Sand Castles & Fingerpaints
Here's Chapter Two. I'm sure there's a better way to do this, but until then, bear with me!
Harry escaped into a side chamber that was spelled to admit Order members, and moved to stare out at the courtyard through the magical, one-way window. He knew he’d catch flak from his friends and family for his speech, but at least he’d escaped the masses until the party. Remus entered first, coming to stand beside him, and gracing him with a small smile.
“You did well, Cub,” the werewolf murmured, and Harry instantly felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He valued Remus’ opinion dearly, and if he had the last Marauder’s support, he could weather any storm.
Harry smiled, and pulled the werewolf into a tight hug. After a long moment, Remus relaxed, relishing in the human contact, and silently thanking Merlin for gracing him with such a loving and generous cub. He was personally glad that Harry had remained true to himself this evening, rather than kowtowing to the Ministry’s demands. His cub had been through so much and deserved to be who he really was, not whom the public demanded of him.
Before they could speak properly about it, Shacklebolt and Tonks entered the room together.
“Alright, Harry?” Kingsley asked. He’d developed dual feelings of protectiveness and respect for the young man during the war.
Harry smiled faintly. “Yes,” he promised. “I’m not good with these events, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” His smile faded. “I’m better at killing things.”
The other three occupants of the room knew better than to contest this statement. Harry’s role in the war was something they’d all been spared from, and they felt he deserved his time and space to come to terms with it.
“That was a Mad Hatter speech, Har,” Tonks said with a grin. “Albus would’ve loved it.” She paused. “Though he probably wouldn’t have mixed so much gritty truth with his quirkiness.”
Harry couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “That’s me… gritty truth mixed with quirkiness.”
“And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Kingsley assured him gravely.
Remus placed a supportive hand on his back, and Harry smiled at him gratefully. Having both spent large periods of their lives without human contact, they accepted it more easily from each other than from others.
At that moment, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny appeared through the doorway. Harry instinctively stiffened, having seen their expressions during his speech. The twins followed them in, trying to trip each other up.
“Hi,” Harry said tentatively, unintentionally mimicking the opening line of his speech. For a long moment no one spoke, so Fred broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Hey, mate!”
“Interesting speech,” George added with a grin.
“Genius outfit.” Fred took up the slack.
“Scrimgeour’s piping mad!”
“And I think the kiddies’ll have nightmares for months.”
Harry gave them a grateful look, and said, “Well, I’m here all week. Half price on Sunday.”
“Harry,” Hermione interjected disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t have said all that.”
“What the bloody hell were you thinking, mate?” Ron demanded. “People adore you, they praise you, they think you’re bloody Merlin reborn!”
“That’s not my fault,” Harry said quietly. “I never asked for any of this.”
“Well, you got it!” Ron retorted. “You’ve got the world at your feet, and you act as though it’s so tough being you!”
“Ron,” Hermione tempered. “That’s not what this is about.”
The redhead snorted. “Bollocks!” He turned to Harry. “Being the Boy Who Lived is your destiny, mate. You admitted it yourself!”
Harry shook his head. “No, I admitted that my destiny was to fulfill the prophecy; to kill or be killed. I agreed to blow Tom Riddle’s fucking head off. I didn’t agree to be anyone’s poster boy! It’s not my fault that the Wizarding world wants to continue to delude itself by deifying a person that doesn’t exist!”
“It’s your responsibility to be their role model,” Hermione said. “Not to show up at an event in your honor looking like a ragamuffin and spouting off nonsense!”
Harry suppressed his mirth, remembering his earlier conversation with Draco. “I wouldn’t be me if I dressed like someone else,” he pointed out.
“Speaking of which,” Ron blustered. “You’ve got money coming out of your ears, mate, but you don’t act like it! You live in a broken-down shack, acting like you’ve lost your marbles, and you don’t even go to any of the parties in your honor. We had to drag you here!”
“Is that what this is about?” Remus intervened, looking affronted on his cub’s behalf. “The fact that Harry’s not going to parties?”
