Stage II, Act 2, Scene 7. The Leaky.

A gathering of Auror-types is clogging it up with their swirling scarlet cloaks and tromping muddy boots. It's Friday evening and the end of a long week and friends have gathered. On stage front and centre at a tiny high-top table are Ronald Weasley, Auror Second Class (but in line for a promotion shortly), and Harry Potter, Auror Adjunct, Special Class (permanently 'promoted', alas, alack). Harry's gaudy Order of Merlin is pinned to his uniform. His fingers play with the wide ribbon nervously; every now and again he casts a scornful look of extreme disgust upon the hapless bit of metal and cloth dangling from his pristinely pressed vermillion chest. Whenever Ron, his best mate, notices it, he quickly changes the subject to something lighter; it's clear these two have been chatting and quaffing for a fair hour already. Ron's uniform, in contrast to his friend's, is decidedly more used and abused in appearance. He has his fair share of the copious half-dried mud the other Aurors shed on Tom's floor like heedless beagles, fresh from the hunt. Clearly, Weasley is a man who's been toiling hard all the day long and is pleased with it: he's scuffed about the boots and his shirt's smudged black-and-oily, as is one high-cut freckled cheekbone. His hair—oddly similar to Harry's natural do—is ruffled every which way from hands swept through it and wind shear endured, and he's weary, but also in a very excellently good mood. Harry, on the opposing hand, is obviously broody. No, Harry may be outright pouting, with a side dollop of glum 'sullen'.

He requires, or so the hesitant expression on Weasley's face proclaims to any who might approach, a touch of special handling. Accordingly, their other mates in the corps stay well clear. One is not an Auror in the new era and insensitive; the Minister insists.

As the residual spots dim and glow into an air of ambience, the audience's attention is drawn to these two figures:

"So anyway, Harry, what's that prat Malfoy been teaching you?" Weasley is light and airy about it, and crunching at a shelled bar nut. He licks his lips, after. "You never said."

"Hmm? Oh—elocution, mainly." Harry shrugs and flicks at scattered shells with an errant fingertip. "Draco says I've the diction but not the projection."

"Does he now?" Ron sips his pint. "Well, he should know, yeah? Hermione told me the Malfoys are 'highly cultural.' Like that's a good thing." He mimics his beloved's tones exactly; Harry stifles a laugh. "Being all 'cultural'. 'Course we're cultural—we all live face down in it, don't we? S'everbody's cultural. Stands to reason."

"Um, well...Very la-di-da, yes, maybe a little more so than you or me, mate," Harry agrees dubiously. "He is, can't deny it. But not too, too awful."

"Really?"

"Yes, he's...well, whatever." Harry humps a shoulder. "He's him. Yeah, so, it's mainly lessons on how to make my voice carry out beyond the footlights without using too much obvious Sonorus. Says one loses the dramatic inflection if you rely on incantations too heavily—and also my carriage. My posture's poor, he says." Harry snorts. "Tells me I need stretching, actually. The prat."

"Carriage? Like, er, Thestrals, um...attached to?" Ron's puzzled, and one ginger eyebrow states it. "Funny thing to say to you, that."

"Um, no," Harry shakes his head. "Carriage: it's more like how I present? My stance, as in where I stick my feet and hands and what I do with them, after. Um, gestures and so on—'business', he calls it. The action that's supposed to make me look like who it is I'm playing. But then, keeping the old spine straight and not slouching unless I ought because my character slouches, and even then…oh! Like that." Harry jerks his pint glass, frowning when Ron makes a puzzled face at him. "Look, don't worry about it. It's a bit odd but it makes sense, how Draco puts it. Gotta look good when I'm up there, clowning about."

"Right, right," Ron grins, chuckling. "Whatever you say, mate. Oi, but Harry. Something tells me you're not taking this play business all that seriously. Hermione won't be pleased with you. She's very keen on it."

"Hmph!" Harry scowls at his beer's placid surface, blowing on it with pursed lips and short bursts of breath to scare up some foam. "Well, how can I?" he demands, throwing a careless hand out to indicate the other Aurors. "It's not my job, is it? My real one. I mean, look at them, Ron! They're all happily going about doing what we were all trained to be doing and I'm stuck away in the bowels of the Ministry, rotting my arse off and making appearances. Kingsley won't let me lift a bloody finger, much less my wand! And then when I drop by the Manor to do my bit there, it's all 'Harry, extend your arm just here when you monologue' or 'Potter, do enunciate that word in particular' or 'oh, hey, Harry, mind giving me a hand with this bit or that bit of scenery, toting it about?'"

