Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the HP Universe are the property of JK Rowling and her associates.
Reviewers: DREAMWEAVER and SPENCERBROWN, thank you for your encouragement. WOLFWITCH, thank you for your criticism, I will keep it in mind (though to be honest, my characters curse a lot because I curse a lot). ICE, I usually take reviewer's comments very seriously, and try to adapt my writing to valid criticisms. But, in this case, you have picked on something that I take even more seriously. As an American raised abroad to understand the rest of the world's views on the USA, I can honestly say that the rest of the world hates our guts, and with good reason; they are not the people who need to be educated, we are. We are the people in dire need of perspective. The rest of the world sees Bush for what he really is: a corrupt, corporate, falsely religious, right wing Nazi; a defiance to the true spirit of democracy; and a man who is both abusing America's strength by forcing his ignorance upon the world and abusing Americans by playing on their fears. I hate to lose a reader, but I will in defense of my beliefs: if you are reading my SLASH story, then YOU are one of those people Bush hates for being a pervert. He is not defending you, nor me, he is defending the right to prosecute you and me. I hereby apologize, because your review has completely backfired and has inspired me to create a politically relevant twist to the War. TO OTHER REVIEWERS: Sorry for this political spiel, please disregard it as it is not directed to you. You may notice that I rarely address my reviewers, but when someone criticizes my political views in favor of defending that illegally "elected" president, I go a bit nuts. So, in conclusion, I don't like Kerry at all; but I will vote for anyone who is NOT BUSH. Please enjoy the rest of the show.
Ch. 15: The Aftermath
or The Curse of Slytherin Parties
Harry's Sunday morning was spent doing damage control, beginning at nine AM with Ron vigorously shaking him. "Harry! Harry!!! Wake up!"
"Ugh." He tried to ignore the irritating voice and the hand that was shaking him vigorously, but it was impossible. Finally, he shot up into a sitting position, feeling exhausted, slightly nauseous, and extremely pissed off for being waken up. "What?!," he snapped, reaching for his glasses, only to feel contrite upon getting his first eyeful of Ron. The boy looked like death warmed over: dark rings under his eyes indicated a few hours of restless sleep; a pasty, oily skin divulged the presence of a killer hangover; hickies on his necked betrayed the previous night's activities; and the horrified and pathetic expression on his friend's face proved his awareness of everything. "Geez, man, you look terrible."
Ron couldn't have cared less; he had only one thing on his mind. "What am I supposed to say to 'Mione?!," he demanded hysterically. By this point Dean and Seamus were sitting up in bed to watch the show; Neville, on the other hand, could sleep through a war and never even turn over.
"Calm down!," Harry hushed, giving Dean and Seamus a glare that clearly said, this is none of your business. Ron was on the verge of a breakdown, so Harry rushed on, "Listen, Ron. Everything's going to be fine. First of all, Hermione is going to be just as embarrassed about all this as you, so if you don't want to talk about it, she'll probably be willing to pretend it never happened. Secondly: Ron, isn't this what you always wanted? Haven't you been nuts about her since fourth year? Well, what with the lowered inhibitions of alcohol and all, I think it's safe to say that she feels the same about you."
Now Ron looked like someone holding onto reason by one thread of hope. "Really?," he asked piteously.
Harry smiled affectionately. "Yes, really."
"She's googoo for you, mate. The only one who doesn't see it is you," Seamus added obtrusively. Of course, Ron had heard all this before, but his smoochfest the night before had added new credibility to the assurances of his mates.
Ron smiled nervously at Harry, then at Seamus and Dean, who both gave him thumbs up. "Ok, then," he said weakly, with embarrassment. "I'm, uh, going to go take a shower."
Harry flopped back on the bed tiredly and pulled his pillow over his face, while Seamus and Dean eyed him questioningly. Finally the two got up and moved to go sit on Harry's bed. "Okay, spill," Dean ordered. "What were you three up to last night?"
Through the pillow Harry's reply was muffled, "Party."
Seamus looked scandalized at his answer, though Harry couldn't see his face. "What?! And you didn't invite us?!"
Dean, however, took a moment to put two and two together. "Wait a sec. . . you was at the Slytherin party, wasn't ya?"
Harry removed the pillow and gave his affirmative. Dean was looking at him funny, but Seamus looked suddenly irate. "You bastards! After all that crap about how evil they are and we shouldn't associate with their kind, yous all go off to one of their parties and get plastered with them!" Harry tried to interrupt (he really wasn't up for dealing with this crap so early on his slightly hungover Sunday morning), but it just made Seamus yell louder, "What about us, Harry?! Don't you think we want to go to a Slytherin party?! All those rumors about sex and drinking, we couldn't possibly want ANYTHING to do with that, could we?!"
"Hunh? Sex and drinking?," Neville mumbled sleepily as he sat up.
