both of them didn't really know what to say. Harry was tapping his food to a made up melody and he could faintly hear his mother doing the same. He inherited the trait from her, something that always drew his father mad.

"I'm so sorry" they blurted out at the same time and then hugged again. This time, both of them had tears in their eyes.

Harry didn't want to let his mother go. Not only out of sentimentality, but because he knew that as soon as he withdrew his arms, the awkward silence would be back again.

He kept on pressing her tighter towards him, and mumbled: "I missed you" somewhere into the direction of her forehead.

"I missed you, too," her voice thick with tears as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

Finally his mother let go and went back to her cup of tea. She took another sip, bidding her time, and Harry did the same.

His cup was empty soon, but he kept on putting it to his lips, as if taking sips. He didn't know how to occupy his hands otherwise.

"Are you okay?" His mother's voice was raw. Harry looked at her, surprised. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, pulling at some of his strands of hair. His mother didn't stop him this time. She always used to. "You will be bald years before your own dad," she usually complained, as she put his hands away.

Now, she just looked at him in interest. Like something in a museum that is not allowed to be touched.

"Are you still working at the warehouse?" She asked then.

Harry now brushed both hands through his hair. "Yes," he said in a neutral tone. He felt a chilliness creeping through him. After all, his career, or lack thereof, had been the main reason for the rift.

His mother just nodded. "Is that the reason you came by today? Are you finally considering university? getting a degree in something and getting a proper job?"

Harry's voice grew icy when he replied. "No, I just wanted to see you. this isn't about my career."

"Your career" his mother repeated, a faraway look in her eyes. She must remember the fights and arguments they had, before Harry had packed a suitcase full of his belongings, and left his parents house in the middle of the night, never to come back again.

"Your father and I..." His mother started and looked at him, pleading: "always just wanted what's best for you. I know you didn't feel that way, thick headed and young as you were. But I was always hoping, that when you got older, you would understand were we where coming from, and came back home." Fresh tears rolled down her eyes and her voice was breaking. "And here you are." She gulped. "I always prayed for that day to come"

Harry felt as if he was being ripped apart in the middle. One side of him wanted to comfort his mother, but the other wanted to shout at her. He would always blame them for their wrong decision of not letting him go to Hogwarts!

He tried to be diplomatic, as difficult as it was: "I'm trying to understand your side, but I haven't changed since I'm gone."

Contemplating whether he should tell his mother about the interview he had in the afternoon, just to prove his point that he had it in him to make a career, he decided against it. His mother wouldn't budge any more than he did. If he wanted a fresh start with her, it was best to avoid this topic.

"I don't want to talk about things that will only end in an argument." He said instead.

His mother sighted, but nodded. She stood up to get another cup of tea. "Where have you been living?" She asked.

"Here and there," Harry replied. "I was moving a lot around."

It was the true, but Harry realised how vague his answer sounded.

Too closed off.

An answer you would give to someone you don't want to share a part of your live with. A stranger.

But this was what his mother was to him. She was a stranger. He made the first step to reconcile with her, but there was no way of erasing their gap in five minutes. Both of them had to make an effort now, to make it work again. Both of them had to want it.

Harry just now realised, that this project was much bigger than he had first anticipated.

His mother nodded. "I understand," she said.

He believed her.

Her seat almost fell backwards, when she jumped up, and hurried to one of the kitchen cupboards. She took some potatoes and onions and put them onto the counter. Fishing for a knife, she asked: "Latkes used to be your favourite. Are they still?"

Harry slowly nodded and grabbed a cutting board and knife for himself. There was silence while they prepared the food, but both seemingly grew more comfortable.

His mother was frying the small, pancake like latkes, and Harry set the table, and retrieved a glass of apple sauce from the pantry.

It started to felt a bit like the good old times, like home.

Later, Harry left the house with mixed feelings. It felt good to reconnect with his mother again. Willingness to make amendments on both sides, it would be a long way and Harry doubted that they'll ever be as close as they used to be. Fragile as the new relationship was, only time could tell if it was worth the effort at all. Though he truly hoped it was.

