A Futile Visit
GinnyIs it my turn already? I can't speak. I'm not ready yet. Can you come back later? Can you come back? Please.
Draco
Eighteen. Not a large number. But add murders to the end and it multiplies to greatness. My hands should be stained red with guilt. They're not. My shoulders should be sagged and my head hung in shame. But no, it is held high. People who believe in consciences are fools. There is no white, fluffy creature buried deep inside that tells us what is right and wrong. There is no moral voice. Only choice and right now I thinking that I should have made Harry Potter number nineteen.
Standing outside the rundown cottage I am once again safe in the knowledge that poverty doesn't become me. With half closed eyes I glance at my surroundings, an understandable wince passes through me as my feet walk over the cracked, overgrown path that leads to the cottage door. Although I know that everything about the place (read shit hole) is a façade, an elaborate glamour to fool unwanted guests, a sneer still rides on my face. I knock on the door and within seconds an old woman opens it. Her face is peevish and withered. The many wrinkles creating an ugly pattern of old age and hard work.
Recognising me, she pouts her thin lips and raises one hand to cup my face.
"Hello Draco." she croons, leaning in towards me. The veins on her hands are raised like interweaving canals – the blood that runs through them is nearly as cold as mine.
As always, my eyes dart to the heavy pendant that is a burden around her neck. The circular object, which grazes her chest, is as misty as ever. Silently I breathe a sigh of relief.
Without replying I swat away her hand and push her through the door, slamming it behind me.
The grand hall is decorated in a way rich people choose just to show how rich they actually are. A ridiculously large chandelier hangs over our heads, its crystals causing shards of light to fall around us. The interior of the cottage is that of a mansion, the rooms, though poky from the outside, are huge and many, each filled with objects both useless and horrifically, wonderfully useful.
"How are you darling?" the words that pass her lips are honeyed and false. She leans against the panelled wall in a sultry pose disgustingly at odds with her appearance. Everything about her is a lie. That's why I like her.
"Cut the shit Pansy. I'm not in the mood for dress up." I say coldly.
Before me, she lets out a little huff and transforms to her selected self.
I was in my third year when I first discovered that Pansy, the dog-faced girl who hung around me like a toxic fume, was actually a metamorphmagus Unsurprisingly my dislike of the girl lessened dramatically as soon as her usefulness rose. She was no longer just Pansy 'No-I'm-not-God's-poster-child--for-interspecies-breeding' Parkinson – she had skills, skills that could be manipulated. She willingly allowed me to groom her into becoming just who I needed her to be. I ensured that she practiced transfiguring late at night, away from prying eyes. I made sure that she didn't change her natural, plain looks – concealment was more important than vanity. Over the years she became more like me, she adopted several of my less desirable traits and adapted them to form a new persona. A dangerous persona.
Right now she is wearing a body and face especially for me. The long black hair, both her own and not so, falls in deceptively soft waves around her shoulders. The sculptured face, which should by rights be rounded and ruddy, is pale and flawless. Her full lips are smeared in red - both a warning and an invitation.
She straightens out and moves to circle around me. If I was a weak man I might find her predatory prowl attractive, my blood might rush south and I might even feign a look of desire instead of my current expression of annoyance, but I am not weak and such a display sickens me.
"Pansy" I warn, "We need to talk".
She stops in half-surprise at my harsh tone and motions for me to follow her into the sitting room.
Even though I am assured in my control over her, I can tell that a tingle of pleasure runs through her body as she leads me. I can tell that she enjoys thinking that my eyes are set on her back, perhaps admiring her curving figure. Of course this is untrue, I'm more likely to be eyeing up the light fixtures than her backside.
Once in the room she motions for me to sit down. I refuse in a clipped tone. This is not a social visit. There is no need for pleasantries.
"It's about the prisoner" I say, carefully watching her face for a telling reaction.
Automatically she glances down at the pendant and responds in a indifferent voice "Oh, what is it?"
"Somebody" I begin, stressing the word "sent me a letter this morning" I pass her the carefully folded paper and watch as she slowly unfolds it and lowers her eyes to read.
Long seconds pass. Either she's suddenly become illiterate or the sprawled words shock her as much as they did me.
"Draco" she finally says in a low, urgent tone "this wasn't me. I promise. I'd never, never do anything like this" she stops and adds softly "You know me"
Yes Pansy I know you; I know you'd sooner kick a man in the balls than other a helping hand. I know you'd sell your own grandmother if I would earn you a few bob and I know that you'd do anything I tell you to do. No matter how degrading or ridiculous and the reason why? Well, it's lurve…good old 'colour-you-pathetic' love.