“Yes!” Ron exclaimed. “He’s the Boy Who Lived, he gets invited everywhere, but he doesn’t even act like he appreciates it. It’s always all about him. The war’s over, but we can’t go out and celebrate, because he’s bloody depressed or something!”
“I’m not fit for this life!” Harry said pleadingly. “I’m sorry if you all want me to live it, but I can’t.” He paused, and then added. “I won’t. I’m through being a puppet.”
Hermione regarded him quietly. “Fine, Harry. I can understand that. But I still don’t agree with your conduct tonight.”
He nodded sadly. “I’m sorry that who I am disappoints you, ‘Mione. I just can’t seem to be anything but a freak.”
“Well, I don’t understand!” Ron said angrily. “What about the rest of us what’ve been here for you since day one! What about what we need?”
Harry didn’t bother trying to answer. Ginny kept sending him significant looks and it was distracting. She seemed more concerned about their relationship than his speech at the moment. When he’d broken up with her, he’d said (and felt) that he did it to keep her safe. But even then, to his own ears, that rang false. Everyone knew that the Weasleys were Harry’s second family, so they were already targets. It just hadn’t felt right being with Ginny, and Harry’d allowed himself to blame it on the war and his responsibilities.
Now that the war was over, and he’d ‘saved the day’, she was impatiently waiting for him to drop down on one knee and propose like a prince in a fairytale. They hadn’t actually talked about it, since he’d been hiding out at Godric’s Hollow, acting freakish, and they’d all assumed he was in mourning. He knew he was going to have to give her closure on their relationship. Something just felt inherently wrong about being with Ginny. He’d been so distracted sixth year that he’d unwisely let himself be pulled along in the wake of her conviction that they were meant for each other. Maybe it was because she felt more like a sister than a lover.
Or maybe it had something to do with the intractable urge he’d always felt to rip Malfoy’s perfect, aristocratic clothes from his body and expose what lay beneath. He’d convinced himself in the past that this urge was born of his need to see Malfoy cowering and unkempt, at Harry’s mercy. The trouble was, he didn’t think his next move would be to hex the ex-Slytherin’s arse from here to next week. No, his next move was more likely to involve his hands and Malfoy’s pale skin.
Just then, the rest of the Weasley clan trouped in, accompanied by Moody. The ex-Auror immediately scanned the room for potential threats and escape routes before turning his attention to Harry. Molly looked disturbed and like she badly wanted to light into her adoptive son, but Arthur murmured sharply in her ear and held her back.
Moody looked at Harry, said, “Constant Vigilance,” and then winked. Apparently his speech was to Alastor’s liking, which shouldn’t have surprised him given that he spent the better part of it talking about the enemy within.
McGonagall entered the room briskly, bringing all conversation to a halt. She eyed Harry shrewdly, but kept her peace. “It’s time to go to the party,” she informed them. Looking warily at her old student, she added, “The Minister wants to announce your entrance.” Her pinched expression clearly showed her displeasure.
“Is the monkey required to dance as well as clap?” Harry murmured bitterly.
Ron scowled at him.
Harry had a headache the size of Dudley’s arse. In fact, Harry could say without question that he’d rather sing an ode to said arse than be in his present location: standing in the anteroom to the reception hall waiting for Scrimgeour to announce him. He felt like he was at a Muggle wedding. The only thing he was missing was a bride. Which was, of course, when Malfoy stepped out of the shadows to greet him for the second time that evening.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Draco drawled.
Harry’s only response was to start humming.
Draco raised a brow. “What song is that?”
“Here Comes The Bride,” Harry grumbled.
“Ah. Still drunk, then?” Draco surmised.
“Not really. I was just thinking how much this ridiculous affair is like a Muggle wedding reception, and that all I was missing was a bride, and suddenly there you were.” He smirked, examining Draco carefully. “Do you feature tulle or white satin, Malfoy?”