Weasley giggles. "Really?"

"Really!" Harry snaps his teeth. "And 'Oh, but don't strain yourself, ducks!' when the girls catch me—and they always seem to catch me! Like I'm a glorified dogsbody, you know? It's as though the only real thing I've left to actually do is this bloody play-acting and then that's not real at all, is it? Not meant to be, even. It's a drag, Ron. Seriously a drag."

Weasley settles into his seat, contemplating his pal's unhappy expression.

"What's the drag part, though? I mean, I know the Ministry's got your goat a bit and has for ages, and then Shacklebolt's not helping at all, but I thought you liked all this acting gig?" Ron lounges, but intently, eyeing Harry very carefully. "You seemed all right with it, back when the girls brought you in. Hermione said."

"Heh, Hermione is it?" Harry shrugs his discontent, with a moue of upper lip that screams of ennui, unrelenting. "Oh, it's not that I don't. It's a bit fun and Draco's been pretty brilliant; I do like all the stuff I've been learning, you know, but. It's just…it's just. Huh."

"Yeah, mate?"

"I'm sort of torn, you know? This—here?" He gestures again to the Aurors, humming with laughter and office gossip. "Has fuck-all to do with that. It's too...too separate, the two of them. Too far apart. Poles distant, even. It's, er, confusing."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what's wanted of me, Ron, not this time. It's as if I'm supposed to be two totally different people, two Harry Potters. I'm always arse over tea kettle any more. Gives me the headache."

"Huh." Ron twitches his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced. "I'd've thought you'd be accustomed to it. Isn't it just the same as Hogwarts all over again, really? Think it over. Here's you, running around to classes, taking exams and revising, being your basic scrubby schoolboy and then all the while it's like you're some super-special avenger for justice, too. One of those Muggle comics heros; there's even a bloody prophecy! But no one realizes it, not till it's almost too late, and they treat you like shite on a biscuit all that time and you've only your best mates to support you, right? Like that Bat fellow, what's it...er, Robert? Bruce? Robert Bruce?"

"Hmm." Harry twitches and the sour twist to his lips inches upwards, just slightly. He seems intrigued. "Oh...kay. Go on, yeah?"

"So you have to act like a regular student—pretend, yeah?" Weasley sketches the whole action of his scenario in the air, flapping his arms and waving an imaginary cloak as Harry watches, bemused. "Like that, right? All that time, all those years, You should be used to it, I'd reckon. Nothing new there being undercover, Harry."

"But I'm not—that's the thing." Harry slews his chin about, propping it on a fist and takes a meditative sip. "I'm really not, Ron. I mean, yes—it was a sort of act, back then, 'specially as we went on. Eventually. I acted a lot at Hogwarts, I mean, after I sorted it I had to, if I wanted to survive...if I wanted any of us to make it through. Kind of was forced, you know? If I wanted to fit in and all, too. Remember how everyone hated me, that one year? Thought I was gone begging for the attention, hah! Bloody Draco! But no, no. I didn't do it for the joy of it, any of it. I did it because I was forced, you know that, right? And here Draco wants me to enjoy all of it, this thing on stage—to love it. As if I'm real up there, in the lights. He thinks it'll make me feel better, he says, to throw it back in their faces, make them see. Like it's a subsitute, playing pantos and aping mad old kings." Harry scoffs at the idea, and drinks deep suddenly, tilting his head all the way back as he polishes off his pint. "Me? Panacea, Ron. That's it. It's a stop-gap, something Looney and the rest of them dreamt up to keep me sane. But not...not something I can sink my teeth into. Not like what I wanted."