I think this rather than say it aloud. After all I can hardly blame Pansy for being the person I created.
Ginny
Harry. Harry. Harry. The name I haven't spoken in so long spirals uncontrollably. No longer just his or him or he but a name.
"Harry" I try the word out loud; the two forgotten syllables feel heavy and forbidden in my mouth. I feel like it's a word to terrible to be spoken. That's true – to hope is truly terrible.
For a long time after I just sat. I dimly remember standing when he told me so I presume I must have slumped down – perhaps gripping on the covers for futile comfort. Perhaps I cried or maybe I just stared into the past, my eyes unblinking and my fingers holding the reclaimed necklace. Maybe – that's all I have.
I suppose I must have washed and dressed and walked out of the house as if knew where I was going. I don't. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm walking and walking but I don't know where my steps will lead. I have no idea if what Blaise told me was the truth. I don't believe Harry is alive. Or at least that's what I've been convincing myself. I can't afford to wonder. It is too dangerous to dream.
I was cocooned in black. That's what I'm thinking right now. I'm trying to remember just how the layers of dark cloth felt against my skin. Were they soft or coarse? Did I even care? Could I think of anything other than the daunting ring of the funeral bells? I'm replaying the day in my head; I slow it down when I see the coffin lying like a wooden hero on the altar. How horrible to be boxed in – trapped under the earth – wasting to nothing. I tried not to imagine Harry confined to such a prison. He would not rot away; he would stay young and beautiful and mine forever. How very stupid I was…
I quickly fast forward the tears rolling down my brother's scarred face and pause as the coffin is lowered into the earth. I recall how Hermione let out a helpless cry and averted her eyes to watch the grey, stormy sky. Like me it wanted to cry a rainfall but it just didn't know how.
Lower and lower it goes until it disappears from my sight.
That's it. Story closed. The coffin went and stole Harry with it. There is no epilogue. No final, hopeful scene after the curtains close.
"There are secrets you need to discover. Fact needs to clarify fiction"
I stare at my surroundings. Blaise's words have led me here. A queer laugh escapes me as I realise that I'm 200 miles from home (I can't even remember apparating) I'm not at all surprised that I'm here in this place. I guess my return was inevitable. Like B following A.
Bizarre. Strange. Freaky. Unbelievable. I try the words but none seem enough to describe what's happening. I need a word that will personify the hot flush that is suffocating me; I need a word that will epitomise the hurricane of emotions – fear, hope, pain, and love. All of them and all at the same time like a mad dance where no one knows the right steps.
Draco. My husband's cool stare pops in my mind as I walk over the wild-flowered field. Should I feel guilty? Is this a betrayal? No, it can't possibly be. Harry isn't alive. Blaise was lying, he had to be lying and I'm just – I'm just going to confirm that – I'm elevating any doubts; dismissing any loopholes…I'm just talking absolute shit! I sound like Percy for sod's sake! I can't use logic! My heart is hammering so fast it feels like it will explode. I'm thinking hard about breathing. In my head I'm counting each breath (one, two, three) because I know that if I stop and really think about Harry, even for a second, then I'm going to break.
If I stop then I'll see his face. I'll see those brilliant green eyes and I'll see that scar which meant so little and so very much… I'll remember how it felt when he smiled at me and I'll remember how it felt when I walked into that empty room, the room where he should have been asleep, but he wasn't because he had left early that morning…to die.
I'm at the gate now. Butterflies the sizes of buffalos are stampeding in my stomach. This shouldn't be so difficult. I used to be brave – I used to strike fear in the hearts of bad guys everywhere (ok, maybe not) but now I'm a meek little housewife afraid to knock on a door. Being pathetic is my new full time job – the pay's crap and there's zero holiday time but at least I excel at it.
"Oh bugger, bollocks and balls," I mutter shakily, trying and failing to inject some lightness into the situation.
At least I'm now thinking of Harry (how strange it feels to speak of him again) actually my mind is almost totally blank, only the cowardly voice is screeching 'turn back, turn back!" over and over.
With a deep breath, I knock on the door of the Burrow. I could use the hidden key or open the door with magic but this is no longer my home and I am longer a Weasley.
I hear footsteps approaching. Who will it be? I wonder nervously. There's a lottery of redheads and I could get any number. Bill? Dad? Or maybe Mum, the scared child in me wants it to be Mum. I want her to reassure me and worry and nag. I never thought it possible to miss the nag of a chronically overprotective mother. Then again I never thought it possible for the dead to be alive…
Percy? George? The door creaks open. Charlie? Fred? Anyone as long as it is not…
A familiar face stares at me in shocked disgust…
"Ron…"
I can't stand the look in his eyes. His look is one reserved for the lowest form of life on Earth. A brother's love…what a magical thing…
I find my voice, "Ineedhelp." The words tumble into each other.
