Fic: The Death of a Soul, A Blowjob Beneath a Table, and the Rain of Toads that Followed (H/D, Adult
Title: The Death of a Soul, A Blowjob Beneath a Table, and the Rain of Toads That Followed
Author: phaballa
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco; also featuring a Very Depressed and Tragic Snape, and a Somewhat Harried, Often Frustrated Remus
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or his associates. That happy right belongs to JK Rowling, etc.
Warnings: See title. Also drugs.
Summary: Severus Snape was dying. Not in the way that one normally thinks of as dying, what with the failing of body and mind and so forth. He was barely fifty years old after all, and considering his genetic makeup (recent history notwithstanding, of course, and adjusting for his rather disgusting Muggle father whose blood would no doubt decrease his life span by no less than five years) Severus had at least another seventy-five years left to live. He was in his prime, really, but instead of being on his third glory-seeking wife and seventh trollopy mistress he was stuck inside this school, dying.
Author's notes: Originally written for merry_smutmas as a gift for the lovely ishafel. This fic is on crack, and for that I am truly sorry. It's meant to be based on the film Magnolia and the last few lines are taken from that. Thanks to my beta, petulantgod who not only came up with the ending and really helped the entire fic not suck so much, but also made people think I'm British, w00t!
Yet More Comments: And a big thanks to everyone over at merry_smutmas who read and reviewed. I got some wonderful comments and a very nice response there, despite the fact that this fic is totally on drugs.
The Death of a Soul, A Blowjob Beneath a Table, and the Rain of Toads That Followed
As reported by the Southampton Soothsayer in March of 1879, the account of the kidnapping of one Alexandra Glass, age eight, daughter to the famous Astrologist Augustus Glass, who invented the Glass-Hayburn arithmantical equation used to calculate the aural patterns of stars. Her body was never recovered and the two men accused of the crime received the dementor's kiss, their souls sucked from their bodies with only the faintest glimmer of a trial. After all, when the daughter of one of the magical community's most eminent magicologists is taken and (probably) murdered, there isn't much to say in the accused persons' defence.
Ten years later Miss Glass walked calmly into her father's house at Black Forest Park on the arm of a man called Black who claimed to have found her wandering the Wakefield Woods, living among the dryads and obliviated beyond comprehension.
Glass was delighted to have his daughter back, but she never quite recovered from the deaths of the two men who were executed for her alleged kidnapping. A year later she took her own life; her suicide note was addressed to ones Barnabus Forest and Joseph Park, her accused kidnappers.
Three men: Black, Forest, and Park. Black Forest Park. And I would like to think this was only a matter of chance.
As reported in the Birmingham Gazette in June of 1958, the story of an explosion, the massive quantities of water Summoned by Auror John O'Keife used to extinguish the resulting flames, and the corpse of one Ryan Rourke found once the smoke had cleared.
Rourke-husband and father of two, well-liked and respected in his community-had accidentally been Summoned along with the nearly one thousand litres of water from Rourke's backyard swimming pool, where he'd been experimenting with underwater breathing charms.
The story would end there, except that this was not the first time Rourke and O'Keife had… met, if you can properly call it that. In fact, they had encountered each other only two nights previous at one of the infamous Knockturn Alley auctions. Rourke was the auctioneer, a day job to support his magical experiments, and O'Keife was on the losing side of a bidding war for a very important and very ugly collectible figurine of Merlin said to be carved by the wizard himself. Frustrated by his loss (and rather drunk besides, this narrator will have you know), O'Keife attacked Rourke in a fit of rage and had to be thrown out of the auction, all the while screaming near-incoherent death threats at the auctioneer who he blamed for his loss.
Two days later Rourke's body was found amidst the rubble of the explosion and subsequent fire quelled by Auror O'Keife. His heart failed during the Summons, although his underwater breathing apparatus remained intact during the entire ordeal.
And I am trying to believe this was all a matter of chance.