“You really have gone ‘round the twist,” the ex-Slytherin decided, eyeing him with awe. Pouting a bit, he added, “And I certainly wouldn’t be the bride in this situation.”
“Oh?” Harry smiled, giving Draco the once-over again. “You’re definitely prettier than me, not to mention that you’re a fashion whore and an absolute nutter about your hair.”
“I am not!” Draco sputtered indignantly.
Harry took a step right into Draco’s personal space. Emerald eyes locked with silvery-gray, and then he struck. Before Draco knew it, his hair had been thoroughly mussed.
“Eeeek!” he yelped manfully. “My hair!” He then proceeded to pull out a mirror and a comb, and put every last strand back in place.
“You’re definitely the bride,” Harry concluded, and then a thought struck him. An evil, Slytherinish thought. “Hey, Bridezilla, would you like to walk down the aisle with me?”
Draco’s sneer faded into confused trepidation. “What?”
“When Scrimgeour announces me, we go in together, arm in arm,” Harry explained, grinning devilishly.
“He’s not going to announce me, you twat,” Draco pointed out.
Harry shook his head. “He’ll have to. That’s what makes it great. You said he’s going to find a way to humiliate you. This way, we can make him look like a chump.” He paused. “Can you just imagine the expression on his face when his golden boy marches into the ballroom arm-in-arm with a well-known puppy defiler?”
Draco sighed. “Didn’t we already have this conversation, Potter? The one where I explained why we’d spend the party on opposite sides of the room? You, surrounded by fans and groupies, and me skulking around the punch bowl with Snape?”
“Bollocks to that,” Harry said decisively.
“Potter,” Draco murmured, attempting to reason with him. “Heroes and antiheroes don’t mix.”
Harry’s eyes darkened. “What about assassins and antiheroes? Can they mix?” he snarled. “I won’t let them make you feel like your sacrifice meant nothing.”
Draco eyed him carefully, noting that their playful banter had turned quite serious. He’d become a spy after the death of Dumbledore, relying on Snape to guide and protect him. Somehow, they’d both come through it alive, but they were not liked or trusted by the Wizarding world. Most assumed they were double agents, selling secrets to both sides to suit their goals. Harry had been a staunch defender, and was quite literally the only reason they hadn’t been given a one-way ticket to Azkaban for the crimes they’d committed while acting as Death Eaters. It had been his last public act before dropping the Boy Who Lived façade and taking up fingerpainting.
“I don’t know, Potter,” he answered honestly. But when Scrimgeour’s voice floated through the door, listing off the Seven Wonders of Harry Potter, Draco held out an arm for him to take. “Walk me down the aisle?”
Harry met his eyes, and the intensity of his emerald gaze was staggering. Then, with a playful grin, he looped his arm through Draco’s and they stepped through the door. Their entrance was met by dead silence. Not the friendly, respectful, awed silence that Harry would’ve received by himself, but a wary, distrustful silence. Harry cast Sonorus so that several hundred partygoers could hear his voice.
“Got room for another war hero?” he asked with deceptive levity. His dark gaze dared anyone to argue.
“Ah…” Scrimgeour stammered, forced to lock step. “With Harry tonight is Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and spy.”
Harry glared at the less than glowing review. “It’s like I said earlier. We wouldn’t have won the war without our friendly, neighborhood vigilantes and our loyal spies, such as Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape.” Canceling the Sonorus, he turned his back on the Minister and led Draco further into the ballroom. Leaning in, he whispered, “Will this make things worse for you two?”
“No, Potter,” Draco replied with an elegant snort. “You’ve single-handedly managed to save us from utter humiliation at the hands of that twat. Now that you’ve openly spoken up for us, his hands are tied.”
Snape eyed them from across the room and raised a brow.
“I don’t think he agrees with you,” Harry murmured.
Draco shook his head. “No, that’s Snape-speak for ‘thank you’.”
“Ah.” Harry grinned, causing onlookers to gasp in surprise at their Hero’s ease with a wizard who was not only his childhood nemesis, but also a known Death Eater.
