Harry stood in front of his bathroom mirror and used his hand to wipe the condensate away. Having taken the hottest shower he could stand, he took comfort in losing sight of his image behind clouds of steam. Just white everything out. Make it like another death and start over again at Kings Cross.
The hotel manager had given him a new room, a rather large suite at no cost. He wasn't sure why. He thought it had something to do with Draco turning up, or maybe management didn't want him taking his business anywhere else in light of that morning's events. They claimed the switch was a security measure. The upgrade was an apology. The room was fancy, all lustrous couches and modern textures. There was a kitchen, bar, spa tub and an extra large bed in each of the two separate rooms. Flat screens were mounted above gas fireplaces that looked more like fish tanks filled with white pebbles and candlelights, controlled by a remote. Outside his bedroom, there was a terrace that joined an infinity pool.
The room was probably a honeymoon suite. The designers got everything right, Harry decided, except for the lights. The bathroom lights. Above him, fluorescent flickering clicked and he could hear gasses causing the glass tubes to expand. It was very loud for some reason, and the light itself was very exaggeratedly blinking. But he suspected, if someone else were in the room with him, they wouldn't see it nearly as pronounced as he did. His senses were still honed to the snitch, and when he kept very still, he saw the changes inanimate objects made. He heard the lights. No expense had been spared to create an ambiance of antique sconces and crystal illumination. Yet all one had to do was look up to have the illusion of grandeur destroyed.
There were bug carcasses inside the florescent panels. He laughed within himself at that. When he did, the humor felt bitter and it pummeled inside his chest. The very muscles that let him laugh, were levers that pulled hot tears onto his cheeks. It was one of those weird cries, where you hardly knew you were doing it until it happened. Was he that tired? Why couldn't he just lay down and sleep? He'd already taken one of Rankar's pills, hoping to feel it working by the time his shower ended. It wasn't working. He knew it wasn't a sleeping pill, but it was permission for his body to fall asleep. And still, his body was scared to.
Staring at his reflection, he tried to see himself as others saw him. He tried to see the physical differences from two years ago. Two years, six months, and seventeen days, from the date he pushed another life from his body. It had been a horror show, and he couldn't believe he wasn't marked for life, in some way that alerted people to how changed he was. In his T-shirt and sleep shorts, he looked for the masculine lines of his body, needing to figure out what it was about himself that made people like Greg and Jasper, or that asshole photographer, assume it was okay to treat him like shit. Could they see it? Could they see the stain where he'd wallowed around in the filth of his pain, the hate and confusion for months, before Draco put his daughter in his arms and she'd taught him to love himself again.
Was it something that people could smell on him, like fear? How did they know to speak respectfully and kindly to one another, their spouces, their mates, then turn to Harry with their worst behavior? Why did they just assume he could take it? Because they knew his past? They thought they knew what he was capable of. Like he was born to handle all the crap that wasn't appropriate for anyone else, just because he'd killed Voldemort. Is that what the scar really meant? Cast shit here.
He'd been dealing with challenges beyond his years in life, since he was a baby. Did the scar mark him inside as well as out? He'd been a horcrux, after all. Maybe that ugliness was still somehow attached to him, attracting the worst in others.
He knew that most people would've been flattered by the double advances rained upon him by his team members. But it made him feel like, after all this time, he still hadn't gotten his life together. No one really respected him, no matter what great things were said. They smiled in his face one minute and dumped on him when the crowds went away. That photo of him lying in the bathroom, was proof of the predatory interest in him that had not died with Voldemort, but had only gotten stronger.
It was true. The year after Iece was born, and his body appeared to be his again, he went crazy with it. He had done slutty things and behaved inappropriately. He'd found plenty of people willing to let him. He had stoked the fire of a damaged reputation, but he'd been running from something. He and Draco both had. They'd used pleasure to outrun what had been done to their shot psyches. Something was broken between them and sex with others was the only evidence either of them had that they still passed for human.