That was it, Harry's last nerve was history. He sat up and pushed Seamus off his bed. "WE were invited, Seamus. Not you. That's why WE went, and you didn't, not because of some school wide plot to deprive you of a good time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a shower." Harry grabbed his towel and stalked off.
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DM woke to find Pansy passed out in his bed. He still wore his pajamas, and she was still partially dressed in her party getup, but it didn't stop the anger from springing forth, and he spitefully shoved her out of the bed.
"OW! Bastard! Draco!" Then the curtains were yanked apart to reveal a fuming Parkinson. "What the hell was that for?!"
From somewhere behind her DM could hear Crabbe snoring, though both Goyle's and Zabini's sleeping sounds were missing from the usual ensemble. He turned his attention back to the disheveled bitch before him.
"What do you think, Pansy? I told you last night I didn't want company! And here you are!" Crabbe wasn't quite Longbottom in his naturally capacity to sleep like the dead; however, he had only hit the sack three hours earlier after several hours of smoking wizards weed: it would have taken a something a lot more than raised voices to wake up the ol' stoner in that state, as all his friends knew quite well.
"Well, I wanted company! I don't see what the big deal is! It's not like I molested you while you were asleep! We used to share a bed all the time!," Pansy accused, but it was strain of distress in her voice that cooled his anger. He ran his hand through his hair, let out of its rows to permit more comfortable sleeping, and sighed in frustration.
"We used to do a lot of things. I used to do a lot of things. But I can't do those things anymore. I can't be who I used to be," he tried to be patient as he explained. How many times had he been forced to give this spiel?
Pansy fell onto DM's bed with a little wail. "Why not? I liked who you used to be!"
Her words hurt and he was forced to suppress the pain and take several long seconds to school his voice not to waver. "Well, I don't. I hate who I used to be."
Pansy seemed to sense that her words had wounded him, and she felt both a thrill of revenge (for he had hurt her) and the pain of guilt (for she cared for him), so she didn't respond for a moment. But she couldn't leave the subject alone, her future was at stake, and she wanted answers. "But why?"
"I. . .," DM started distraughtly, before stopping himself and starting over more evenly. "Look, my father, he did something to my mother and me. Something you could never understand, something horrible, the worst thing you can do to a person, worse than killing them, worse them raping them, worse than torturing them – though in some ways it was all that and more. And when he died. . . it left my mother a vegetable in St. Mungo's." Desperation leaked into his voice, he wanted so badly for her to understand. "She's never going to recover, Pansy. Never. There is nothing inside of her to recover, she's just shell, an empty vessel. And if that bastard hadn't died, it would have happened to me too!. . . So I can't be who I used to be, because I'm not that person anymore! Can't you just accept that?"
Pansy wanted to understand, she truly did, but DM didn't want her to understand – not really. He wanted her comprehend the result of his ordeal, but he didn't want her to comprehend the ordeal itself; he didn't want anyone to. To voice it, to explain it, meant belittling what had happened, for what had happened was unspeakable, and inexplicable. It was larger than life, and equally incomprehensible.
They stared into each other's eyes for a long time, DM searching for acceptance, and Pansy for answers, but neither could find quite what they were looking for. Finally, Pansy gave up and hugged him. "Lets get go back to bed. I'm exhausted."
DM shook his head. "Not all of us stayed up all night. I'm going to take a shower, then go down to brunch."
"But I want a body to cuddle!," Pansy whined endearingly, flashing a bit of pouty lip.
DM smiled faintly, and a little mischievously. "There's always Vincent. He's fancied you for ages, and would probably spend the rest of the year waiting on you hand and foot if you let him wake up with you. And don't tell me that idea doesn't appeal to you, I know how much you miss your house elves."
"And you don't?," she asked skeptically, as DM disappeared in the direction of the boys' showers. Then she glanced over at Vincent, who almost looked cute in his sleep. She had always had a soft spot in her heart for cuddly chub.
Lo and behold, when DM returned from a relaxing shower (that he really needed), Pansy had squeezed herself onto Vincent's bed, and the two were sleeping soundly.
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Brunch was an unpleasant affair. Seamus and Dean were decidedly still pissed off for not being allowed to tag along to the party. Ginny kept eagerly trying to pump Ron and Hermione for details, but they were hardly forthcoming as they tiptoed around the topic of the previous night's happenings with awkward, halting conversation and furtive glances. Neville didn't seem to care and was trying to engage the various uninterested parties in a conversation about a cancerous growth that had developed on one of his plants. Harry didn't want to have anything to do with any of them, and spent the meal hunched over his oatmeal, purposely nursing a bad mood so that his housemates would leave him alone.
