Expiry Date
By Green
Chapter Four
Warnings, Disclaimer, etc: Please see chapter one
Notes: Yes, I know, it's been long enough coming. Unfortunately my usual writing activities were interrupted by exams, but now that they're over (yay!) I can go back to this. This instalment will answer a few questions, but Ron and Draco's troubles are far from over (yay again!). The gaps between chapters will be much shorter now, and again I'm sorry for the long wait. * g *
~~***~~
The weirdest thing about epiphanies is how intensely private you always want to make them - as though no one in the world before ever discovered the blatant emotional fact you have just uncovered in your psyche.
I couldn't exactly be intolerant of the people in the club we'd just stumbled into the back of, but they made me feel mean.
Yeah, the men kissing each other made you mean, that was the name for that feeling.
Draco's 'contact' was in a bar that proclaimed itself in a neon light over the bar to be 'Gay Paree'?
I didn't even ask, just raised my eyebrows at Draco so high I thought they'd fall off. It probably would have been pointless to try and speak anyway, since the music was so loud I could feel the base in my intestines.
Draco shrugged his shoulders in reply, with an infuriating smile like 'What's your problem?' and walked purposefully over to the bar, oblivious of the dancers, obviously going to order something. His hair was alternating pink and blue in the strobing lights, and I realised that at some point he'd put a glamour on both of us so that we appeared to be in ordinary clothes, not pyjamas. However, what I could feel was still one layer of old cotton with those little balls you get after too many washes - just that between me and the world.
In fact I felt so vulnerable that I walked straight after Draco. He turned around and through some yelling and mime managed to ask me what I wanted to drink. What's funny is that this seemed a little weird to me, under the circumstances - I mean, we were in a gay bar and he was buying me a drink…
Weird. Yeah, much with the spot-on vocabulary Ron
And if * that * freaked me out, I really have no excuse whatever for what happened next.
He'd ordered, and I was about to try and ask when we were actually going to seek out this 'contact', who I was beginning to doubt the existence of. I was stopped, however, by the sensation of a hand being placed squarely on my…well, my behind.
'Why don't you lose the girl?' (An indication of Draco with the free hand) 'And come on with me to Babylon? You don't want to be stuck in this dump all night.'
I felt terrified. The guy was quite a bit older, good looking, in a muscle-bound kind of way, but he didn't look kind, in fact I think he was on something and he reeked of sweat and aftershave.
And I hadn't brought my wand. And I seemed to have forgotten how to speak.
He gripped my arm, and I was about to yelp, or pull it back or something equally stupid, when I felt another light touch on my torso.
Draco had slid his arm around my waist, and was now leaning against my shoulder with a smooth aggression in his gaze that I'd only seen previously when he was warning people off touching his freshly varnished Nimbus Two Thousand and One.
One eyebrow raised in a perfect arch. The expression that conveys so clearly 'One step closer and I will personally sign the cheque to toast you.'
I catch on quickly - I leant in towards him. I was going to peck him on the cheek or something, I don't know, but somewhere along the way the warmth of his arm, or the music or * something * took over my brain and instead I ran my tongue gently over the lobe of his ear.
His expression remained perfectly composed, but the arm around me tightened with a sharp jerk.
Muttering various swearwords and giving us the finger the other guy moved off.
I couldn't figure out how to move. Something to do with the ability to process thoughts seemed to have short-circuited somewhere.
But even as I turned to actually look at Draco, try and figure out what he was thinking he pulled away and turned around to get the drinks.
He was biting his lip, hard.
Finally, after we'd drained the bottles without registering any of the contents he raised his arm and pointed out a door on the far side of the room. A large man in a leather jacket was just exiting.
'In there. He can see us now.'
'Who is he?'
'Does it matter? OK, stupid question - I keep forgetting you're one of the little good Gryffindors.' His tone was annoyingly patronising, but it also made me feel slightly embarrassed.
'OK, let's be bad then.' He raised the other eyebrow as I spoke, and unconsciously sucked in his bitten lip. I shivered, 'I think the drink is getting to me, Draco.'
'I bought you non-alcoholic you twat'
'Oh.'
And with some unease, for many reasons, we proceeded across the filthy floor to the door to answers.
~~***~~
Going to see Draco's contact was stupid on about ten levels, but I didn't get that until we talked to him.
/Marcus Flint/
Sitting on a cheap plastic scoop seat with powders and scales and pills on a table and some filthy Muggle notes held in plastic bands. His old Quidditch-honed physique was sliding into a beer gut.
I don't think he recognised me, but he flinched when he saw Draco. You learn a new thing every day. Seems Marcus owes Draco, or Draco has something over Marcus. I really don't want to think what. Anyway they didn't look pleased to see each other at all, but Marcus put up little resistance to telling us what we wanted.
Why did Harry and he fall? Draco asked it straight away and to the point. And didn't even recoil from the answer that he must have half-suspected: agents of Voldemort, aided by his Father.