He knew Draco had secrets concerning his relationship with his father. And the pain he'd learned to read on Draco's guarded expression, had him deliberately staying away from knowing more. There was no understanding a family like that. He didn't have to be told what Lucius was capable of, in order to forgive Draco for his secrets. One had to let some things go. Promiscuity ran its course for them, for the most part. On lonely nights, feelings still swelled to intolerable levels and betrayed their best intentions to play it straight for Iece. But that was few and far now, and they had agreed not to hold it against each other.
Harry realized he could've slept with that man. Greg. In fact, that's probably where he'd be right now if he didn't have the reminder of that photo to force him to think about his life. He didn't see himself lying on those tiles as much as he saw an older version of his daughter. As long as he was making headlines like that, she wasn't safe. It wasn't hard to imagine the classic scenario. A teenage, unconscious girl at the wrong party. What kind of a life and legacy was he passing on to her? Maybe the Malfoys had it right. Dignity and appearance at all cost. At all times.
He closed his eyes on the futility of trying to sort his thoughts. It was just making him feel worse. One angry scowl at his reflection had him admitting what he was afraid of. He wanted sex. He wanted to be in Greg's hotel room right now, and he was standing here conjuring the worst thoughts he could imagine, to keep from going there, to keep from knocking on that guy's door and begging to be nailed to the wall.
The first pill should've shut his body down by now. He wasn't even sleepy. He took another. There were lots of demons tonight. The way his body wanted what Greg had started, he was afraid he'd conjure another night of paralyzing suffering. He couldn't let that happen. Damn Greg. That guy knew he was a good kisser. That's why he'd done it. If Harry knew he could get away with using Greg's body and leaving him cold, he would've done it. But the hate behind an idea like that, left a terrible backlash of images. He kept seeing a skinny, drug addled preteen girl, with white-blond hair, sprawled at a murder scene. Why was his mind doing this to him?
He knew why. His nightmares wanted out. They were fighting the pills. When he started to cry, he sat down on the edge of the tub and told himself to stop it.
"Your brain is just working overtime. You had a hell of a practice today. And a fucking stroke. It doesn't mean anything," he whispered to the walls.
"But I want so much better for her. I don't want her to suffer because I can't get my crap under control."
She will never end up like that. Nobody wants to hurt her, just because they want to hurt you.
He heard Draco's voice. So you think a one-nighter with this fellow will ruin your daughter's life? Is that where we are now?
"Fuck you, Draco!"
It wasn't even sex. Not really. What if he just wanted to sink into someone's arms? If he had to put out, he'd make himself do it.
"If it wasn't for your fucking father..."
If it wasn't for my father, you wouldn't have the best thing about your life.
"Then why can't I see her? Why can't I be with you both right now?"
And what the fuck happened to his arm? And where the hell was Snape? He quickly shoved those questions back down. Just holding that hard rubbery thing that used to be his arm, spliced his stomach with something like chilled razors, and he wasn't ready to look full on it.
There was more to the problem than guilt over sex, though he could hear Rankar say, "You need to have positive intimate experiences, Harry. Take back your right to pleasure."
Lucius had enemies. Enemies who would hurt his daughter. Harry wasn't imagining that. How the fuck was he supposed to protect her when he couldn't stop that stupid photo from being taken? Dammit, he wouldn't be going through this if he could just sleep.
He took another pill, left the bathroom and programmed the muggle alarm clock to sound every hour. It made him feel better to think he could be woken before any dreams trapped him. He wasn't sure how reliable Rankar's pills were, they seemed pretty mild. So he took another one.
Draco scolded him. You can't both sleep and not sleep at the same time, Harry.
He woke up even more exhausted, with the added bonus of feeling hungover. After lying still and performing a mental scan of his body, he concluded that Doctor Rankar's pills had done their job. Even though he didn't feel great, he had survived the night. He hoped that two minutes under a cold shower spray would be enough to make him want to face the opening ceremony of the tour. He ditched shaving in favor of going over his lecture cheat sheets. He got to the Ministry's pavilion downtown, much later than he wanted. He'd had to take the hotel shuttle. The thought of apparating warned him he'd end up face-down in his own sick upon arrival.