Harry escaped into a side chamber that was spelled to admit Order members, and moved to stare out at the courtyard through the magical, one-way window. He knew he’d catch flak from his friends and family for his speech, but at least he’d escaped the masses until the party. Remus entered first, coming to stand beside him, and gracing him with a small smile.
“You did well, Cub,” the werewolf murmured, and Harry instantly felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He valued Remus’ opinion dearly, and if he had the last Marauder’s support, he could weather any storm.
Harry smiled, and pulled the werewolf into a tight hug. After a long moment, Remus relaxed, relishing in the human contact, and silently thanking Merlin for gracing him with such a loving and generous cub. He was personally glad that Harry had remained true to himself this evening, rather than kowtowing to the Ministry’s demands. His cub had been through so much and deserved to be who he really was, not whom the public demanded of him.
Before they could speak properly about it, Shacklebolt and Tonks entered the room together.
“Alright, Harry?” Kingsley asked. He’d developed dual feelings of protectiveness and respect for the young man during the war.
Harry smiled faintly. “Yes,” he promised. “I’m not good with these events, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” His smile faded. “I’m better at killing things.”
The other three occupants of the room knew better than to contest this statement. Harry’s role in the war was something they’d all been spared from, and they felt he deserved his time and space to come to terms with it.
“That was a Mad Hatter speech, Har,” Tonks said with a grin. “Albus would’ve loved it.” She paused. “Though he probably wouldn’t have mixed so much gritty truth with his quirkiness.”
Harry couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “That’s me… gritty truth mixed with quirkiness.”
“And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Kingsley assured him gravely.
Remus placed a supportive hand on his back, and Harry smiled at him gratefully. Having both spent large periods of their lives without human contact, they accepted it more easily from each other than from others.
At that moment, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny appeared through the doorway. Harry instinctively stiffened, having seen their expressions during his speech. The twins followed them in, trying to trip each other up.
“Hi,” Harry said tentatively, unintentionally mimicking the opening line of his speech. For a long moment no one spoke, so Fred broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Hey, mate!”
“Interesting speech,” George added with a grin.
“Genius outfit.” Fred took up the slack.
“Scrimgeour’s piping mad!”
“And I think the kiddies’ll have nightmares for months.”
Harry gave them a grateful look, and said, “Well, I’m here all week. Half price on Sunday.”
“Harry,” Hermione interjected disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t have said all that.”
“What the bloody hell were you thinking, mate?” Ron demanded. “People adore you, they praise you, they think you’re bloody Merlin reborn!”
“That’s not my fault,” Harry said quietly. “I never asked for any of this.”
“Well, you got it!” Ron retorted. “You’ve got the world at your feet, and you act as though it’s so tough being you!”
“Ron,” Hermione tempered. “That’s not what this is about.”
The redhead snorted. “Bollocks!” He turned to Harry. “Being the Boy Who Lived is your destiny, mate. You admitted it yourself!”
Harry shook his head. “No, I admitted that my destiny was to fulfill the prophecy; to kill or be killed. I agreed to blow Tom Riddle’s fucking head off. I didn’t agree to be anyone’s poster boy! It’s not my fault that the Wizarding world wants to continue to delude itself by deifying a person that doesn’t exist!”
“It’s your responsibility to be their role model,” Hermione said. “Not to show up at an event in your honor looking like a ragamuffin and spouting off nonsense!”
Harry suppressed his mirth, remembering his earlier conversation with Draco. “I wouldn’t be me if I dressed like someone else,” he pointed out.
“Speaking of which,” Ron blustered. “You’ve got money coming out of your ears, mate, but you don’t act like it! You live in a broken-down shack, acting like you’ve lost your marbles, and you don’t even go to any of the parties in your honor. We had to drag you here!”
“Is that what this is about?” Remus intervened, looking affronted on his cub’s behalf. “The fact that Harry’s not going to parties?”
