HP, Prince of Wayulz

[furloughday]

HP, Prince of Wayulz
a WIP
master fic post

This is forever a WIP which is from the POV of Harry, Draco, and Fawkes, because it was written by 3 people.

Mouseover for summary.

The young wizard nursed his firewhiskey. He was slouched at the bar, eyes glazed, a smile playing across his face for no discernible reason. The phone rang.

“Yerse?” The toothless barman answered.

“Yuh, where else would he be on a Wednesday afternoon?” the barman responded mirthlessly. “Phone’s for you.”

And with that, he handed the phone to the young man.

“Harry Potter here,” the young man said into the receiver, “What can I help you with? I mean, er, besides the obvious, ha ha.”

“Oh, oh right, erm, okay,” he stuttered after a pause in which fairly clipped tones had echoed through the phone. And with that, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Tell the Tale, hung up the phone with the chief liaison of wizard-muggle affairs, Percy Weasley.

The young man walked as though someone were after him, or at least as though he thought someone ought to be. Strolling through the streets of London in such a confident way caught the attention of several tourists, decked out in their tracksuit finest. They pointed, whispering to each other whether or not they knew him.

“Must’ve seen him on the telly…p’r’aps Eastenders? No, no, can’t be it…” they muttered. Harry just smiled a contented smile, enjoying the attention he had finally come to realize was his due.

He paused, then apparated into the Ministry of Magic with an unnecessary flourish. After the smoke cleared, he strutted up to the security guard to announce himself.

The security guard was not one to suffer fools, but he bit his tongue. How, precisely, did one tell the savior of the wizarding world to stop preening like a puffed-up popinjay? And what, exactly, was so wrong with him introducing himself as “Harry, Harry Potter…well, I suppose you know that.”

He did know. Who could forget the images of that face, those green eyes shining valiantly as the death of Voldemort was announced? And who could forget the hope associated with that brief, incandescent glory? Sadly, one could also not shake the memory of countless interviews, exclusives that weren’t so exclusive, and a story told so many times over that it was forever seared into every witch and wizard’s memory, whether they wanted to know it or not.

The security guard took his slip of paper, describing the wand, and grunted at Harry. Harry nodded his approval, pleased to interact with the salt of the earth. After years of wondering who he was and what he was meant to do, that one moment at Hogwarts had come to define everything that Harry was. He was the savior of the wizarding world, the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Killed Voldemort, the BWKV! With that knowledge shouting proudly in his brain (as happened whenever any of that old doubt niggled back into his mind), Harry got into the lift and went to Percy Weasley’s office.

As Harry opened the door to the office, Percy catapulted out of his chair, rushing to shake Harry’s hand.

“Hello, Harry, how do you do?”

“How do you do, Percy?”

“Well, why don’t you have a seat?”

Harry sat. Percy looked at him, concerned. “We haven’t seen you much at the Burrow these days. I know Ginny was a bit, well…”Percy trailed off. Harry shrugged.
“It happens. She just couldn’t deal with my success…not that she’s alone in that.”

Harry frowned. The world had not been as kind to him as he had hoped. He quickly fixed his face, though-no one else needed to know that the BWKV ever had doubts.

“Anyhow, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, well, it seems that the muggle royalty have got themselves into a bit of a pickle.”

“A pickle?”

“Yes, a bit of a prickly pickle, I’m afraid. It seems that the muggle Queen Elizabeth had a bit of a fling in her day. Your grandfather, Bertie Evans, seems to have caught her eye one day at the military base she worked at, while helping with the war efforts at the time. Anyhow, turns out she gave birth to a daughter, and your father took responsibility for it, assuming that the child would be granted certain honors and privileges. None came about, and so he settled back into his routine, with his justifiably irked wife. Now, this would be no problem had the Queen actually given birth to her sons, but, well, she didn’t. It seems that the Prince has a bit of a pickle himself. “ Percy allowed himself an uncharacteristically rude guffaw. “Anyhow, this means that the rightful heir to the throne would be the Queen’s daughter, but since she’s dead, the privilege passes on to her child.”

“You mean to tell me that DUDLEY is going to be KING of England?!” Harry spat.

“No…”Percy looked at Harry as one would look at a small child moaning for a treat that they are about to be given. “Harry, you’re going to be King of England. Not to mention several other lovely territories. It’s all explained in this letter”
And for what seemed like the millionth time in his life, Harry’s fate hinged on the contents of a single envelope.