As reported in The Daily Prophet November 1, 1981, the story of a young man and his small family hidden by the Fidelius Charm who were murdered in their own house. All but the man's small son, who miraculously survived the attack with only a single scar.
The man, respected and loved almost universally, had been betrayed by a dear friend, and the attacker, it seems, had been betrayed as well, for when he attempted the Killing Curse on young Harry Potter, it was he, rather, who was slain.
Only later was it discovered that in point of fact the very reason the attacker, He Who Must Not Be Named, attempted such a thing was down to the word of one of his followers who had overheard a prophecy stating that the Potter boy would be his only major threat. In attempting to murder Harry Potter while he was still a defenceless child, the Dark Lord sealed his own fate and vanquished himself in the process.
Not only that, the very man who had overheard said prophecy later became a professor at Hogwarts School teaching potions, instructing the very same child he had sent his master to murder ten years previous.
Is this just one of those things that happened? Can we really delude ourselves into thinking that this is just a matter of chance? A simple coincidence?
No. These things happen for a reason. And they happen all the time.
At times it seemed like Harry Potter's life resembled less of a coherent narrative and more of a series of near-misses and chance escapes. People called him the Boy Who Lived, but Harry tended to think of himself as the Boy Who Survived. Or sometimes, when he was really bored waiting for a breakthrough, the Boy Who Sat Around Uselessly on His Bum, or the Boy Who Waited While Chewing His Nails Into Nubs.
As it turned out, going off on quests to find missing bits of an evil Dark Lord's soul wasn't nearly as interesting as some might have you believe. Then again, it was better than sitting through another year of lectures, exams, and house politics. And once Harry had finally done it, finally found the six horcruxes (Horcruces, Hermione would say with a sniff, that's the proper plural, honestly, and if one more person says, ‘patronuses' I swear I am going to write the Department of Naming Things an extremely nasty letter), and of course slaughtered Voldemort horribly on the field of battle (which had been more like a small, vacant lot, but regardless), well then…
Then came the really boring part.
Voldemort was dead. Harry knew he should be happy about it. He should rejoice and open champagne and dance in the streets (all right, maybe not dance because he rather failed at that particular art form and he'd no desire to show off what an excruciating idiot he could, at times, resemble), but instead he just felt… lost. And sort of sad. Not about Voldemort, because that would be seriously fucked up, being sad about the death of the most evil man…thing… to ever sort of live. More sad because now he didn't have anything to do with his life.
Hell, he hadn't even finished Hogwarts, so the whole part where he would find a career and all that normal growing up stuff was sort of lost on him.
When he expressed his concern to Hermione, she came up with what (for her) seemed like the perfect solution: they should all three spend the summer following Voldemort's demise studying and catching up, at the end of which Harry would use his influence as Voldemort's vanquisher to force the N.E.W.T. examiners into holding a special session. The plan didn't seem like much fun to Harry, but then again neither was wandering around Grimmauld Place listlessly (there was only so much time he could spend playing his new favourite game-Throw Things At Kreacher).
So they hired on Remus Lupin as a tutor and Harry, Ron, and Hermione settled in for a long summer of revising and memorization. Ron's mum was so pleased that they'd decided to go for N.E.W.T.s after all that she made them large batches of brownies and biscuits and sweets on an almost daily basis, which Harry wouldn't touch because the last thing he wanted was to become one of those sad ex-heroes with a giant gut hanging out over the waistband of his trousers going on to anyone who would listen about his glory days.
It's sort of ironic, then, that that's almost precisely what ended up happening, although without the bit about the giant gut. Harry, after all, had always been sort of underfed and malnourished-looking, a bit like a runt kitten that should've been drowned at birth, actually. Lucky for the rest of us he wasn't, what with the whole vanquishing the Dark Lord thing, but all the same, he never really did anything of importance after that.
And what was more, he never wanted to.