Last night had been a mistake, obviously. Evidence: firstly, their presence had started a fight; secondly, Ron and Hermione had dangerously gotten drunk in enemy territory!; thirdly, it had only indulged and stoked his unwanted interest in Malfoy; and, most importantly, he had gone to bed last night without doing his mental exercises. As far as he could tell, nothing had happened, but this was exactly that kind of mistake he couldn't afford. He was Harry fucking Potter, and those kind of mistakes resulted in people dying! People like Cedric, like Sirius. . .
And yet, there was Malfoy, Diem, whoever the fuck, sitting at the nearly vacant Slytherin table, frowning at his open copy of the Daily Prophet. All his housemates (well, the older ones) lay in bed with debilitating hangovers, or what have you, and yet there he was, looking scrumptious, with that jam smeared absently on his lip, that sexy scowl. . . what is he reading with such intensity anyway?
Harry picked up Hermione's untouched copy of the Daily Prophet, and opened it with some trepidation. The issue was immediately obvious.
MINISTRY DETAINS MUGGLE SUSPECTS IN LATEST ATTACK
The article that followed was horrifying. The muggles were being held responsible for an attack against a wizarding kindergarten, the theory being posited that You-Know-Who and his followers had dazzled them with a few magic tricks and easily persuaded them to be the fodder in their war (after all, muggles flocked to power like flies to shit). However, because Fudge had declared a state of war (combined with the fact that they were mere muggles), they were being deprived of standard wazarding rights of trial: no Veritaserum was to be administered, and the suspects were to be considered guilty until proven innocent (which there was no effective way to do without the Veritaserum).
Harry felt increasingly disgusted as he read on; he also felt increasingly surrounded by enemies. Who was the real target? Voldemort, who he was prophesized to kill or to be killed by, who most of the wizarding world hated and feared; or Fudge and the MoM, who had hindered Harry's every attempt to fight Voldemort, and who had the support of most of the wizarding word.
His peripheral vision alerted him to a sudden movement in Malfoy's direction, and he looked up in time to see the blond stalk away from his deserted table. Harry's temper was enticed by the article and he didn't feel particularly inclined to act reasonably. So he slammed the Daily Prophet down into Hermione's arms, distracting her from her bizarre mating ritual with Ron, and swiftly got up to follow the blond. There was too much of Harry's mind to have something unresolved with Malfoy/Diem/whoever. He wanted to be able to do something about something, and the exquisite Slytherin had been too much on his mind of late.
Out in the corridor he reflexively called out, "Malfoy!"
DM turned warily to look at the wild eyed Gryffindor, well aware that anything that had happened last night under the influence of alcohol may not survive to see the light of day. But Merlin, he nerves felt ragged and hereally wasn't in the mood for another uncomfortable conversation. "Potter."
Harry stopped half a meter from the DM, his hands clenching nervously, knowingly disregarding the screaming of his superego. He really wanted to act out, and while in previous years that may have led to a liberating brawl with Malfoy, there was something else he wanted to do now. "Can we talk privately?"
DM could sense that something was up, Potter's mannerisms were slightly off (not that the Gryffindor had been very predictable of late himself), and aggressive tension emanated from him in heavy waves. Still, he wasn't picking up on any hostility, just. . . grabbiness, and DM was sufficiently curious to be willing to indulge the other boy – for the time being. So he nodded, and followed Potter to a nearby corridor that would unlikely to receive any visitors during a Sunday.
DM leaned calmly, coolly, against the wall, and studied Potter through hooded eyes, while Harry stared at Malfoy as a starving wolf at a juicy steak. DM raised an eyebrow, "Well-"
He didn't get any further because suddenly desperate, wild animal Potter was on top of him, crushing him against the wall with his body, one hand clutching his robe and pulling him impossibly close, the other hand grabbing at the back of his head to pull him into a bruising, demanding kiss. Malfoy was fire and Harry wanted to feel the BURN.
It took less than three seconds for DM to react, pushing Harry away from him with all of his might so that the other boy stumbled backwards across most of the corridor. He barely had time to regain his footing before DM rushed him, furiously pushing him against the wall so that his skull his the stones excruciatingly and the wind was knocked from him, then roughly snatching Harry's tie and using it to force Harry's head higher than his normal height would allow. Then DM viciously backhanded him across the face and he cried out in pain and relief.
The back of his head throbbed terribly, as did the left side of his face, and his vision blurred under the pressure of suffocation. But the pain felt like it was deserved, like being alive, which is more than can be said of children who had died in the attack, more than can be said of Cedric and Sirius and the rest of Voldemort's victims. It felt good to feel anything, he been so detached for months now. And if he focused, he could make out an ethereal pale face millimeters from his own, glaring cerulean eyes, thin pink lips. . .
A hateful hiss slid over him, and he welcome the words of revulsion. "Don't ever touch me like that, you pathetic excuse for a useless hero!"