Harry had grabbed the letter and stormed out of the office. He didn’t need an audience as he discovered his fate. Flashbacks of thick glasses and endless shawls floated through the transoms of his mind. He couldn’t help but feel that this did not bode well.

Back at his flat, Harry threw his keys on the table, flopped onto the sofa, and kicked his shoes off with all of the rangy grace of a former quidditch star.
He stared at the front of the envelope, willing the letter within to change into a nice memo, another Order of Merlin or an invitation to the International Confederation of Wizard’s Yuletide Festival.

Sighing, he cracked the seal and pulled out a heavy folded piece of paper.

Dear Harry James Potter,
It seems my little ruse has failed. William and Harry have no more right to the throne than Sir Paul McCartney (lovely fellow, by-the-by). I had long thought that I could stand it for those two boys to come to power, but the mere thought of that oaf Harry (not you, dear) getting the throne makes me ill. For too long, I wrote your grandfather off as an impossible dream-he was fiercely loyal, with grand dreams for us, but fool that I was, I convinced myself that it was his country that he was being loyal to, and not myself. I tricked myself into believing that he never really loved me. Looking back, I realize I was mistaken. After learning about how special Lily was, and how your grandfather never wavered in his support of her, I realized that all the naiveté I had seen in him was just his being so headstrong-never backing down from what he thought was right. But still, I would have to live with my regrets and secrets. By that time I had a husband of my own and a country to look after. I couldn’t concern myself with a man that I had loved. So I left off thinking of them for another day, an easier time.
It seems, however, that there never did get to be an easier time. After learning of Bertie’s and Lily’s deaths, I thought I could leave thoughts of them in the attic of my mind, quickly gathering cobwebs. Then one day, I was walking the corgis and I saw that a newspaper had been left on the path. It was a bit old, but the picture had held up-was, in fact, moving. I saw there a picture of a young man-a young man with Bertie’s eyes. My heart skipped a beat. After years of ignoring my personal regrets, there you were, waving at me from the pages of a paper styling itself The Daily Prophet. I snatched the paper out of the mud and brought it home. I began looking further into what had happened to Lily’s husband (the details of her death had never been made clear to me) and found that she had a son-that young man who had waved so confidently out at me from the paper.
This brings us to the present day. I have arranged for you to be brought to Buckingham Palace. There you will be instructed on the duties of a king by our Assistant Private Secretary. You will learn all of the lessons a king must know. I have reports indicating that you were never one for history-brace yourself. We are preparing to crown you with over a thousand years of a nation’s hopes and dreams and, yes, history. You have my deepest sympathy.
Wishing you well,
Your Grandmother,
Elizabeth

Harry read the letter twice, then sighed. He burrowed further into his sofa, placing the letter over his face to block out the light.

It was in this pose that Harry woke the next morning. He found that he had drooled a little on the letter, but did not let that keep him from his usual cup of tea. After paying the owl for his Daily Prophet, he scanned the help wanted section. This was a habit borne of years of Ginny nagging him to get some real work. And just as then, he skimmed the section, mentally nixing each job as he read the description. Night bus driver…no, too many fans gawping at him; store clerk, Flourish and Blotts…no, too small a job for such an important person; Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic…no, he would never serve under Scrimgeur.

And so the morning went, Harry continually reminding himself of what an important person he was, and how he should not stoop low enough for an entry-level job. He still had some gold left in Gringotts.

But even as he thought it, Harry felt that old twinge of doubt. Maybe Ginny was right, maybe he was wasting his life away, waiting for the next big thing to take on. Harry almost regretted that there were no villains left to fight, no evil yin to his powerfully good yang. And again he reminded himself that only a fool would miss a man who wanted to kill him.

…at least it had been something, a small voice within him persisted.
Harry shook his head, returning the trumpeting voice of the BWKV. This would be his mission, his next lengthy quest. And with that, he apparated out of his apartment and back into the Ministry of Magic.

***

After sorting out how to reach the Assistant Private Secretary, Harry went to exchange some galleons for pounds, was mildly disgusted by the exchange rate, and went and bought some stamps.

Then he once again returned to his apartment, this time to write a letter.
Harry sat, tongue stuck firmly out of the corner of his mouth, quill gripped tightly in hand, not moving.

How, exactly, did one accept the crown? Should he be effusive, eternally thankful that yet another relative had abandoned him only to snatch him up when he became useful? Or should he be modest, bashful, self-deprecating? After years of the latter, Harry elected to be nothing but succinct.