The pavilion was packed with magical people from all over the world, and the nonmagics who could be trusted to mingle among them without freaking out. The atmosphere was that of a carnival, with food stands, children's rides, and open stages roped off around the main square. The smell of spun sugar and peppered sausages reminded him that he could not have eaten if he wanted to. And he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Some twenty school children in matching neon orange T-shirts, crossed in front of him. Their shirts read 'Saunders Sharks' and glowed like frisbees sailing in front of the sun. The sight hurt his eyes and reminded him of Dudley tossing the muggle toy with his friends ages ago.
He'd been told to meet at the pavilion. It was the historical site of the World Wizard Trading Fair thirty years prior, and remained a treasured landmark that, to unsuspecting muggles, looked like a well preserved train depot from the fifty's era. A dog park had been built around it.
Today's parade was supposed to start here and end at Calton Coliseum, at the National Monument. In light of the tragedy near Dungarven, organizers considered it in bad taste to resurrect festivities so soon within the community. In true wizarding fashion, tents and mobile facilities were assembled at the next stop along the tour, Edinburgh, and everyone was making the best of it. Along the route, wizards, witches and magical people of every conceivable walk of life, participated in the international magical expo. The Minister's campaign to rebuild lives and trust, was only one political tangent being promoted. Some were here to simply sell their wares, or to demonstrate their profession in an educational capacity. Some were there to recruit, and others to entertain. There were dozens of conventions underway, for every country represented, all boasting magical agendas that were billed under the heading Magical Cultural Exchange.
He was supposed to report to some desk and receive a level three security badge to allow him to come and go throughout the tour, from any related venue. He could not be counted in attendance if he didn't claim it in person.
As if linked by psychic intent, the Minister saw him before Harry saw him.
"Great blazes, Harry! We've been looking for you." Vector Banks slapped Harry's shoulder and made a stern face. "Lords, you look positively awful. Another day in the hospital wouldn't have hurt you. We can't have you running around looking like we're neglecting you."
He laughed, but asked, "Where's Draco? Does he know what you're wearing?"
Harry stammered and looked down at his slacks and long sleeve button up. This is what he would've worn regardless of the past few days. The shoes were yesterday's new sneakers, but he hadn't thought it mattered since he'd be standing behind a podium and part of him really didn't give a damn. They were there to get his experiences, not look at his shoes. Even in his head, Draco tsked.
"Hold still," the Ministered instructed. He performed a quick charm that knocked off most of Harry's stubble. When Harry realized what he'd done, he refused to let him finish it off.
"I'm not trying to impress anyone. Where do I get my badge?"
The Minister's entourage gathered around him and followed as Banks pulled Harry up a wheelchair ramp around the side of the pavilion. Harry recognized his assistants, security guards, and two photo journalists employed to make him look good at every opportunity.
"This tour is a once in a lifetime celebration. You should be in your robes. I'll not have you looking so sluggabout, wrinkled, and just plain ordinary, on my watch. You are a spectacular wizard, Harry. Men like you and I must own that. That's what stops most rivalries before they start. Put it out there for all to see."
Somewhere between trying to make sense of Bank's rant and deciding everything would be easier if he didn't argue, he found himself indoors, in a lounge filled with people bustling to get into the right lines. Banks motioned to a young wizard with a notepad. "Peppa, notify Draco immediately that Potter is severely under dressed. Rachael, in the back of the hall you'll find trunks. See if we have a thirty-two regular to fit Mr. Potter. If not, use an alteration spell. I can see that I'm going to have to hire someone to look after Harry. I thought Draco was taking care of that."
Harry could've done without the commentary on his relationship. Banks gestured to a corridor on the other side of the ropes. "If you'll accompany me, we can avoid the registry lines and get you that badge. I have it in my temporary offices, in a safe place. I kept it because I needed to speak with you."