“Yes!” Ron exclaimed. “He’s the Boy Who Lived, he gets invited everywhere, but he doesn’t even act like he appreciates it. It’s always all about him. The war’s over, but we can’t go out and celebrate, because he’s bloody depressed or something!”
“I’m not fit for this life!” Harry said pleadingly. “I’m sorry if you all want me to live it, but I can’t.” He paused, and then added. “I won’t. I’m through being a puppet.”
Hermione regarded him quietly. “Fine, Harry. I can understand that. But I still don’t agree with your conduct tonight.”
He nodded sadly. “I’m sorry that who I am disappoints you, ‘Mione. I just can’t seem to be anything but a freak.”
“Well, I don’t understand!” Ron said angrily. “What about the rest of us what’ve been here for you since day one! What about what we need?”
Harry didn’t bother trying to answer. Ginny kept sending him significant looks and it was distracting. She seemed more concerned about their relationship than his speech at the moment. When he’d broken up with her, he’d said (and felt) that he did it to keep her safe. But even then, to his own ears, that rang false. Everyone knew that the Weasleys were Harry’s second family, so they were already targets. It just hadn’t felt right being with Ginny, and Harry’d allowed himself to blame it on the war and his responsibilities.
Now that the war was over, and he’d ‘saved the day’, she was impatiently waiting for him to drop down on one knee and propose like a prince in a fairytale. They hadn’t actually talked about it, since he’d been hiding out at Godric’s Hollow, acting freakish, and they’d all assumed he was in mourning. He knew he was going to have to give her closure on their relationship. Something just felt inherently wrong about being with Ginny. He’d been so distracted sixth year that he’d unwisely let himself be pulled along in the wake of her conviction that they were meant for each other. Maybe it was because she felt more like a sister than a lover.
Or maybe it had something to do with the intractable urge he’d always felt to rip Malfoy’s perfect, aristocratic clothes from his body and expose what lay beneath. He’d convinced himself in the past that this urge was born of his need to see Malfoy cowering and unkempt, at Harry’s mercy. The trouble was, he didn’t think his next move would be to hex the ex-Slytherin’s arse from here to next week. No, his next move was more likely to involve his hands and Malfoy’s pale skin.
Just then, the rest of the Weasley clan trouped in, accompanied by Moody. The ex-Auror immediately scanned the room for potential threats and escape routes before turning his attention to Harry. Molly looked disturbed and like she badly wanted to light into her adoptive son, but Arthur murmured sharply in her ear and held her back.
Moody looked at Harry, said, “Constant Vigilance,” and then winked. Apparently his speech was to Alastor’s liking, which shouldn’t have surprised him given that he spent the better part of it talking about the enemy within.
McGonagall entered the room briskly, bringing all conversation to a halt. She eyed Harry shrewdly, but kept her peace. “It’s time to go to the party,” she informed them. Looking warily at her old student, she added, “The Minister wants to announce your entrance.” Her pinched expression clearly showed her displeasure.
“Is the monkey required to dance as well as clap?” Harry murmured bitterly.
Ron scowled at him.
Harry had a headache the size of Dudley’s arse. In fact, Harry could say without question that he’d rather sing an ode to said arse than be in his present location: standing in the anteroom to the reception hall waiting for Scrimgeour to announce him. He felt like he was at a Muggle wedding. The only thing he was missing was a bride. Which was, of course, when Malfoy stepped out of the shadows to greet him for the second time that evening.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Draco drawled.
Harry’s only response was to start humming.
Draco raised a brow. “What song is that?”
“Here Comes The Bride,” Harry grumbled.
“Ah. Still drunk, then?” Draco surmised.
“Not really. I was just thinking how much this ridiculous affair is like a Muggle wedding reception, and that all I was missing was a bride, and suddenly there you were.” He smirked, examining Draco carefully. “Do you feature tulle or white satin, Malfoy?”
