A/n: Each position has a prompt inspired by a piece of gothic literature beside it. Main prompt for BEATER 2: The Turn of the Screw by Henry James: Write about someone two-faced.
Optional Prompts: (quote) "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other." - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; (theme) isolation; (quote) "I am in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things which I dare not confess to my own soul." - Bram Stoker, Dracula
Word count: 2877
Since the War
After the war and since the war were common phrases people seemed to use to denote the passage of time and the sequence of change. You couldn't have a single conversation without someone saying, "But after the war," or "Since the war…"
Harry found it beyond aggravating.
Those two phrases infuriated him so much that he had recently resorted to storming out in a fit of rage if anyone so much as began to utter them.
His friends thought he was off his rocker. Perhaps he was. After all, if anyone had the right to have moments of anger, it was him.
Those were his exact words to Ron and Hermione before he snapped on his satchel and Disapparated from their quaint London flat to an isolated refugee camp.
"I need time," he'd told them. "Time for what?" they'd asked. "Time to be angry," he'd responded.
They hadn't understood. He could still see their partly bemused and partly concerned expressions from when he left. They hadn't understood, but they had respected his wishes and left him to his own devices. It was no small feat, especially with Hermione in the equation.
The years after the war—there it was, that bloody phrase again—had been hard for everyone. He wouldn't say he'd been worse off than anybody else, but at some point, his mental well-being had taken a turn for the worse.
There wasn't any particular defining moment that Harry could think of. Hermione thought it was a culmination of little things over the years that had finally driven him crazy (his words, not hers). Ron thought he just hadn't got it all out of his system yet. Harry thought Ron's reasoning made more sense.
"Why a refugee camp?" his bunkmate had asked him a few nights in. He hadn't had an answer.
Maybe he'd seen a flier somewhere; maybe he'd heard Hermione mention it during one of her many activism rants; or maybe it was his subconscious mind thinking if he could fit in there, he may feel he belonged (Hermione sent that in a letter, and Harry'd rolled his eyes).
Nevertheless, helping people far more devastated by the war than him made him feel slightly less guilty about accepting the accolades bestowed upon him.
Harry sighed again as a petite blonde witch with elf-like features ducked into the tent. She said, "We've got a new volunteer, and Hansel wants you to show him the ropes."
"Me?" Harry asked, confused. "I've only been here a few weeks…"
The witch undid her long braid. "You're the Harry Potter, so you're automatically pushed up the ladder."
Anger boiled in the pit of Harry's stomach. He grabbed his jacket and stormed out. He hadn't left his life of being paraded around like a trophy just to spend more time being treated like he was special. That defeated the entire purpose of his isolation.
The moment he entered the director's tent, he intended to go on a long-winded rant. Then, his eyes fell on the lone wizard standing in the middle of the tent. Harry stumbled to a halt.
The wizard turned around, his platinum-blond hair shining in the lamplight like the tip of a snowy mountain at noon. Confusion flashed in his eyes, then panic. Hansel stepped forward before either man could speak.
"Potter, I'd like you to meet John," the director said, gesturing to the man who was clearly none other than Draco Malfoy.
"You have anger-management issues," Eowyn informed Harry as she slid into the spot beside him at the lunch table. When Harry ignored her, the witch reached over to nab Harry's last sausage.
"Oi!" Harry exclaimed, but it was too late—the sausage disappeared down her throat with shocking speed.
In another time, Harry would've made an inappropriate joke about her apparent lack of a gag reflex, and they would've had a hearty laugh over it, knowing Eowyn's immature sense of humour. But right now, Harry was playing the role of the grumpy, closed-off newcomer who was nobody's friend. He had a reputation to uphold. So, he stood up and left.
He was focusing so hard on calming his anger that he hadn't heard the witch follow after him until she bumped his elbow.
"Here." She held out half a bar of chocolate. Harry's first instinct was to reject it, but his stomach rumbled, so he took it with a grunt. "I know what you're doing," she began. "You think if you put on this act of an angry, damaged man people will leave you alone."
"Yet you're still here," Harry remarked.
Eowyn laughed. "Yes, I am." She looked up at him with her big blue eyes. "What does that say about me, eh?"
"That you're an obnoxious busybody who can't take a hint?"
"Correct. And that I don't care about who you are or why you're here as long as you do your job."
Harry snorted. Usually, he would've said something snide in response, but the chocolate was making him feel oddly calm and tingly. It reminded him of the chocolate Remus used to eat.
"So," Eowyn continued in her over friendly manner, "why do you hate the new fellow?"
"Because there's nothing to like," Harry responded.
They rounded a corner and came to a small clearing that had been set up to be a communal space where people could relax and meet for meals. At the far end was the topic of their conversation, doubled over as he helped a young girl pry a lid off some sort of container. She thanked him before running off to her friends and turning to point towards Malfoy. They called out thanks.