The neatly pressed shirt was decorating his bed, ready to be put on. Harry had just reached the dry cleaners a few moments before their closing time, and picked up what the needed to wear for his upcoming interview.

The rash had disappeared from his face, but he decided against shaving his freshly grown stubble. Just to be on the safe side. He managed to get his thick mane into something that almost resembled a proper hairstyle, which was good enough for him. He just finished polishing his shoes and then was ready to go.

Harry had opted against taking the underground and ordered himself a taxi instead. It was a lot of money for him, but it was worth the effort. His underground experience from the morning was still freaking him out a bit, though he hardly admitted that. He kept on telling himself that he wanted to arrive in style.

Taking his messenger bag, Harry was just about to leave his flat, when he turned around to take his guitar with him as well. Better be prepared.

It was already late in the afternoon, but the streets were less crowded than expected. The cab reached its destination in no time.

He took a proper look around his surroundings and then lit up a cigarette, his decision of not smoking before the interview already overboard. Tourists and Locals where buzzing around him, rushing towards bars and restaurants or taking snapshot after snapshot in the area of Leicester Square. Booths, that sold tickets to various West End shows at half price were plastering the street. The m&m shop was luring the younger generation in with its bright colours, the entrance as crowded as Harry remembered it from the times, when Draco got glassy eyes in front of the store.

This time, Harry paid no mind to the sweet shop. The W Hotel, its tall logo branded into the wall in a neon blue light, took his breath away.

He had never been inside this posh hotel before, but knew from Draco that it was quite trendy, and apparently the home of one or another rock star when they travelled to London. Draco asked him a couple of times to come along to the resident night club, but being the sidekick of some socialite didn't make him guest list material. This was fine by him. Harry never considered himself to be a fancy club person.

With a funny feeling in his stomach, Harry stepped into the lobby of the five star hotel. A member of staff, which he assumed was the concierge greeted him and showed him to the the restaurant, where he would meet Frances Feller. Harry took a deep breath. This was it.

Harry took a seat at a table next to a window, overlooking the busy street below. Miss Feller hadn't arrived yet, and Harry wondered if it would be impolite to order a drink already.

He decided to wait, but put a piece of chewing gum into his mouth to get rid of his cigarette breath. The clock on his mobile phone told him it was four-twenty-nine p.m. Frances Feller would turn up any moment, he reckoned.

The restaurant was very busy and Harry often turned his head to see if someone was approaching his table. This Feller person was already five minutes late. Or was she? They agreed on this time and place, didn't they?

Harry started to question his own sanity.

Waiters buzzed around the tables, serving the many chatty guests, and glanced towards the table in the corner, where Harry was sitting, still not having placed an order yet, and looking exactly like that kind of guy who had just been stood up for a date. Pity was written over their faces.

Apart from the fact, that this wasn't a date, it was exactly how Harry felt. He finally ordered himself a small water and checked his watch again. He was already waiting for twenty minutes. Harry started to nervously tab his fingers and continued to look at the people that entered the restaurant. Nobody was approaching him.

At quarter to six, Harry had enough.

He waved the closest waitress over, and ordered himself a glass of whiskey. On the rocks. Straight. He drank it in one big gulp, than ordered another one.

And another one.

By the time, Harry was thoroughly drunk, somebody pulled at the seat across from him.

"Mr. Potter?" A female voice asked. Harry looked up and recognised the blurry outline of a thin and tall woman with short red hair, a black business suit and large, horn-rimmed glasses.

"That's me," he replied, trying his best to keep the slur out of his voice. He clumsily stood up to shake the woman's hand.

"Frances Feller," she said in an important voice, and sat down.

Harry sat down as well, though the procedure took him a little bit longer as his chair didn't quite oblige.

Miss Feller looked at the empty whiskey glass on the table disapprovingly, but didn't say a word. Harry was glad that the waitress was very quick to clear the table, because the five glasses, that should be lined up next to this one, probably wouldn't go down very well.