Yes, that was it exactly. I am a pathetic excuse for a useless hero. I do nothing while people die all around me. I am a fraud and a failure. I obsess about you while children drop like flies. Show me, Malfoy, show me that hatred that is true and honest and real, show me, hurt me. . .
Consciousness began to waver. . .
DM's immediate reaction had been instinctual, but now the anger and fear and panic that coursed through him fell into sharp focus, and he reluctantly recognized that his awareness of those feeling brought control over them. Whatever he did to Potter now, he would be fully responsible for his own actions. But his mind didn't know how to deal with this situation any better than his instincts, and he became frozen in confusion and indecision. Potter wasn't even fighting back, he looked on the verge of passing out; what in the name of Merlin and Mordred was going on here? Had he been attacked, assaulted. . . kissed?
"I love that you always know where it hurts. . .," the lost boy murmured deliriously, eyes almost closed. He looked so young, so defenseless, so inoffensive. . .
DM let go of Harry's tie and quickly took a step back as the Gryffindor sagged to the floor. He glared resentfully down at the pathetic heap for several minutes until the air in Harry's lungs began to revive him; DM spent the time gathering scattered thoughts and figuring out what to say and how to deal with Potter's behavior. Eventually, Harry lifted his face up to blink at boy who had just suffocated him almost to death.
"Listen, Potter. . . Harry. I get that your life has been stressful. Fighting Voldemort every year is too much to demand of anyone. And I know you have some hero complex that makes you think you're responsible for the world, and if you're the only one that can save it, then maybe you are. But I can't help you, Potter. Not like this. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it to you." He had stared off sounding relatively composed, with a carefully controlled voice, but he was getting increasingly angry, and even a little hysterical as he continued. "Do you want me to hurt you? I'm sorry, but I've sworn off hurting people, as hypocritical as that may sound. Do you want me to have sex with you? I'm sorry, but I've also sworn off whoring myself for any reason. I hope that's not what you really wanted when you offered me that deal in the Infirmary, because I thought that you understood that I'm not that person anymore!"
DM stopped abruptly to take deep breaths and calm himself, only to realize that Harry had pulled his knees to his chest and was rocking himself from side to side Merlin. "Oh, Merlin, Potter. Don't cry."
This was getting way too stressful, DM didn't care that they were inside: he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a muggle lighter. He took a long drag, then sat himself on the ground half a meter from Harry. Harry raised his head after a couple of minute to reveal tearless, world weary eyes, then turned guiltily to DM. "I don't cry anymore., Mal-Diem, whoever you are. But I'm sorry, I really am. I'm just so confused and it hurts so much to feel so helpless; it hurts so much to hurt so little, if that makes any sense."
DM was no stranger to feeling helpless, so he nodded in understanding without looking at his distraught companion, who continued after a shaky breath, "I have no right to put you in the position that I did. You're right, I just did it so that you would reject me and hurt me. And I don't want sex, I don't even want to find you attractive, I don't think I even like you. I just need. . . help, I guess, and my stupid fucked up mind keeps on trying to convince me that you are the only one that can help."
DM took another long drag then looked warily, appraisingly, at Harry. Whatever strangeness the Gryffindor was babbling about, he had to admit that he felt an inexplicable chemistry as well. He didn't feel in a position to help anyone, but he found himself reluctant to abandon the tenuous connection that had developed between them. He turned away again, and puffed at his cigarette a couple more times.
"Okay, lets try that proposal you made in the Infirmary last week." Harry immediately tried to say something, but DM rushed on. "But with a few modifications. I'm not on your side, Harry, I'll take sides when I'm good and ready, if I ever am. I'm just going to help you for the time being. I'm pretty sure I can offer some valuable input into your DA classes, and some. . . unique insight into how the other side operates. In return, I want Granger to keep helping me with my studies. And in the interests of both parties, you can help me harness my powers by practicing with me twice a week."
DM stubbed out his cigarette, elegantly pushed himself to his feet, then looked down at Harry. He extended a hesitant hand to help him up. "And no more incidents like the one here today, deal?"
Harry smiled reluctantly. He felt emotionally drained and the numbness was returning, but it felt good to feel empty instead of on the verge of bursting. He was fearful of the future, uncertain about the wisdom of accepting the deal, and mistrustful of DM's reaction to his earlier rash and somewhat self-destructive behavior. Still, butterflies in his stomach indicated that his gut, at least, was pleased at the outcome. He reached out and allowed DM to help him up.
"Deal."
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I'm not entirely happy with the way this chapter turned out, but I think the HP/DM interaction was a bit doomed from its conception. I'm really not sure if there is a believable and/or graceful way to set things in motion. Oh well. PLEASE REVIEW, and stay interested, I have several interesting chapters coming up. Will update soon.