“You really have gone ‘round the twist,” the ex-Slytherin decided, eyeing him with awe. Pouting a bit, he added, “And I certainly wouldn’t be the bride in this situation.”
“Oh?” Harry smiled, giving Draco the once-over again. “You’re definitely prettier than me, not to mention that you’re a fashion whore and an absolute nutter about your hair.”
“I am not!” Draco sputtered indignantly.
Harry took a step right into Draco’s personal space. Emerald eyes locked with silvery-gray, and then he struck. Before Draco knew it, his hair had been thoroughly mussed.
“Eeeek!” he yelped manfully. “My hair!” He then proceeded to pull out a mirror and a comb, and put every last strand back in place.
“You’re definitely the bride,” Harry concluded, and then a thought struck him. An evil, Slytherinish thought. “Hey, Bridezilla, would you like to walk down the aisle with me?”
Draco’s sneer faded into confused trepidation. “What?”
“When Scrimgeour announces me, we go in together, arm in arm,” Harry explained, grinning devilishly.
“He’s not going to announce me, you twat,” Draco pointed out.
Harry shook his head. “He’ll have to. That’s what makes it great. You said he’s going to find a way to humiliate you. This way, we can make him look like a chump.” He paused. “Can you just imagine the expression on his face when his golden boy marches into the ballroom arm-in-arm with a well-known puppy defiler?”
Draco sighed. “Didn’t we already have this conversation, Potter? The one where I explained why we’d spend the party on opposite sides of the room? You, surrounded by fans and groupies, and me skulking around the punch bowl with Snape?”
“Bollocks to that,” Harry said decisively.
“Potter,” Draco murmured, attempting to reason with him. “Heroes and antiheroes don’t mix.”
Harry’s eyes darkened. “What about assassins and antiheroes? Can they mix?” he snarled. “I won’t let them make you feel like your sacrifice meant nothing.”
Draco eyed him carefully, noting that their playful banter had turned quite serious. He’d become a spy after the death of Dumbledore, relying on Snape to guide and protect him. Somehow, they’d both come through it alive, but they were not liked or trusted by the Wizarding world. Most assumed they were double agents, selling secrets to both sides to suit their goals. Harry had been a staunch defender, and was quite literally the only reason they hadn’t been given a one-way ticket to Azkaban for the crimes they’d committed while acting as Death Eaters. It had been his last public act before dropping the Boy Who Lived façade and taking up fingerpainting.
“I don’t know, Potter,” he answered honestly. But when Scrimgeour’s voice floated through the door, listing off the Seven Wonders of Harry Potter, Draco held out an arm for him to take. “Walk me down the aisle?”
Harry met his eyes, and the intensity of his emerald gaze was staggering. Then, with a playful grin, he looped his arm through Draco’s and they stepped through the door. Their entrance was met by dead silence. Not the friendly, respectful, awed silence that Harry would’ve received by himself, but a wary, distrustful silence. Harry cast Sonorus so that several hundred partygoers could hear his voice.
“Got room for another war hero?” he asked with deceptive levity. His dark gaze dared anyone to argue.
“Ah…” Scrimgeour stammered, forced to lock step. “With Harry tonight is Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and spy.”
Harry glared at the less than glowing review. “It’s like I said earlier. We wouldn’t have won the war without our friendly, neighborhood vigilantes and our loyal spies, such as Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape.” Canceling the Sonorus, he turned his back on the Minister and led Draco further into the ballroom. Leaning in, he whispered, “Will this make things worse for you two?”
“No, Potter,” Draco replied with an elegant snort. “You’ve single-handedly managed to save us from utter humiliation at the hands of that twat. Now that you’ve openly spoken up for us, his hands are tied.”
Snape eyed them from across the room and raised a brow.
“I don’t think he agrees with you,” Harry murmured.
Draco shook his head. “No, that’s Snape-speak for ‘thank you’.”
“Ah.” Harry grinned, causing onlookers to gasp in surprise at their Hero’s ease with a wizard who was not only his childhood nemesis, but also a known Death Eater.