Miss Feller pulled a manila folder out of her oversized handbag as well as an expensive looking silver pen, that came in a small black leather case with designer logo. Apparently not being one for small talk, she opened the folder, pulled out a piece of thick looking paper with glossy print that looked too much of a questionnaire as Harry was comfortable with. "Your full name is Harry Potter?" She asked him, ready to write the information down.

"Harry Heronymous Potter" he replied in a very low voice, being utterly embarrassed by his stupid middle name, which was very hard to pronounce in his drunk state. What made it even worse, Miss Feller asked him to spell it out for her.

Fortunately, having gone through this so often in his life, his brain didn't have any trouble remembering the correct spelling. Even in his drunk state.

"Date of birth?" Miss Feller asked next, without looking up from her piece of paper. "31 July 1980," Harry replied, and grew more uncomfortable with ever passing minute. Not only because the alcohol he had consumed fogged his brain, but also because this sterile jolting down details wasn't at all how he had the interview expected.

At the end of her questionnaire, Miss Feller fumbled another document out of her folder. "Mr Potter," she said in her clipped voice: "can you confirm that you are the composer of the song 'kicking cotton balls' as well as the legal owner of all copyrights?"

"Erm... yes?" Harry replied, his voice unsure. He had written the song, the lyrics, it was his performance on the youtube video, so that automatically made him the owner of the song, didn't it?

Harry never really gave a thought about copyrights before and felt a bit lost.

Miss Feller raised her eyebrow at his answer. "Are you, or are you not?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. "I composed the melody, wrote the lyrics, and have the original music sheet in my bag here. That does make me the owner and copywriter, doesn't it?"

Miss Feller noted something on the document, a wicked gleam in her eyes. Finally, a small smile playing around her lips. "Yes, Mr. Potter. That does make you the ... 'owner and copywriter' of the song, though I rather use the actual phrase 'owner of copyrights' on the contract agreement, if you don't mind."

An alarm bell went of in Harry's head. He was just about to sign a contract with one of the biggest music productions in London, in a drunk state! Wouldn't it be important to keep his sharp wit, to make sure that he understood the fine print of what he was agreeing to here?

Perhaps it was an evil scheme of the big bad music company to keep him waiting for this interview until he was thoroughly drunk, so that he would sign about anything? Maybe Miss Feller was even here the entire time, watching him order one whiskey after the other until she decided that he had reached the perfect level of alcohol in his blood?

"I want to show the contract to my lawyer before I sign anything," He blurted.

Harry never had spoken to a lawyer, nor had he any idea where to find a good one. Could he just walk into any solicitors office and ask them to look over the contract for him? He hoped so, as well as he hoped Miss Feller wouldn't catch his bluff.

Miss Feller, who didn't seem fazed by his request nodded slightly. "Of course, Mr. Potter. We're not going over an actual contract at the moment. This meeting is just to establish, that you indeed own the song in question, and wish to publish it. With your signature on the agreement you confirm this information. I will then take the agreement along with your music file to my boss, and we'll decide from there if we want to work with you or not. We will then contact you with our decision, which is when we will present you with an actual contract."

Harry was relieved, though he only understood half of what she was saying. Damn alcohol.

"So you want me to give you my original composition?" Harry clarified: "to show it to your boss?" He was uncomfortable about handing this valued item over. Perhaps the hotel could make a photocopy for him?

He heard Miss Feller really laugh for the first time. "Of course not, Mr. Potter. A copy is fine. Perhaps a copy of the recording as well, if you can. Email that to me, I'll give you my card with my contact details in a moment,"

That sounded reasonable. Harry could do that.

He quickly nodded in agreement, though in his drunken state it looked more like he was bouncing his head to a heavy metal song.

Miss Feller went through a few more questions, and asked him about samples of any other songs that he had written. Harry agreed to add another five or so songs to the email.

Then Miss Feller stood up and shook his hand, but not before handing him a fancy looking card with the Gryffindor logo boldly engraved into the shiny, black background. In small letters it read Miss Feller's name, direct line and email address as well as her mobile number and the company's web address and Facebook page. Harry took it and neatly put it into his wallet, not wanting to crease it.