Turns out they used a complicated spell that meant Lucius enchanted Draco via a letter from home, using him as the Messenger to attack Harry at precisely when Draco had written that there was to be a Quidditch match. Or something like that, I think the thing that sank most deeply into both of us was that killing the messenger was apparently not a huge issue to Lucius.
'It had to happen someday.' That was Draco's only comment, and he shook my hand off when I tentatively tried to place it on his shoulder.
'So' Draco continued 'Why did it look like…someone else…had done it?'
'Well, they're not stupid, are they?' replied Marcus with ever decreasing grace. 'They knew that there would have to be a culprit, they just added in a glamour that would place the illusion of someone casting the spell on one of your friends, everyone would assume that they were in league with you.'
'But, it wasn't one of my friends who appeared to do it.'
Okay, so I couldn't help feeling slightly annoyed at that. Which is senseless really because whatever Draco and I have ever been 'friends' does not really describe it at all. But I'd seen so much of him recently, and he'd been the only one nice to me, and so…yeah.
Marcus' answer was illuminating: 'Friend, whatever, just whoever you spent the most time in close proximity to in the days before the match, Lucius figured it'd be Grabbe and Boil or whoever those root vegetables you hang out with are'. Marcus spoke with profound lack of interest, but I gasped, and Draco shifted slightly, uncomfortably. He frowned at me, warning me not to talk now.
And me, I was suddenly learning a lot of information that I really had no wish to know.
Convincing, Ron, real convincing there.
And we would have walked away right then, still oblivious to the worst of it, had not Marcus made a key misjudgement and assumed that we already knew.
'Of course, you can imagine they're pissed to find out that it wasn't Potter at all'
To give Draco his credit he didn't twitch a muscle, and he kicked me in the shin to stop me exclaiming. He simply said 'Yeah, that must have been annoying, but how do * you * know about it?'
Marcus flushed slightly. 'Well, I wondered why Wood wasn't in the Cannons this season didn't I? Didn't expect to find him protecting the bloody boy-who-wouldn't-die by impersonating him did I? Risking his life for bloody Potter! Not that I care what Wood does with his life…'
'Spare me the soap opera Marcus. Who have you told?'
'Oh I expect everyone knows. Well how long did Dumbledore think he could fool six hundred kids anyway?'
I was rooted to the spot. I couldn't move because if I did the huge block of ice that had just formed in my chest would have ruptured my torso. And you know what? I could have given a fuck.
No wonder 'Harry' was acting so weird around me recently.
But Hermione? Hermione had talked to him, talked to Dumbledore. I remembered her look as she assured me she didn't believe I'd hurt Harry.
So Hermione knew.
Hole, ground. Dynamite, mouth. Corner, cry. Knife, guts. Not enough time to say how I felt just then. But then, oh yeah, I felt it for an eternity.
Draco threw a cursory nod to Flint and just grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of that tiny, stinking little room. When we got outside he turned on me and yelled over the music:
'What the hell was that Ron? You looked like you were about to go nuts! You don't * ever * react to info - got it? If he figures out that that was something I didn't know I lose my edge, permanently! And all because you can't keep yourself under control!'
'Yeah?' I replied, shouting with equal rage, 'Did you even hear that, Draco? 'Harry' isn't real; the two closest people to me have been lying to me through their teeth for maybe weeks…but hey! * You * don't care about that, do you? How about the fact that my life's in this mess because of your Dad and, frankly, he doesn't care if he messes you up even worse!'
We were neither of us actually angry with the other. In fact, as far as each of us knew the other was the only one definitely innocent of hurting us. But we always argue, that's what we * do *. So we stood glaring at each other for all of about ten seconds, and if his eyes hadn't been all bright and damp I'm sure I would have seen myself reflected in them the mirror image of him.
Then Draco swore and went back to the bar, and I followed right after because there was no way that I would let him lose me and then leave me here with no way back to Hogwarts. He ordered another drink.
'Well, get me one then.' I said it in an annoyed tone, but the thing was so trivial I knew he'd understand that I just wanted to stop arguing about the proper stuff, the big stuff, the stuff that actually meant something. He tried to order me another juice, but I stopped him and got vodka instead. I didn't want to be sober any more.
I don't know how long later it was that we wound up on the dance floor, leaning on each other and wobbling slightly. I couldn't seem to remember how we got there. Draco had a half-empty beer bottle in his hand, and I could tell this because he had that arm over my shoulder and the glass was banging into my shoulder blade.
'Draco, can we go now?' I don't know why I didn't ask before, but since I'd just come to myself again now seemed as good a time to ask as any and none too soon. I still felt terrible, and dizzy now as well.
He pulled the brush from his pocket and held it out, his hand shaking with drink or emotion, he appeared to be having trouble focussing on it. I reached out to touch it and once more the scenery dissolved.
I waited to arrive back in the cold depths of Hogwarts, to feel the rough stone beneath my feet. However, the first sensation I had was that of my toes sinking into deep, soft shagpile.
'Oh' said Draco. 'We're home.'