Harry glanced at the blond, unsure what to expect but in no shape or form anticipating to see the gentle smile on his face. He waved a hand, his expression so kind that Harry gaped. Then, as though noticing Harry's gaze, Malfoy spotted Harry, and almost instantly, his disposition changed from an amicable one to a closed-off one.
He frowned, stuck his hands in his pockets, and stalked off. Harry watched him go with a frown.
Eowyn looked at Harry strangely. "You alright there?"
Harry shook his head. "I think the new fellow's gonna be more trouble than he's worth."
Harry felt like his fifteen-year-old self again, skulking around corners as he spied on Draco Malfoy, curious at all times of the blond's whereabouts and activities.
"It's my job to keep an eye on him," Harry told Eowyn with a huff when she called him a stalker.
"That explains the stalker equipment," she said.
He flipped her off and stormed away.
Despite Eowyn's teasing, like his fifteen-year-old self, Harry had discovered some interesting things about Malfoy.
Firstly, it seemed this wasn't Malfoy's first rodeo—Harry had read the odd news article about the blond's charity work, but he hadn't thought the man personally volunteered, which made Harry question Malfoy's intentions. Secondly, Malfoy's ridiculous alias.
John.
It was so blatantly ordinary that Harry couldn't believe anybody would buy it. He even wore matching loose-fitting khaki clothes, as though choosing a commonplace name wasn't bad enough. He stuck out like a sore thumb to Harry, but to everyone else… well, his ruse seemed to have paid off. They bought his act of a kindred spirit there to serve the less fortunate from the goodness of his heart. But Harry knew better.
Harry could swear he could see past the sweet smile to the disgust and revulsion suppressed beneath the surface. He knew Malfoy. And he was convinced that the man was double-dealing.
Or so he really wanted to believe. But the cynical part of him criticised him for repeating the faults of his fifteen-year-old self. After all, there seemed to be a genuineness about Malfoy that Harry couldn't write off as two-faced behaviour. But… it wasn't possible. How could someone like Malfoy change so drastically?
How could he, when Harry was struggling to?
No. Harry was right. And he would prove it.
"I'm telling you, it's all an act," Harry sai, as he queued for lunch with Eowyn.
"Lay off it, mate," Eowyn admonished. "He's been a perfect gentleman, and the kiddos love him."
Harry huffed and turned away. He focused on counting every disappearing custard cup with growing trepidation. The custard cups were only served once a week, and they were both the thing that made everyone the happiest and also what could lead to mutiny.
How they were so delicious or why just one single bite filled you with unbridled joy was something nobody knew. If Malfoy didn't take precedence, Harry would've busied himself in investigating the mystery of the custard cup.
A flash of platinum-blond hair distracted Harry, and an onslaught of rage flooded through him as Malfoy daintily picked up one of the little cups and sauntered off. If Harry couldn't have his weekly fix because of that ferret, Godric knew what he would do…
As though the universe feared he would make good on his threat, Harry bagged the very last custard cup. He reached out for it, fingers tingling, glasses fogging over from how heavily he was breathing. But, to his utter dismay, it was snatched from right under his fingers.
Harry spun around, ready to hex whichever bastard had done him dirty, when he saw a little boy standing in a corner with two younger kids, their eyes shining as he peeled open the cup.
Harry deflated like a balloon, the anger flooding out of him in a resigned sigh. The people queued behind him began to grumble, so he scuttled off, a heaviness in his chest that didn't match the pettiness of what had occurred. It's just a custard cup, he told himself. Yet why did he feel like his hopes and dreams had been stolen away?
He was so out of it that he sat down beside Eowyn. She patted him on the back and cooed at him for his loss, irritating him further. He had just snapped at her to shut up, much to the wariness of the others at the table, and turned around to finish his morose meal in silence, when he saw it.
A custard cup.
Sitting perfectly in the little circular divot that was made for it.
Harry was baffled. He rubbed his eyes, certain he was hallucinating. For a moment, he entertained the possibility that he'd wanted it so bad he'd manifested it into being. Then he shook his head, knowing he was being foolish. He looked around the crowded hall, wondering if someone had slipped him a cup when he wasn't looking.
Then, he spotted a bob of bright blond hair disappearing out the door.
He sat rooted to the spot, utterly befuddled. Malfoy had given Harry his cup? Surely not. He must've forgotten it, Harry thought. Yes, he must've set it down for some reason and forgotten it.
Ignoring the fact that the cup had been placed in Harry's tray, not just near it, Harry grabbed it and rushed after the blond. Malfoy, being kind? Preposterous. He was unwilling to believe it.
It would've taken Harry an impossible amount of time to locate the blond had he not been snooping on him for the past few weeks. He went to the cubby hole Malfoy frequented with some of the children, and lo and behold, there he was, squatting down beside a very disappointed little girl.