"And? So? You don't think you can? That it?" Ron's face has taken on that one particular Look while Harry's talking: the classic 'I'm worried over Harry' look he'd worn so often in the later years of their schooling —and Harry grimaces fondly at him and then grins, ruefully. He wipes the scant foam from his nose. "You're not scared, Harry...are you? The acting itself? Is it—"

"A bit, yeah. It's more...It's more I don't think I want to, see?" he murmurs. "What I can really do, if I do. Or actually, I want to do one thing or t'other, but not both. I'm sick as shit of being split right down the middle, eh? Get that, mate—what I'm saying? It's driving me round the twist, this. I want to Auror or I want to act. But not both. Not. Both."

"Mmm," Ron shrugs his understanding and knocks back the remainder of brown liquid in his glass to be companionable. "Well." He twitches his wand out of its holster and waves the tip at the table, where another brace of pints sparkle into cold, crisp existence. Tom, from his station at the bar, looks up instantly and peers at them, before nodding. A parchment tab appears briefly in the air above his head, an illusionary quill jotting upon it. "I dunno, but. Want another? Oh, ah! Too late, mate; 'course you do. Night's young and I've already got you covered. You ask me, you need it, so drink up."

"Oh. Hmm, sure, why not?" Harry sighs, reaching out to heft one of the mugs. "It's not like I'm doing much, after. May as well. Thanks, Ron."

He sighs heavily, and a bit theatrically, and slumps into his drink, which only serves to intensify his best mate's verging-on-quite anxious expression.

"Come to supper, then," Ron suggests hurriedly. "Come home to ours. We can stretch it, I'm sure—and Hermione will happy to see you. Do you good, Harry."

"Mmm, no," Harry slumps dispiritedly, his chin nearly dunked into his pint. "No, sorry, mate, but I can't. If I wanted to eat out I could Floo over to Draco's. He Owled me earlier…but I think I'd rather just go home. Yeah..."

"Yeah? But home's pretty awful, Harry—still," Ron makes a face of distaste. "S'not...home, what? Not like ours, or Mum's and Dad's. I mean, I know you've done what you can and Mum's been 'round and all to tidy, but it's still pretty bloody grim, your rotten oold Grimmauld. Lives up to its name, that house."

"Yes!" A dark chuckle greets that and Harry toasts Weasley in acknowledgement. "Fair point. But it's mine, Ron. My house—my home." Harry sends him a rueful glance. "I mean, I can go there when I want to get away from it all. At least there's that."

"Your man-cave, you mean," Ron chortles suddenly, obviously struck by something that amuses him. "Hermione told me about those; says we need to have a garage for me added on, for the weekends. Don't know about that, so much, not a fiddly type, me, but don't think I don't know about your recent additions to the old Library, Harry! And all those videos you've bought! And that telly! That's one helluva load of porn you've carted in to watch on it, too. Dear old Auntie Walburga would have fucking fits if she knew what you've been getting up to, you wanker."

"Ron!" Harry laughs in return—first real one of the evening, or possibly all day. "It's only porn. Everyone needs a little porn, yeah? Especially me, as I'm still a singleton—got no one to hide it from, what? What's it matter, what I get off to?"

"Still and all, mate," Ron grumbles, wagging ginger brows at his friend. "You know you'd catch hell if Hermione raids your shelves any time soon. She does like to pop by and check up on you. Better watch out!"

"Oh, she won't, least I don't bet on it. Too busy with the play and the Troupe. And her work and the baby."

"Ain't that the truth," Weasley sighs. "Bother, it is. She needs to take a damper sometimes, my girl. Too much, you know? I can't keep up."

"S'truth."

"Still, she'll not like you only watching a steady diet of wank-off material, Harry. You'll be wanting a little culture in with that. Likely your Malfoy be pleased with you, too."

Harry snorts, flapping a hand. "Hah! You know, sometimes you're so fucking Muggle, mate. Constipated in the head, just like them. What's Hermione been exposing you to recently, anyway?"

"Oh, ah—East Enders," Ron replies very seriously, nodding. "And um, Upstairs Downstairs. And Fawlty Towers. That Doctor Who show, too."

Harry nods. "Well, they're none of them too, too awful. Could be worse, I guess."

Ron's face splits into a wide white grin. "Yeah, well, she's all about the culture. But I like Benny Hill the best, actually. That shit's actually hilarious, though I never to quite catch all the really funny bits. You know? Your Muggles speak a different damned language."

"No, they don't, arse!"