Harry felt distracted by the heat and tightness around his eyes. He was losing his patience, but he let Banks go on.
"I need to ask a small favor. Do you recall my assistance in getting you onto the crash site?"
Harry did, unfortunately.
"You said you'd, and I quote, "owe" me. I would like to call in that favor now."
By the time Banks waved to passing officials, paused to shake hands with two campaign managers, have his photo taken with a mother and her baby, Harry was bracing himself to move forward and not give up on the whole day. It was as if he'd left his soul in bed and his body was just walking around faking it, without the resources to see it through. Whatever Banks wanted, he wasn't in a very cooperative mood. He kept his head down and pretended to be invisible all the way to the set of offices the Minister was currently holding as his own.
Banks closed the door behind Harry and beckoned to a leather chair. Harry turned it down. "No thanks. I'm headed back out."
Banks pushed a tea service at him and sat down behind his desk, pretending Harry hadn't just said he didn't want to be there. "I'll be brief. We need to present a more wholesome image on the tour. That malicious photo was a compromising cheap shot, and it pains me that it has to be addressed."
Harry thought of saying, 'You're the Minister. Just dig around in one of your convenient regulations and cite charges against the paper. Fine them. Have someone arrested for show, then let them back out. Address the barbaric practice of sneaking photos in a public manner, instead of side-stepping the issue in private with me. Oh, and I'm fine by the way.'
"It puts a blight on the positive objectives of our goals. No one's blaming you, you understand. I simply wonder if you wouldn't help me reassure my constituents that you're fine. Not just fine, but thriving."
"What are you asking me to do?"
"I want another photo. A real one. One that tells the true story. Let my staff arrange a family portrait, done by a professional photographer, with you, your daughter, and Draco. I shall include myself for a special edition. The image will send an entirely different message to the naysayers accusing my campaign of glossing over the challenges of rebuilding."
Harry was shaking his head before Banks finished speaking. "Absolutely not. I don't use my daughter to garner acceptance."
"And I'm not asking you to. It's a favor, and you can hide her face again with that little concealment charm. Her hair speaks for itself."
Anger ignited. "Do you realize what you've just said?"
Banks raised his hands in appeal. "Now now, it has nothing to do with her relatives. I'm only commenting on the fact that she's highly identifiable by her hair, as your daughter. The photo wouldn't have to show her face. I meant no harm, you mustn't let your sensitivity get the best of you."
Harry shoved the tea service aside and leaned over Banks's desk. "And you must realize that a comment about someone's child, is the most personal comment you could make. Leave her out of your schemes."
"It's just one picture, Harry. Your supporters crave news of your family life, and how well you've adjusted. Our polls show that the incident at O'Haire - "
"No."
"Alright, I can make this even less invasive. How about simply showing up with her at the lecture this evening? Let everyone see you holding her for ten seconds. Just walk across the room, with the facial charm. She'll be protected from crowd photos."
Harry was astonished on top of his anger. "You're not hearing me. I don't take risks where she is concerned. Don't ask me to use her in one of your publicity stunts."
"Harry, don't insult my intentions. You have supporters who love you and would be greatly rewarded by a glimpse of your happiness with Draco"
"Sorry, they'll just have to find their own happiness. I also have enemies. And my relationship with Draco isn't to be used as anyone's model for happiness. We have problems like anyone else."
"Exactly, probably worse. Which is why a picture of you three, holding your own and being a family in spite of your history, speaks more eloquently of your survival, of everyone's survival, than a million words on the topic of your best lecture. It's just one tiny, triumphant picture."
"No, and if you ask me again, I'll walk. My daughter is off limits."
Banks gave a defeated sigh, pausing before reaching inside a drawer and pulling out an envelope. "Your badge, along with pertinant information and maps of the tour grounds in each city. As you know, the train disaster made adjustments necessary."
He added, as Harry glanced inside his packet. "You'll want your dress robes for the Mayor's gala tonight. Everyone wants to see you and Draco there, at least."