To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to confirm that I am indeed who Her Majesty believes me to be (grandson of Bertram Evans and heir apparent), and to say that I shall be presenting myself at Buckingham Palace, in the foyer, this Thursday, at four o’clock. I expect to be greeted by the Assistant Private Secretary.
Regards,
Harry Potter

Harry reread the letter, folded it into three parts and stuffed it into the envelope, pressing the stamps to the envelope with an unnecessary tenderness. He exhaled sharply, tapped the letter with his wand (sending it to the nearest post box), and sat back at his desk, happy to have a purpose once again.

Of all the madness to encounter, the ill-kempt form of Harry Potter was not what Draco Malfoy had expected to see stumbling into the Royal Conference Room at 4 o'clock this Tuesday afternoon.

Although it was clear some effort had been made to transform the man into something on the right side of presentable, the past few years of living a life of washed-up celebrity shone through the facade bringing to mind a dusty vase, perhaps, or an expensive rug of gold brocade which was now wrinkled and moth-eaten at the edges. Pathetic. Draco pushed his Gucci shades back into place with a tapered, pale index - they had slid down his sharp nose in the three second lapse of all coherent thought when Potter had literally stepped back into his life - and leaned back fractionally so that he was again well in line with the five other Secret Service agents stationed along the back wall of the room. He would blend in. He would do his job. He would hope to God that the other didn't notice him.

Her Majesty's head counselman, Grimply was his name, was now ushering Potter into a chair, all the while speaking to him as if he were a well-adjusted and stable citizen of Great Britain rather than the ego-case of a wizard that Draco knew him to be.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter," the old advisor greeted him. "Once again, thank you for being so calm about all this. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

At what could be misconstrued as a dignified nod from the - God what the hell was going on - Prince of England, the man continued.

"You will find in the yellow folder in front of you all that you could hope to know of how this misunderstanding occurred - lineage charts, dates, timelines, etc. I'll admit, records of your family were scant, but we did our best."

An echo of past rivalries made Draco want to step in with: "His parents are dead, did you know?" But that old barb was more of a double edged sword now. Instead, he stayed still and observed as Potter scratched at an unshaven bit along his neck, stretched, and had the gall to say: "All that's behind us now. Let's just focus on making positive strides for the betterment of this fine country, shall we?"

"Admirable sentiments, sir!" The advisor grasped Potter's hand and shook it affably. "That is exactly the attitude that we need about now."

It was too much. Draco had recognized the line as one that Harry had been fed and then had repeated to the press after the war, again and again until it really meant very little. The ridiculous of this situation, hearing some old wizard jargon here of all places, in the stately walls of Buckingham Palace, was just too overwhelming. Draco scoffed.

All eyes turned to him. The advisor looked scandalized, Potter blinked over at him as if in pain (hangover? a small voice suggested in Draco's mind before catching on to the panicked sentiment of the rest of his brain.) , and even the other Secret Service who had better self-control owing to the fact that they'd actually been hired and trained rather than sent in undercover as Draco had, flinched.

"Something to add?" Grimply challenged, swiveling menacingly towards Draco in his swivel chair.

"Nothing sir," Draco said. "Won't happen again, sir."

There was a long pause in which Grimply assessed him with a level gaze and Potter ran both hands upward through his mane and just, just LEFT the hair there where it was held by grease, presumably. He blinked at Draco through his old, tacky spectacles, but didn't seem to be mentally together enough to recognize his old foe past all the trim expensive muggle-wear. Draco was equal parts relieved and offended.

The advisor seemed finally appeased, if skeptical, and continued with: "Well, Mr. Potter, today is the first day of your new life. I'll be leaving you to be briefed by --"

"Malfoy?" Potter nearly barked out, at last making the connection and cutting the elderly gentleman off mid-sentence.

"Beg pardon?" the advisor asked, obviously unaccustomed to being interrupted twice in one conversation. He could have been McGonagall witnessing the beginning of a feud in Transfigurations.

Potter got up without answering, stalked smoothly to where Malfoy stood, and said with some victory: "It is you. I should have known you'd still be trying to work your way up into high places."

"At least I'm drunk on power and not actually drunk," Malfoy spat out, not being able to contain himself. He vaguely heard a reproving "Mr. Malfoy!" from somewhere over Potter's shoulder. This situation was now completely out of control.