Harry laughs again, almost against his will. He sticks a hand to his forehead, rubbing it. A tension headache is blooming beneath the scarred skin and he's tiring quickly, shoulders drooping below their ornate epulets.

"You and Dudders, both, Ron—fucking soul mates. Well, not the Upstairs, Downstairs bit, so much. Dud's a fan of MasterChef, poor sod. But, that's new, at least for you, all that hoity-toity upper crust rubbish. Must be Hermione's influence, that. Can't see you getting into it, really. Too plebeian. Like Dudders is. Can just see you, gagging your arse off laughing over Benny."

"Prick!" Ron protests, bridling, but in fun. "Benny's a blast and you know it...if you ever took your hand off your dick, mate. Besides." He cracks a grin. "So not nice of you, comparing me to that fat git. Bite your tongue!"

"Heh." Harry bangs his hand on the table for emphasis. "It's not like you don't deserve it, sometimes, come over all domestic on me. Likely you two blokes would rub along like houses afire…if you got to know one another, that is. Besides, he's not so bad now Uncle Vernon's passed on. Almost human, now and again. For a bigoted sot, he's bloody progressive anymore. Says he doesn't mind Wizards and could I teach him some? What a laugh! As if!"

"Mmm." Ron nods gently, filling his mouth with beer. "Yes...well." There's no pursuing the subject of Dudley, not with his mate, even if his mate is the one who mentions it. He knows not to speak of Harry's family even if Harry himself does; it's not on. It only upsets his friend and Ron can see he's a bit on the very thin edge, tonight.

Harry grunts. Drinks and falls into a tiny silence.

"Er, Harry?" There's a little pause before Ron fills it, tentatively jogging Harry with a friendly elbow to the ribs. Maybe a bit of distraction might serve; he can always hope so. And Malfoy's always good for a rise from Harry. Ron squares his shoulders subtly and opens it up: "So, erm…how is it really, spending all that quality time with old Malfoy? Is he treating you alright? Not too hoity-toity, I hope?"

"No…" Harry half-grunts, half-sighs. "He's not bad, really. Nice to look at, too."

"Oh!" Ron shrugs casually. As if this were nothing...which it might very well be. "Yeah."

"And he's been really civil to me—almost friendly. No..more than friendly. It's weird."

"Yeah?"

"But don't get me wrong—I mean, I'm appreciative. He's done a lot for the rest of us, letting us use the Manor and keeping his dad out of the way and all. And he knows so much, Ron. So much history, so much trivia. All that shit I missed, growing up Muggle. It's like Binns but without the insane amount of boredom added in, right? I mean, I learn things, you know? Stuff I never had a chance to learn before."

"Mmm," Ron nods again, watching carefully. "That's, um." The incipient lines have smoothed away from Harry's brow; he's much more at ease. "Good, yeah. Good on him, right?"

Harry's fast to nod and smile. "And he's not tried on anything with me. We're not fighting like we were. In fact—in fact." Harry comes to a full stop, his lips pursed. "It's..."

"Mate?"

"It's almost as if he's attracted, actually—to me…which is, well," Harry sucks in a startled breath. "Um, I hadn't really thought, but yeah—yeah, it's exactly like that. Like he's been trying to pull me. Like he wants to."

"Oh?" Ron's eyebrows have all but disappeared. "Hey." But his voice is only mildly curious. Harry seldom speaks of his own romantic prospects, mainly because the shy little git doesn't believe he has any. He's dated, certainly, and Harry's no virgin, but no one's seen much past poor Harry's celebrity name. And the ones who do are all too familiar; old hat and generally old mates, too. Ron and Hermione don't like it, but...well, what can they really do? And Gin's not been in the picture for ages now, 'cept as a mate. "Hmm, go on, then. What's he done?"

"Er?" Harry blushes suddenly; he ducks his chin into his glass again. "Erm, it's more like what I did—but then, he kept it going. Till the end."

"Kept what going, mate?" Ron coaxes, and carefully. Hermione's going to be intensely pleased to learn of this, he knows. And he's spent some time with Malfoy himself lately, mainly because of his wife's hobby. Bloke's not so bad, not any more, even if he's a Malfoy. Dragon's will do that to a man, give him a real sense of perspective; Charlie can attest. His father's another story of course, but that's not important now. What's on is old Harry. "What?"