They can keep wanting, Harry thought, taking the envelope and escaping as fast as he could.
He left Banks with the intention of finding the stage where his lecture would take place. He still had a few hours, but he'd spent so much time distracted by so many other things, he'd left nothing to acquaint himself with the layout of the festival or the itinerary. Modular buildings and magical exhibits would be making their way to multiple cities. He would have liked to have time to explore, and maybe even have Draco bring Iece out for the kiddie rides and ice cream. Just because he didn't want her posing for a camera, didn't mean he didn't want them all to have fun. The crowds were a place that they could all get lost in, if Draco agreed to dressing down and wearing a cap.
But today was not ideal for it. Not only didn't he have time, he wasn't feeling any better behind that leap to anger in Bank's office.
He clipped on his badge and started to look over the street map. It listed all of the attractions of the opening ceremony, which was the festival itself, and a layout of each stop along the tour. There were places where his badge would get him free, five-star dining as well as fast food. The maps were magical and inside the little symbols for tents and community halls, notable guest speakers kept popping up. Their headshots appeared with textual narration as to what they would be discussing. When his own head popped up over a large green tent, and began enthusiastically to tell him what a great time he was going to have rediscovering the Battle of Hogwarts like it was a theme-park ride, he thought he was going to vomit stomach acid.
When had the most horrific part of his life become a joke? Critics were right to accuse the campaign of rose-colored hindsight, if this was how history was being treated. It was an insult to everyone who had lived and died, and it had his face all over it. No wonder people hated him. He wasn't about to endorse that life for Iece. He knew that the advertising slant was more than likely just another miscommunication among thousands, between organizers, graphic directors, and marketing boards. Still, it was too important a topic to misrepresent.
He had no memory of agreeing to that text. Obviously, his image had been magically manipulated the way nonmagics digitally enhanced their photos and films. For some reason, it took the wind out of him and he suddenly felt that if he didn't put food into his stomach, whether he wanted to or not, he would die on the spot.
There was an infinite amount of cuisine around him to choose from, for food vendors were profiting greatly from the festival. He ate at the vendor with the shortest line after telling the girl inside her mobile booth, "Whatever you've got. Anything." A minute later, he discovered himself quite liking the taste of waffles and chicken meat covered in a sweet burgundy sauce. Having to take his time, sitting down on a bench to eat it, relaxed some tension inside of him. Something about his magic was off and he had to sit a minute, trying to figure out what it was. It was as if he was paying for the superhuman energy that had been advanced to him at yesterday's quidditch practice.
He was two seconds from the decision to locate his lecture tent, then go back to the hotel to crash. Then he saw her.
She stood on the far side of a ring of vendors, just inside the door way of her small tent. At first her face terrified him. He couldn't make sense of it, behind how odd he was feeling. But then he realized it was just a normal face. Only two different colors. He believed the word for her condition was vitiligo. He'd seen it before, but never so pronounced and dramatic.
From the left of her forehead, in a wavy diagonal down to the bottom right of her jaw, she appeared a pale but healthy pink. But on the other side of it, in the middle of her face, the pink dissolved into deep red-brown. That division of pigment disappeared beneath her top. She wore a flimsy shirtdress with a modest cut above her breasts. The garment billowed in sheer black around her thin arms and accentuated a faux leotard bodice that showed through it. Each arm, Harry noticed, was also a different color.
He would've torn his eyes away, once he had her sorted, but she was looking back at him and not letting him go. There was no mistaking it.
He wasn't up for an adventure, no matter how friendly, but he couldn't look away. Her eyes became very intent, even from her distance. Her hair bobbed in the breeze. It was the kind of wild, thick, Afrocentric hair that grew out sideways beyond her shoulders, instead of down them. But she had so much of it that it fell under its own gravity around her, hanging cloak-like around her neck and shoulders. And it was red. Not Weasley red, but dark honey-red. The sun lifted beautiful golden highlights from it.