After Miss Feller left, he slumped back into his seat, feeling completely drained, and in desperate need for another drink.

Harry did no longer remember for how long he sat there, or how many drinks he had. It had been such a surreal day and he still had to digest most of it.

What made it worse, was the three digit number, neatly printed onto the bill the waitress just put on his table. He should have stopped drinking ages ago. But what would happen next? In which direction would his life go when he left the Hotel restaurant?

Harry wasn't ready to fully admit it to himself, but the tiny little voice inside his head knew that he was afraid to find out. He kept on telling himself that the next drink would finally be the last one, but that promise was as empty as the glass in front of him.

This little voice did him one favour, and in a brief moment of consciousness, he gave Hermione's phone number to the waitress and asked her to call his friend for him. That was just before he ordered another drink and an updated bill.

That drink was empty now, and the number on the small piece of paper shouted to stop drinking - and 'fuck it all and have another one' at the same time. Harry wasn't sure which advice he was supposed to follow.

He decided not to care, and ordered yet another drink.

"Potty-poop, Potty-poop, what are you like?" A singsong voice chirped, and interrupted his current state of numbness. Harry lifted his heavy head to find out who was talking to him, but no one was anywhere close. Deciding, that this had only been his imagination, he dropped his head back onto the table, and enjoyed the spinning sensation he was feeling.

Suddenly he heard a high pitched laughter. It was the same voice that talked to him a moment ago, Harry was sure.

"You know, I've always wondered whether you particularly enjoy making a fool out of yourself in public!" The voice now scolded. This time Harry recognised its owner.

"You're one to talk" he said with a heavy tongue. "Public emb.. emb... brasssement... is prrrrractically your middle name!"

When did speaking ever became that difficult, Harry wondered.

The voice complained: "I never embarrassed myself more than I embarrassed everyone else involved!" Then, in a smug tone: "You however, seem to be the comic relief in your own life story!"

The laughter got harsh: "You're an overly talented screw-up Harry. Always have been, and always will. Just try to lift your severely pissed mug for a moment, and open that two little, red eyes of yours. Lovely little Miss Frances, with the Annie Lennox remembrance hairstyle, is two seats down, watching you the entire time, and shaking her head at the major mess up that you are, wondering why she wasted her time to talk to the likes of you and your shitty little sorry-for-yourself song!"

"Why are you doing this to me?" Harry whispered. Disappointment and the sour feeling of rejection rising within him. Angry tears were running down his cheeks, but Harry didn't care or even realise. His stomach was clenching, his heart racing.

Hurt had never felt that painful before. Harry clenched and unclenched his fists. He stood up. Unsteady, and with shaky knees. He had to hold the table to support himself, but he managed to hold himself upright, and starred right into the eyes of the small, blurry person in front of him. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" he shouted again, letting all of his frustrations out.

He started to openly cry now, anger growing in his heart. He wanted to shout, break something, smash it, stomp on it...!

There was a loud crack, like splintered wood...

More laughter.

Harry looked, already dreading what he was going to see.

It couldn't be real! Underneath his foot was Lily, his guitar, looking at him with severe deep injuries.

Harry saw red. He grabbed the empty glass from his table and hailed it directly into the awfully evil grin of his torturer.

It fell right through him and smashed into the wall behind. This must have been an illusion. A trick being played on him. Glasses didn't fly through people.

He must have missed!

He grabbed the next best available item, which was the salt shaker, and went for another hit.

Again, it fell through the intruder and landed on the floor.

"WHAT KIND OF TRICK ARE YOU PLAYING ON ME? WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?" Harry kept on shouting until he felt a strong pair of hands grabbing him from behind. Someone was talking to him in a low and calm voice, trying to move him out of the restaurant, and into a more secluded corner of the hotel.

Somewhere in the background was a constantly louder growing sound of car sirens, and suddenly there was an odd and cold sensation around his wrists. A clicking noise. That was the last thing Harry remembered before he blacked out.