"Er. Hello. This is Harry. Er, I work in law enforcement, MLES actually, out of London? And erm, what else? I'm twenty-nine years old, getting up there a bit I suppose, but then if we're all going to live to be a hundred and fifty, in the grand scheme of things it's not all that ancient. I like um, films and books. Nothing too stressful because my work is fairly stressful. I'm looking for someone like that-laidback, you know, and er, kind. God, I sound like a sentimental idiot. Just trying to be honest here, you know? I'm not looking for a shag, that's the thing. I'm really interested in meeting someone special who likes quiet things. And, erm, if you do too, maybe owl me, yeah? Right. So, er-"
Harry Potter's days were pretty much all the same. Wake up. Clean his teeth. Wash his face. Put on his uniform and strap on his wand. Breakfast, then work.
Working for the MLES wasn't nearly as exciting as he thought it would be when he decided to join up, but in the end he hadn't had the energy for Auror training (another two years on top of enough N.E.W.T.s to murder a horse, and honestly, shouldn't killing the most evil Dark Wizard ever count for something?) so he'd gone for this gig instead, and it was all right. Not fantastic, not terribly exciting, but he got to patrol Diagon and Knockturn, respond to calls in his jurisdiction, and stop over at Fortescue's for the occasional sundae.
When Harry got his first major call of the day, he was enjoying one of said sundaes and was forced to leave it behind with a reluctant glance backward before he Apparated to the location point, a towering five-story flat clear across the Alley on the far side of Gringotts. The building looked as if it might topple over at any moment, vaguely reminding Harry of the Burrow, especially with the racket going on on the top floor.
Domestic disturbances. God, how Harry loathed them.
With a sigh he slipped through the front door and climbed the stairs to the top, feeling slightly out of breath once he finally reached the top. The resident of number five seemed distinctly displeased to see him.
"Whatchoo want?" she grunted.
"Hello, Miss. My name is Officer Porter (his alias, because it wouldn't do to have people fawning over the famous Harry Potter while he was attempting to enforce the law). I received word of a disturbance at this residence and I'm here to look things over."
The woman, a rather stout, angry looking thing, glared at him from the rather small slit between the door and its frame where she had cracked the door open just enough to see him.
"Nufink's being disturbed here and there weren't no calls made neither."
"The call didn't originate from your flat, Miss. It was, ah, the downstairs neighbour, I believe."
"That trash? Deals in doxy dust he does, and I seen men-strange looking things, mind you-going in and out all times of night. ‘S him you should be bothering, not me. There ain't nufink here."
Just then a crash came from inside the flat. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Nevertheless, Miss, I will need to have a look."
When the women seemed disinclined to move, Harry was forced to shove the door open on her and slip inside uninvited, much to the dismay of the woman, who decided to show her displeasure by screaming directly into Harry's face.
"Here now, you ain't got the right to go barging into people's private homes and things! Who do you think you are? You can't just-"
"I'm an officer of the law, Miss," Harry said loudly, pulling out his wand and stepping further into the rather shabbily decorated room. "Is there anyone else here?"
"Yer here, ain'tcha?" she yelled.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Aside from the two of us, Miss, is anyone else here?"
"No! Now you leave, why doncha?"
Another crash from further into the flat and Harry swung around to point his wand at the woman, ropes flying out of it to wrap around her. Her eyes were wide with panic and she was yelling again.
"Don't you fucking go back there! Don't you dare!" As Harry headed down the hallway for the back room-- "Don't you go in my bedroom!" she screamed, hopping around comically in an attempt to follow him. "Don't you look in my closet, you bastard! Don't you even!"
Harry paused in front of the closet and yanked the door open. "Miss!" he yelled back to her, resisting the urge to smile (finding a bloody, struggling man with a sheet wrapped round him in someone's closet was not, in general, a reason for smiling), "what's this?"
"That's not mine!"
Shaking his head in bemusement, Harry pressed the tiny button his wrist watch that activated the voice charm. "This is Porter, unit seven, requesting backup on a possible 733. Please advise."
Now this would be exciting. It wasn't everyday, after all, that a simple domestic disturbance turned out to be a possible homicide. Yes, life was good.
Severus Snape was dying.