~~***~~
The Malfoy Manor was not exactly how I'd pictured for the first family of evil. There was no pervading green décor, the doors were not tall and imposing and there were no gargoyles perched around the ceiling. It was just a too-perfect, too-clean house, admittedly with about a hundred rooms, but all of them horribly normal and frighteningly 'designer'. No evidence that living people actually inhabited it at all.
Which, luckily for both of us they didn't at that point. Lucius and Narcissa were on 'holiday', probably not wishing to be available for questioning over the whole broom-sudden death thing. Only the house-elves, timid and worn-looking, peeped with fear from behind the furniture and cowered into the shadows away from Draco.
Who, did I mention, was going totally insane?
He had looked around him for a minute after realising where he'd accidentally taken us, and then he'd cried out in anger that sounded too long suppressed. He picked up the nearest priceless vase and hurled it at the portrait of some eighteenth century ancestor on the wall. Even as the smash still echoed in the long hallway he raced down it, throwing over the little tables, knocking ornaments off their stands, grabbing a shard from a broken glass model of the Slytherin emblem and using it to rip right down the centre of Rembrandts, Titians and a Picasso.
I could barely move in horror, then suddenly adrenaline raced through me, and I grabbed the shard from his hand. I was horrified to see a deep cut from the glass running down his palm, but he barely seemed to notice. He shook me off and ran into another room, throwing, smashing, kicking, tearing, ripping and clawing his way through furniture worth more than my entire family has in Gringotts. It was terrifying to see, but it also made me want to cry, because he was. He was sobbing with frustration, because he knew that this was the only way he could get at his parents, and that even this wouldn't hurt them like they'd hurt him.
He'd always known precisely what his Father was prepared to do, I think, but he didn't * know * until tonight. The ugly fact stared him in this face and he couldn't deal with it, no one should have to deal with something like that.
But what could I do? He wouldn't stop, and on some level I didn't want him to. I couldn't help feeling that this was probably the healthiest thing he'd done in his life.
And I hurt inside. I wanted to see that I wasn't the only one.
Finally, three rooms later, in the Master-suite with a giant four-poster, where the Malfoys had obviously overruled their decorator on matters of taste and did actually have black and green silk bed-sheets, Draco collapsed. He cradled his hurt hand into his chest and sank slowly on his knees to the floor. He had stopped crying, but he was still shaking. Dark spots of blood fell slowly onto the carpet in perfect circles.
I inched closer and gently patted him on the arm; he shook me off again and leapt up, then turned his face, red and puffy from crying, towards mine.
'You think I'm crazy? You feel scared by this?' He waved an arm encompassing the entire room. 'You tell me you don't honestly want to do * that *' - he stabbed his hand forward as if it still held the shard - 'to Harry Potter's face right now.'
'You shut up about Harry!' I yelled, suddenly as angry as I had been back in the bar, all my empathy gone, 'Stop talking like you have the first idea about him or me, because you don't! You started all this! You slinking around after me, teasing me and taunting me and laughing all the time! Your father should value you more, you're just like him!'
I can hardly bear to think I actually said that. I can hardly believe he didn't put a Crucio curse on me there and then, I'm sure he could have done just then.
Instead he beat his fists against me, then I caught them and we almost wrestled for a moment, pushing and shoving like little kids, and the pressure was too much and we collapsed onto the deep soft poison-coloured bed.
He was above me, pinning my arms, panting; 'You think, Weasley, that my Father would like it if I did this?'
He kissed me.
He pressed right down, hard and too fast and clashed our teeth together and kissed me. Breath of beer and stale air and mucus and lips dry and he kissed me.
He kissed me.
He pulled back and stared me in the eyes. I was frozen in surprise, unable to move. But I wanted to. I could feel all the anger and hate and aggression, and all the alcohol, that was in me, all pooled together and hot and running through me like fire. I wanted to move and writhe and be as destructive as Draco had been earlier. I wanted to get Draco, I wanted Draco, I wanted to lose my mind.
I flipped him over and kissed him, hard. He tangled his hands into my hair and wouldn't let me go, and I pulled at our clothes until I could feel that the sweat and dirt all over both of us was rubbing right into those shiny green sheets. Just moving and moving and watching the wet sweaty mark growing, and in the background I could hear Draco moaning every time I shifted, but I didn't notice and I didn't care.
Then he turned us over again and started doing something to my chest. He tried to kiss me, but I pushed his face away, and on my back I could see as I looked up that there was this huge mirror over the bed, and in it were these two boys. One was lying flat out staring at me and the other with only his back visible as he leant over the first. I could see the redhead glaring at me with accusation and remorse, and then Draco finally made it all the way down south and I had to close my eyes because fireballs were exploding behind them.
It was everything I wanted and everything I hated and it was. Draco. Malfoy. Doing. Me. and that isn't even a nightmare or a fantasy because there was no way I could ever imagine the way this felt.
I figure that the best thing about dying is that then there is no longer a time limit on how long you can go before you wake up and smell the shit again. Unfortunately perhaps, both of us were only as far down the road to oblivion as three shots, two beers and a non-alcoholic grape juice will take you.
Even as I fell asleep I was vaguely conscious that, in less than four hours, the end would have to begin…
~~***~~