Malfoy was holding out two fruit cups and trying to convince her to take them, but she was pouting, shaking her head vehemently. Harry caugh words like custard and you promised.
As he watched, Malfoy began to poke the girl gently, threatening not to stop until she took the cups. Finally, she squealed with laughter and conceded. They sat together, feet dangled over the side of the parapet as they ate their fruit cups, Harry watching them from some distance away like the creep he was.
Harry turned away, leaning against the pillar he was hiding behind, heart racing. Malfoy had, for some baffling reason, given up the custard cup he'd promised the little girl for Harry. Why?
Harry peeked around the pillar and saw the girl reenacting something, and Malfoy laughing at her silliness. Harry watched the dimple that formed in his left cheek and the way his eyes glittered. He was leaning back on his elbows, relaxed and carefree, and Harry wondered for a second time if he was hallucinating.
After watching the duo for so long that his brain felt like it would burst, Harry shuffled off, custard cup now crushed in his fist and dripping down his fingers.
Was Malfoy's deceit so complete that even Harry was buying into it?
When he'd insisted to Eowyn that Malfoy had everyone completely fooled, she'd rolled her eyes and reminded him that he was the one putting on on act. So, Harry'd made up his mind. Come next week, he was the very first in line for lunch and the very first to grab a custard cup.
Instead of sitting in his usual corner and revelling in the fleeting moment of happiness, he stomped down to the far corner of the camp, where he knew he'd find Malfoy. He wondered what he would do if the little girl was there and was grateful to find the blond sitting by himself, a brooding look on his face—one more familiar to Harry.
Harry strode up to him and stuck his hand out, custard cup sitting pretty in the centre of his palm. Malfoy looked at the cup, then at Harry, wide-eyed and confused. When the blond continued to stare at Harry stupidly, the latter placed the cup beside Malfoy and began to walk away.
"Wait!"
Harry paused despite himself. Malfoy was eyeing the cup suspiciously. "What's this?"
"Repayment for your little stunt last week," Harry said, feeling fifteen and foolish all over again.
Malfoy eyed the cup for a long moment, then sighed. When he looked up at Harry, he had a tired smile on his face. Harry shuffled his feet, suddenly awkward.
"I'm John," Malfoy said. "I don't believe I really had a chance to introduce myself after you stormed out of Director Hansel's tent."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Drop the act. It's just you and me here."
Malfoy had the gall to look confused. "What act?"
"Do you really need me to spell it out for you?" Harry demanded, crossing his arms and frowning.
Malfoy watched him with a measured expression, then nodded. "Fine," he said, sounding resigned. "But answer me this—why are you here?"
"What's it to you where I choose to spend my time? You don't own this corner of the camp."
Malfoy raised an eyebrow at Harry's childish defiance. "I don't mean here here. I don't even mean this camp. My emphasis was more on the why than the here."
Harry's frown grew deeper. Then, all of a sudden, he felt as tired as Malfoy looked. Being angry all the time was exhausting. He sighed and plopped down on the parapet, staring off into the distance. Malfoy watched him.
"I was sick of it," Harry muttered finally. "I just needed a break."
After a long silence, Malfoy whispered, "Me too."
Harry nodded. They watched the sun sink into the horizon and the sky's gradient change palettes.
"Isn't it exhausting?" Harry asked. "To have to put on an act?"
"It was," Malfoy replied. "That's why I stopped doing it."
Harry turned to look at the blond, whose eyes were closed and head tilted back. A gentle smile played on his face as a breeze rustled through his loose locks. His words echoed in Harry's head, confusing and befuddling. What does he mean?
Malfoy cracked an eye open and glanced at Harry. "I'm impressed you're still able to keep it up."
"What?" Harry said, taken aback.
Malfoy closed his eyes again. He hummed deep in his throat. "The pretence."
Suddenly, the years since the war—he was so shocked that he couldn't even get mad for using that phrase—came flooding through Harry's mind. All at once, he decided he was done. Ron's words played through his head, and at long last, he felt he had, in fact, gotten it all out of his system.
With a jolt, he realised Malfoy was right. All he had to do now was drop the act.
Harry looked at him. For the first time, he saw him for the person he was now and not who Harry'd made him out to be. Harry wondered suddenly if Malfoy had really and truly become John.
"Who are you?" Harry said.
Malfoy reached out and picked up the custard cup. He transfigured two twigs into dessert spoons, then pulled out a cup of his own from his pocket. He offered one to Harry, who took it in a daze. He held his up in toast.
"Here's to discovering the answer to that question."
When Harry placed a spoonful of the gooey goodness in his mouth, it was as though all the anger and frustration exploded away with a burst of happiness. He sighed, content.
After a long silence, where they both indulged in the joy of their custard cups, Harry began with an ironic smile on his face, "You know, ever since the war…"