The woman was waving all of her unusual colors at him, to get his attention. And when he doubted that thought, she lifted her finger and beckoned.
Harry felt his legs make the decision for him, moving and stopping when they were three feet across from her.
"Hello," he started, not sure why he was there. He looked from her quiet smile to the sign outside her tent. It read, 'Mama Midnight. Voodoo Priestess of the Bayou.'
Instead of waiting for him to offer his hand, she took it, pumping it gently. "Finally. What brings you here, Mr. Potter?"
She was one of those people whose prominent overbite added to her smile, not detracted from it. He smiled, but found her question confusing. "Finally?"
She understood his confusion better than he did. "I know what brings you here, but I want to see if you do."
"I'm sorry, I feel like I've missed something."
She laughed. "The spirits said you'd be too polite for your own good. I'm Thella Majorie. Mama Midnight is my professional name. I used every trick I had to get you to notice me. The spirits have led you to my tent because they have a message for you."
She obviously was caught up to speed on who he was. He couldn't say the same. "Spirits?"
She suddenly looked like she'd said too much. Then rushed forward. "Look, everyone knows who you are, so you're not going to take kindly to having personal details thrown at you, just to prove that I'm in contact with people who love you. Who want to help you. But I am. I'm only five years older than you. I've never met your mother, but I know she has long red hair and a habitual pattern of laying her hand to her throat. She says to tell you that she was often there beside you, under the stairs, as you slept. When you thought the toy soldier at the head of your bed had moved, it had. She was doing her best to show you that you were not going through all of that alone. She had not abandoned you."
Harry yanked his hand away. He wasn't sure which of her details insulted his sense of logic and decorum, but her ambush of words managed to trigger every contradictory emotion he had ever felt about communication with his deceased parents, in one swoop. Anyone could make those things up. Most boys get their hands on toy soldiers at one point. Even orphans. Hand me down toys. And every child imagines things that aren't there in the night. He didn't want to be rude, to dismiss any possible talent for mediumship she had, this was the place for it after all, but he'd had enough with strangers assuming it was okay to bring up his personal life.
"I don't care where you're getting your information from. You have no right to speak of something that's none of your business."
"The spirits want to help you. You may be a great wizard, but your ideas about the living and the dead, keep valuable help from you."
"I don't need anyone's help."
The look on Thella's face was growing less serene and more desperate. "She says to tell you that her granddaughter is beautiful. When your child was laughing at her mobile, waking you up at 3:00 AM every morning for two weeks, your mother was playing with her. The veil is very thin at that hour, and you heard one side of the interaction. She says not to worry about Draco. He's committed to you."
He knew he should just turn and walk away, but she was already under his skin. "Why are you doing this to me? What do you possibly have to gain? A business boost?"
Her slender hand pleaded between them. "We want you to come inside the tent. We have information for you."
"We?"
"The spirits who are constantly around you." She stepped closer to him, her voice lowering. "You are being attacked. Psychically. Those who love you, will speak through anyone capable of hearing them, not just me. I bring their messages."
Attacked? That made him study her with something close to patience. It rang true. But he couldn't take the word of a stranger. "If all of that's true, tell me about my father. What does he have to say to me?"
Her confidence faltered. Her eyes dropped to his chest. "What I see confuses me. You summon your father's wisdom, yet two men step forward. They don't share the same worlds."
"Two men? Is one of them Sirius?" He shouldn't give her the answers, but the thought of speaking to Sirius again, excited him.
She shook her head. "No. Your Godfather is present, but it's not him. This man is something else to you. Something primary. He, and the man who looks like you, don't get along. They exist in different worlds."
Harry couldn't hide his disgust at her vagueness and predictability. "And let me guess, I'm in danger." It was Trelawney all over again. Dime store theatrics. He turned from her, but her next words stopped him.
"You seek a man who should be dead, but isn't."
He whirled. "How do you know that?"
Thella backed into the doorway of her tent and held the mosquito netting aside for him. "Come into my parlor, Mr. Potter. The spirits would like a word with you."
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