"Brought each off, just the other day," Harry confesses, mumbling, the flush subsiding. "Yeah, sorry." He says when Ron's eyebrows climb abruptly. He shakes his shaggy head slightly. "I mean, it was nothing much, just some mutual relief, but, hey. I, uh, thought it was pretty hot. I mean...it was good. He is, at least—oh, I guess you should kill me for saying that, yeah?"

Harry blushes, and his face matches his uniform, completely. But Weasley's not a chess player for nothing.

"Why would I, Harry? He's alright, enough." Ron's very carefully choosing his words and his tone now. "Handsome and all. Rich, like." He wants to do nothing that would startle his mate into retreating. Harry's got enough going on without him thinking erroneously that his two best friends don't approve of his fuck buddies. Which apparently Malfoy is, now—and that was logical, really. Very probable, even. Ron spares a quick second to calculating. Wondering just how deep to dig. "So, er…you seeing him, outside of Troupe?"

"Um," Harry's restless. "Seeing him? You mean, um, dating? I hadn't really thought—I mean, it's a little difficult. Don't think Lucius would approve, do you? Of me."

"Come on, Harry," Ron flips his fingers, snapping them at the very idea of Lucius Malfoy. Bogeyman he might be, but really more of a nuisance factor, these days. "Your Malfoy's a grown man now. Can do whatever—with whomever. You should…ah." He pauses, not wanting to delve too deep, because that would be as bad as brushing it off. Harry can handle his own affairs—he always had, when it came down to it. "You should." He'd not appreciate Ron's well-meaning interference. "Um, maybe bring him along to the Burrow on a Sunday? Mum'll like that. Could do this one, even. Loads of room, with Bill and Charlie gone off."

"Hmmm, you think?" Harry taps his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. He blinks, long and slow, staring off into nothing much in particular. "I mean, I could—if he'd consent to come."

"What?" Ron lifts his hands in silent appeal. "Hermione and Ginny have them all talking again. Feud's over, Harry. Really. So, um, carry him along to supper, yeah? Mum likes 'em handsome, you know. She'll be fine with it."

"Er…well," Harry deliberates. "S'pose I could ask him."

"Can only say no," Ron shrugs. "Where's the harm?"

"Hmmm." Harry's not committing one way or another but Ron knows that gleam in those green eyes of Harry's. He's been challenged, in a low-level way, and Harry never backs down from a challenge. "We'll see. If I think about it when I see him next, I might ask him. Maybe."

Ron's careful to hide the giveaway twitch of his lips. He's not the only downy one at this table and Harry's a lot more perceptive than he comes across. Wouldn't do to show that he was actually pleased.

Oh, and he'd better warn Hermione to cool it, too. Last thing Harry needed in his fragile new wanking relationship with the blond berk was a well-meaning female, bent on tidying everyone up.

"Hey, whatever," he passes it off with shrug. "One more before we take off, then? I could stand it—it's been a day, yeah?"

"Mine, I think." Harry smiles. He's been handed a tonic, whether he knows it or not. Nothing like thinking someone likes you—especially a fit git like Malfoy, Ron smirks inwardly, to do your flagging ego a world of good.

"Sure, but just one," Harry replies, glancing over to Tom, hovering at the bar. "There we go." Tom nods and there are two more pints before them, nice and icy cold. "Gotta eat still...and I think I'll pass on the invite to yours, Ron. Fancying Thai tonight, yeah? Carry away for me. And Hermione's cooking, isnt she?"

"Ta, Harry." Ron nods hastily. "Oh, yeah," he says, looking terribly interested in the idea of Thai carry away—until his face falls abruptly. "No, shit. We've bangers and mash again. Instant, I think. Oh, joy."

He earns a pat for that, right on the back. Hermione may be brilliant at Potions but she is no gourmet cook and Ron's learnt that over the course of his six-month marriage. Fortunately, it seems he's inherited his Mum's cooking genes, which is all well and good, but tonight it's his wife's turn—and that means instant everything.

Oh, well. Can't win 'em all. Only join 'em, sometimes.

"S'all right," Harry pats him again. "Can't be worse than frozen Muggle pizza, can it? It'll do, Ron—it'll do. Belt up."