So Draco just gave up, right then. He whipped off his glasses so that he could better address Potter with his signature sneer and asked the obvious question that had undoubtedly plagued the minds of all present since this hoodlum had stumbled in the door: "What is with the bird, Potter?"

Oh good God, I am mangy - mangier by the day. I'm going to be forced to break all of the mirrors in the magical hominoid's house.

Maybe if I do that, the incessant strutting that keeps me from my beauty sleep will cease. Does the bipedal lout really think that I want to resemble his mop of unkempt hair? Maybe it is true that if you live with someone for too long you start to look like one another. In any case, let's not test it. This cannot happen.

God, another day at the pub. Why doesn't he listen when I tell him that the smoke is tarnishing my feathers? Ungangly pedestrian! Buy me my aging cream, you fool! I don't want to encourage self-combustion.

Four years ago, living with the Chosen One seemed like the best option; Dumbledore was dead, Hedwig was dead...I wanted to blame the magical hominoid, but he seemed to suffer as much as I did.

If only I could somehow get across to him the severity of our situation. I cared about her too, but we must move on! If he insists on wallowing away his days reading me articles of his former glory, we might as well both just throw ourselves off the sidewalk and be done with it. Oh, look, he's just done it. Learn how to walk. Your lack of grace is enough to shame the Homo habilis that came before you. Stop feeding me crackers!

Oh, good. Leaving that retched, smoky hell-hole. Sunlight! That's right bitch, I just bit your ear. Now what? I told you: don't apparate with me on your shoulder. I'm a bird! That means I can fly! You're the most unobservant person alive.

This place is a vast improvement...high ceilings to allow a nice updraft, big windows...and who is that shiny boy with amazingly groomed hair?

Harry’s eyes widened with surprise as Fawkes leapt agilely from his shoulder to Malfoy’s and started nuzzling the back of Malfoy’s head.

Malfoy responded with what he presumably thought was a manly squeal.

“You sound like a tea kettle, Malfoy.” Harry remarked, lips turning upward in a barely concealed smirk.

“Yes, well, I was trained for guns, not overzealous phoenixes.” Malfoy was trying to calmly turn his body away from the gigantic bird perched atop him, with little success.

The rest of the Queen’s private office didn’t seem to know what to do. They’d been prepared for a brat, a drunk, a hero-but they hadn’t expected to find any of that within their own secret service.

Many averted their eyes. Grimply began to hum nervously under his breath.

Just as Fawkes began to make gentle cooing noises into Malfoy’s ear, Harry seemed to suddenly understand what was happening.

Malfoy, of all people, was working for the Queen. Harry began looking from Grimply, back to Malfoy, taking on the appearance of one watching a furious tennis match.

“Wait…what are you doing?”

“Trying to stop your ruddy bird from mating with my hair, what does it look like?” Malfoy testily replied.

“No, I mean, what are you doing here, with the Queen’s security forces?”
Malfoy gave Harry a horror-stricken look. He couldn’t believe that this dolt was about to give away his undercover operation. He’d been doing so well so far, and then in walks this idiot, with his idiot bird-although there was no denying it had taste-and…

As Malfoy began turning a delicate shade of pink, Harry seemed to cotton on.

“I mean…er, well, it’s surprising seeing you here. Haven’t seen you since Seventh Year, have I?”

“No. Uh, no, sir, you haven’t.” Malfoy once again assumed an air of stoic confidence. Or, well, as stoic as anyone could be with a large bird pitching woo at their hair.

“Ah, I see you two know each other. Old school chums, I take it?” Grimply seemed relieved to at last have a grasp on the situation. “Well, then, perhaps we’ll need to take that into account when assigning Mr. Potter’s task force.”

“Wha..? Oh, right, well, sure, um…yes?” All of Harry’s self-assuredness had left him. He felt as though he were once again in a gloomy dungeon, with someone who knew much more than him deciding his fate in an arbitrary way. But wait! He was the BWKV! He didn’t have to take this lying down.

“What I mean to say is: I trust that you will consult me in making any decisions regarding staff. I appreciate your consideration. Now, shall I meet the Queen today or…”

The tallest and broadest shouldered of the security guards smiled at this and, pressing an earpiece firmly to his ear, said “Right, Madam.”

“She’s been watching the whole time sir,” he remarked, pointing towards one of the many CCTV cameras in the foyer. “And she thinks that Grimply’s idea is spot on-except that she recommends that Mr. Malfoy, what with his background, would be best served training our young man here on matters of etiquette and order.”

