Café
By King
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warning: Underage drinking (aftereffects, anyway). Don't read if it bothers you, please.
Draco frowned. His assured, confident steps quickened slightly in their weave toward his Mecca of flavored and caffeinated beverages that accentuated his conversations with Potter. Unfortunately, Potter currently seemed in no condition to have any sort of intelligent exchange.
He was seated in their regular spot, in the regular chair, with the regular drink. This time, though, he had intertwined his arms together on top of the table as a support for his precariously nodding head. A vague, idiotic grin was plastered across his face and anyone within six feet of him could hear a distinctly slurred singsong like voice floating from him like a sickly seduction of intoxicating weakness.
"…criminalbound again-against a chair, we must stare, starestare…"
"Potter?" Draco looked at him dubiously.
He ignored the blonde. Either that or he was too caught up in his song to notice.
"And take- take allofthe medicines ssssellin' hiiighh… sscreeeaammm… into the- the earofthe anarchissst zat ssslleeps b-but don't dreammm…"
His could feel his eyebrows rising in surprise. And what a surprise this was. Either, one- Potter had finally gone off the deep end, or two- he was utterly, completely wasted. Knowing full well that Potter was already nutters to begin with, Draco decided it was the latter.
Upon making this most astute of observations, the former Slytherin prepared to take the next action under the most prudent caution. He poked Potter.
Blinking owlishly, Potter stared at him and exclaimed, "Draco, love! Wassup!"
"Good God, you're drunk," stated Draco, his lip pulling back in distaste. Shaking his head, he sat down.
Indignant, Potter tried his best to scowl. He managed a queer look that would have made little old ladies cross to the other side of the road. "Not I am!"
"What?"
Potter giggled. I mean, really, how creepy is hearing the Boy Wonder giggle? "Never 'eard of Yoda, Draco?"
"You're insane," he replied disgustedly. "Insane people should not get drunk. And don't call me by my first name."
"I'm not drunk!" Potter hiccuped conspicuously.
"Yes, you are."
He paused, as if considering something. Or he might've just tried to keep from regurgitating or something. Ugh. Awful thought. Leaning forward, Potter's breath drifted in a waft of alcoholic stink.
"I really am." He snorted loudly, apparently thinking this quite hilarious.
Draco rolled his eyes and glanced about. A few odd people were giving them some nasty glares, not that he actually cared, but the less attention they attracted the better. Shifting his hands under the table, he fingered his wand hidden up a sleeve and muttered a quick spell.
The change was instantaneous. The young man straightened up quickly and rubbed his eyes. Potter shook his head, grimaced when he realized that he had not hit a pair of glasses when he had reached up. He began to pat down various pockets until he slipped out his spectacles, and placed them firmly on the bridge of his nose.
He glanced at Draco subtly, muttering softly, "That's some spell. No hangover."
"I'm not teaching it to you," he replied sourly.
"Why not?" he said, brows arched.
Draco glared. "Because it might tempt you to get drunk in public again. By the way, how did you not get arrested?"
Potter stared at him. "Since when did you know you can get picked up by the police if you're sloshed?"
"I've been studying," Draco murmured, pinking slightly.
"Oh. Well," he said, scrutinizing the other closely, "I don't really know. Maybe it's national drunkard day or something."
"So you're a drunkard?" quipped the blonde.
"No!" Potter retorted, glaring.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Could've fooled me. Why didn't Mr. Dreadlocks over there kick you out?"
Potter glared fiercely at the café's one employee at the cash register. "Surely you jest. That moron wouldn't notice if you danced the tango butt-naked on his head."
"A pleasant image."
"It's not funny," he retorted, turning back. "It's just plain sad."
Draco gazed back, surprised. "It's nothing to get so worked up over."
"Yes, it is," he insisted. "People like that, they aren't even living. They're all just a bunch of zombies. A bunch of zombie middle class nobodies on Prozac."
"'Prozac'?"
"It's a muggle drug that pumps you full of crap to juice up the generators."
"Er…" Draco was constantly finding himself amazed at Potter's knack of being utterly blunt and quite a bit tactless.
Ignoring the other, Potter continued on with a rant-like air. "Every day they have everything perfectly planned. Get up, eat, go to work, work like the dumb dogs they are, come home, eat, barely speak to their family, and sleep. It goes on and on until eventually they turn into robots whose emotions are so deadened they have to cling desperately to the opinions of the media and every other brainwashing tyrant to retain some semblance of humanity."
"Mmm…" the blonde mumbled, sipping at his steaming mug and letting the hot spiciness flow down his throat. No point in interrupting Potter now; he might get savage and bite off a finger or something.
"And what little emotions they do have really aren't worth mentioning. Emotions are what create people. Those pinnacles of anger, fear, love, lust, compassion, joy, greed, all of it; those are what mold the human into a complex being able to form ideals and give them the ability to question their lives, their existence, everything."
Draco leaned slightly forward, now watching Potter with avid interest. "How is it that emotion leads to a complex mind?"
Potter's eyes (had they really always been so very green?) seemed to stare through the other, as if he had barely heard the question but attached himself to it with incredible passion. Draco shivered.
"Let's say there was an author that suddenly lost her father to a prolonged illness. She, in her emotional turmoil, turns to her writing to express the agony and distraught she feels. She begins to explore through words new depths of her mind, her psyche, her life, and her relationships. She comes to gain a new wisdom and insight as she observes how hers and the people's around her lives have changed because of this one event. This event, which in truth would only be a tiny droplet in the great pool of the history of mankind, this miniscule and yet terribly great event has changed her forever. Through her tragedy this author sought to express herself in her art and she gained a new view of the world."
"And what about the people who are not so gifted in a form of art?" Draco queried, unconscious of the fact that he had yet to place his mug back on the table and had been holding it near his face for the last few minutes.
Potter sipped thoughtfully on his iced latte (the Slytherin was still wondering how he had managed to order it while completely drunk). "They have their ways to express themselves. The athlete to his sport, the scientist to his experiments, the soldier to his war, the teenaged brat with his first shot of hard liquor (a grin flashed over his face fleetingly). But the point is that they are all living. Living for something they believe in, living for something that offers an opportunity for personal development. Whether those opportunities are destructive or life saving is entirely irrelevant. They encounter peaks of living, peaks where their emotions are strongest and their very essence quivers in awe of simply being alive."
Draco lowered his eyes, setting his cold tea gently on the metallic table. His hand brushed lightly against the cool alloy feeling for all the world like a tight, bleak knot growing in his soul.
"Emotions and growth and living are very frightening things. But, it's those who reach out for their zeniths that find a completion of soul unknown and indescribable to someone who's become so dead inside they don't even look up when a drunk orders an iced latte."
Draco was silent.
A/N: I'm very unsure about this particular chapter; I don't really know if I conveyed clearly what I wanted to say. But then again, vagueness might be best as it allows for more free interpretation. It's a bit longer than the others and I added a touch more humor this time; I was just sort of in that kind of mood...
The song Harry was singing was a very, very bad rendition of Bright Eyes's "At the End of Everything". Which I thought was very appropriate for this chapter (and I didn't copy and paste, but totally screwed it over so I won't get sued. xD).
Thank you very much all of my reviewers for your wonderful comments; I really appreciate them.