A short second passes.
I watch numbly as Ron's lips move. The words I strain to hear are so sharp they slice through the air, creating slashes of invisible hate.
"Wrong address"
The door slams in my face.
1
1
1
Draco
"Have you told anyone?" I say, not as a curious question but as a threat. If she stupidly answers yes, then I swear I'll strangle her. I'll smirk as my hands choke the life from her. I'll laugh as she goes limp in my arms. A thousand witticisms will slide from my tongue as I cut her into pieces and feed her to my pet hippogriff for lunch.
Pansy looks like I've accused her of eating her first-born child "Of course not!" she admonishes.
"How could you think that? Haven't I always done whatever you said? Even when you won't give me a reason? Even when I think you're being insane and what you're doing is terribly wrong? How could you say that to me of all people?"
I consider her angry, fake face and reply silkily "Well it's really rather simple. I open my mouth and if by magic, words come out. Apparently humans have been doing it for years. Some new-age types call it 'talking' but I'm really not comfortable with labels." I finish with a lazy smirk.
She gives me a hard stare and then brings her hand to her furrowed forehead.
"Have you a temperature?" I ask in mock-concern. "I'm sure I could summon up some hot soup. What do you feel like, tomato or spiced toad?"
"Draco…" she begins, saying my name with exasperation. "How can you joke at a time like this? If anyone finds out what you did…"
"What I did" I interrupt harshly. "I seem to remember you playing a very large part in it."
I can tell Pansy is now preparing her barrier of nonchalance. She applies the smirk I taught her and moves to sit in the graceful, indifferent position she copied from me. The long dark hair spills around her shoulders and she gazes at me like she's looking at a small but vaguely interesting insect. All this is very impressive but to me its child's play. I've perfected my act for most of my life. The genuine article accepts no limitations.
"As I was saying," Pansy continues offhandedly "if people were to discover what we" she stops so I can appreciate her change of wording. I don't. "…did, then Azkaban would be a holiday camp complete with free puppies and complementary hot tubs compared to what they'd do to us. We deprived the wizarding world of its hero – its superman for Christ's sake! We lied and manipulated and cheated our way through the war"
"Aw stop Pansy, you'll make me blush" I retort sarcastically. But I know what she's saying is the truth. The cold, inescapable truth. What we did could be described by some as 'terrible'. It could be seen as wrong. But to me only one word describes what we did – essential. If I could turn back time then I would, without doubt, do it again. With more feeling.
"Do you think they'd praise you?" Pansy asks coolly. "Do you think the Daily Prophet would still want you smouldering on their front cover? Would little fan girls and old, toothless women still kiss your picture every night before they went to bed and dreamt of you? Would you still make them feel everything in just the right places? Knowing you the answer is probably yes but I'm telling you Draco that it wouldn't happen. You'd be shunned and hated"
Like before
A scowl crosses my face. "Pansy don't you think I know this?" I spit out angrily. "Or do you think I'm off to frolic through a field with bloody bunches in my hair, praising the fact that my life could crash around me at any moment? I'm not exactly ecstatic about this little revelation! I didn't wake up one morning and think 'hmm…I'm really missing that scar-headed bastard; his brand of righteous bullshit is sorely absent from my day. I do so wish he'd make a sodding comeback – Potter the Resurrection!'"
I sop and attempt to reign in my rising temper.
"This was not supposed to happen." I state in a carefully controlled tone. "Everything was meant to be perfect. Potter was going to be out of the picture and everything was going to be perfect." I repeat myself, something I always try not to do.
"Nothing is ever perfect" Pansy says in an oddly wistful voice. I turn to look at her and just for a second she looks like the eleven-year-old girl I once knew, the girl who couldn't find the potions lab and would burst into tears because the doors kept disappearing. Pathetic, I know.
"That's just what ugly people say to make themselves feel better." I say sharply and then add in a tone any preacher would be proud of "But things can be perfect. People and places can be truly, wonderfully beautiful. Not everything in this shitty world has to be flawed and damaged. That's what's wrong with people today; they just accept the bad and settle for 'that'll do' and 'it'll be ok'. Why can't people try for the unattainable? What's wrong with wanting perfection?"
Pansy's red lips curve into a sad little half smile and she says regretfully. "But at what cost? Who decides what price is too high? Is what we did to the Prisoner ok because you say it is? Was destroying his life worth it?" She looks at me intently and asks quietly.