“Etiquette?! What, do you mean manners? He wouldn’t know manners if they bit him in the…”

“Yes, Potter, I can see that I would really be learning from you. Perhaps we shall teach each other?” Draco swiftly interrupted. “Tell Her Majesty that I am honored by her recommendation and am at her disposal.”

Grimply grasped Harry and Draco’s elbows firmly and guided them to a narrow staircase hidden behind a large portrait of Queen Victoria.

“Wait…we’re starting now?” Harry sputtered.

“What, not enough time to sober up?” Malfoy muttered under his breath, as Harry scowled irritably at him.

“The first door on the left should suffice for now. I expect you’ll be able to find anything you should desire in there, but if not, ring my office and I will send help at once.” Grimply said these last words with the clipped self-importance of a seasoned bureaucrat, and turning on his heel, marched back to the remaining security guards to position them at strategic points outside of the stairwell.

Harry’s mouth was slightly ajar as he watched Grimply’s rapid exit.

Everything had changed, so quickly, with so little warning.

Harry closed his mouth, shrugging. He should’ve expected the world to change with no regard for his welfare. It so often did.

Draco led the way in to the room that Grimply had suggested. It was painted a delicate green, and he nodded his approval. It was so nice to see Slytherin colors about. He continued nodding his approval as he took in the variety of furnishings and accessories-there was enough in here to practice everything from a state dinner to a parade. Harry took no notice of his surroundings, except to hunch over in a straight-backed wooden chair and groan.

“What is it, Potter? Too modest for you?” Draco said, mockingly.

Harry’s eyes shone with ire as he turned his face towards Draco, “I don’t suppose I should be surprised to see you here, should I Malfoy? Where power goes, you follow, eh?”

With that he turned his mouth down into a haughty sneer.

“You said that already, Potter. Eurgh, you’ll have the look of spoiled royalty down in no time.” Draco muttered. He daren’t raise his voice-who knew who might be listening?

“Huh,” was all Harry said in reply, taking his flask out of his pocket and unfastening the top. Draco’s eyes widened a fraction before shifting into a judgmental squint.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?” Harry replied.

“You’re honestly going to just sit here and get drunk when…when…we have a job to do!”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in becoming the Queen’s favorite. You’re welcome to do whatever you like, but I swear by Merlin’s beard there’s no way I’m training with the likes of you.” Harry hadn’t realized that he was standing until he felt Draco’s hot breath on his check-he was inches from Draco’s face, glaring at him.

“You…you…” Draco’s pale cheeks flushed pink. He was not used to being at a loss for words. Fawkes was ruffling his feathers, turning his beaky head to and fro, watching the wizards attempt to match wits.

“No, you! I finally get something going in my life, and of course, there you are, like a bad penny” Harry spluttered out.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry that my career got in the way of Potter’s Proud Prince Parade! You do realize of course that everything does not revolve around you. The world has managed to get along fine since you took it upon yourself to become a washed-up, drunken wreck. And now the poor Muggles will have to contend with your canned platitudes and false stern optimism. It’s just…”Draco stopped, brow furrowed.

“Did you hear that?”

“Besides your insane prattling, I haven’t heard much.”

“No, I distinctly heard something…sounded like a house elf.” At that, there was a soft shuffling noise and a gentle, almost inaudible tap at the door.

“Come in!” Harry called, eager for a chance to take a secret swig of firewhisky while Draco’s attention was elsewhere.

Draco seemed to have read his mind, because he snatched the flask as he went to greet the lovely young maid who, head bowed, was nudging a rather large tea tray through the door. “Mr. Grimply said you might be wanting some tea, sirs.”

“Here, let me help you.” Draco said, and took the tray from the young girl, whose eyes grew to Dobby-like proportions.

“Never has a member of the royal family helped me before, sir. You are truly too kind.” And before Draco could finish uttering “I’m not…” she had bowed her way out the door.

Harry snorted derisively after the maid had closed the door. “Of course. You do have that inbred look of royalty about you.”

Draco’s grey eyes turned steely as he replied “That inbred royalty you speak of is your bread and butter now, highness, you should treat it with care. Then again, seeing how you treat the admiration of the wizarding world with about the same amount of care you take in your appearance, I don’t suppose I should be surprised. By the way, there’s a feather in your hair.”

“Wha-FAWKES!” Harry bellowed.

With that, the startled bird guiltily flapped away from Draco and Harry (taking a few bright blond strands with him) and hid behind a chair, squawking murmured reproaches.