"Tell me that you're happy. Tell me that it was worth it."
What can I say to that? I know Pansy adores me, more than that; she loves me. Would admitting that I'm impossibly happy with my wife please her? Would she be gratified that all we did, all I made her do, was in order to secure my life with Ginny? Would the risk seem worth it to her? After all if I didn't own Ginny, then Pansy probably believes she would take her place at my side and in my bed. It would never happen. If I couldn't have Ginny then I wouldn't want anyone.
I consider lying to her and admitting that happiness forever evades me. I could say that I'm never sure Ginny isn't thinking of him when she's with me. I could say that he is always with us, if not in body then is spirit. Always. He is a lingering reminder that never goes away; he is in every long pause and pensive stare of my wife's. He is ingrained in every memory and every past tense. He is as much part of the present as he is the past. I will never be free of him, he is a bad stench that clings to me and as much as I wash and scrub and peel away, I will never be clean. She will never be clean.
I could say this but I don't. Why? Well, it's like they say…the truth hurts.
"It was worth it." I confirm finally in a firm voice. It was worth it.
She nods her head and wraps her bravado tighter.
"That's good then" she begins cockily. "I'd hate to think we went through all of that trouble for nothing more than a good shag." She pouts and waits for my reaction.
My face remains impassive. I do not wish to give her the satisfaction of my reaction. (Please ignore the rhyming; it is entirely unintentional I assure you. There is no poetry in my soul only a voice demanding that Potter's guts lay splattered on my shoes before the week ends.)
"Is she then?" Pansy asks slyly, managing to push her cleavage out even more. (I may buy her a large, woolly jumper for Christmas – the poor girl might catch her death otherwise.)
"Is she what?" I say with a playful smirk. I know exactly what the horny bitch means but if she wants to play games then I'm willing enough.
Pansy rolls her eyes impatiently and clarifies. "Is she a good lay? Dynamite in the sack? Fireworks in the boudoir? I always thought her too skinny – nothing to hold on to. But if that's your taste…"
"I guess it is." I drawl. "Now can discussion of my sex life be postponed? We do have slightly bigger things to think about."
She lets out a silky little laugh and begins to wrap a strand of thick, dark hair around her finger.
"Yes, I dare say we do. But I don't know what you expect me to do about it. I can't exactly turn all Miss Marple stuck in here, can I?" she gives me a long-suffering look as she gestures around her surroundings. Surroundings, I very generously provided.
"Pansy please." I begin in a scoffing tone. "You're not exactly setting up residence in a shanty town are you? This place is a palace, at least on the inside. You know why I want you here. It's not safe for you to be on the outside. The Parkinson name is in tatters. Purebloods no longer rule the wizarding world. He assured that." I spit out the 'he' refusing to give any sort of adulation to Harry Potter. That prick gets worshipped enough, even as a corpse.
Pansy lets out a little puff of annoyance and stands up. "I understand that." She says, somewhat reluctantly. "But I can help. You'll need my help. You always have done. We're a team, you and I." She moves closer. I stand my ground, waiting for the inevitable, sickening display of flirtation.
"Draco…" she croons. Here we go. "I want to help you in any way I can. I'm thankful for what you've done for me. All you've done…" she leaves the words hanging as I swallow the bile of disgust which rises in my throat.
I don't want to think about that…
"Fine." I say. "I will need you're assistance but not yet. I have to be careful. Nothing can arouse suspicion. I'm walking a tightrope and any wrong step can cause me to fall and if I fall everything will be lost. Everything." I finish dramatically. I hardly need to exaggerate the situation but I know how much Pansy loves dramatics.
"Of course." Breathes the Drama Queen. "Of course. So what will you do? How will you find the person who is doing all this? Have you any idea who it might be?" Pansy finishes in a blur of excitement. She no longer senses the very real threat we are both under. She s enjoying this…the sadistic bitch.
"I've made many enemies in my life but none who could possibly know about Potter." I say, considering the possibilities. We were so careful. It was all planned so carefully.
"Perhaps it's someone who's with him now." Pansy whispers secretively.
I've already wandered down this avenue of thought. "Doubtful." I confirm in a steely voice.
Pansy scrunches up her perfect, manufactured nose and crosses her arms. Her foot taps on the floor. I believe she's attempting to think. Huh…
"Right, Right" She starts after a while. "I can't think of who it could be. I've never spoken about it and you certainly haven't…" she stalls to a halt and looks at me intently. Her voice is now strong and sly and assured.
"Draco, what are you going to do?"
A slow, lazy smirk spreads across my face. I answer.