Not in the way that one normally thinks of as dying, what with the failing of body and mind and so forth. He was barely fifty years old after all, and considering his genetic makeup (recent history notwithstanding, of course, and adjusting for his rather disgusting Muggle father whose blood would no doubt decrease his life span by no less than five years) Severus had at least another seventy-five years left to live. He was in his prime, really, but instead of being on his third glory-seeking wife and seventh trollopy mistress he was stuck inside this school, dying.
Again, not literally. That would be far too melodramatic for even Severus to consider. He tended instead to think of it as a metaphoric death--the death of a soul. Sometimes when he was alone in his office (if by alone one meant surrounded by portraits that never bloody well shut up, thank you very much), he whispered the catchphrase to himself, his newest mantra: the death of a soul. His whispers were invariably followed immediately by a chorus of scoffings and not a few eyerollings from previous headmasters, but honestly, none of them could truly understand Severus' pain.
He had failed, over and over. And now, well... Now he was dying and there was nothing to be done for it.
"You're not dying," Remus Lupin would tell him over tea afternoons in that patient, ever-so-slightly patronising tone. The man wore sweater vests and turned into a great hairy beast once a month though, so honestly, who did he think he was kidding, attempting to dispense advice?
"This school is killing me," Severus always insisted, knowing that truly, no one could ever understand his pain.
"Then stop whinging about it and get yourself out," Lupin told him. His calm logic in the face of Severus' flailing (not to mention dying) soul was infuriating, to say the least.
"I can't." To this Lupin raised one eyebrow, again looking infuriatingly placid even as Severus' nostrils flared passionately in what was no doubt a very unbecoming manner (his nose already being abnormally large and thus completely ill-equipped for flareage.)
"Is this that thing about Draco Malfoy again?"
"I betrayed him, Lupin. I don't expect someone of your moronic Gryffindor tendencies to understand the dishonour that accompanies such an action."
This time Lupin actually rolled his eyes, which Severus thought extremely disrespectful of a headmaster of Hogwarts School. "Oh, I rather think I do understand, actually. You're punishing yourself with this position. Really, Severus, it would be much easier to put an advert in the Prophet-Naughty boy seeks dominatrix to purge him of past transgressions. Own equipment a plus but not required. "
"I betrayed him," Severus replied sullenly, ignoring the bit about the dominatrix despite it sounding rather intriguing. He wondered how anonymous those Prophet personals were, anyway, and whether he could trust the publishers…
"You can't make up for it by saving everyone else. The students despise you, you know. You're not doing them any favours."
"Do shut up."
The main problem with being MLES, Harry had found over the past seven years, was that all the exciting cases were invariably reassigned to the Auror division and the MLES officer who'd opened the case got shunted right back out into the Alley to go hunt down traffic violators and settle minor disputes. Which was exactly how Harry found himself being ushered out of number five by what Harry considered to be an overly-smug Auror with a seriously condescending attitude. And honestly, he was Harry fucking Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord! Why could no one seem to remember this?
Before he knew it Harry was standing on the landing staring at the peeling white surface of number five's door, his wand hanging uselessly from his fingers. Damn Aurors and their damn smugness.
Draco had plans for the day. And all right, so maybe those plans consisted of sleeping off his hangover, waking up to snort some doxy dust, and listening to the new Weird Sisters album as loudly as his speakers could possibly get. But instead some wanker--"Bloody wanker!"--had to start knocking on the sodding door and would. Not. Stop.
"Fucking bloody shit bugger!" Draco screamed, only to discover that the whole bit with the Weird Sisters album, et cetera, had already happened, or possibly was still happening from the night before, and he couldn't actually hear himself yelling over the noise. Not that that stopped the banging on the door from echoing through the whole bloody flat. Oh no. Only MLES could possibly be that incredibly rude and annoying.
It was at that moment that Draco realized that lying in bed still trembling slightly from whatever it was he'd done the night before (he thought there might have been a very large, black man involved, as he distinctly remembered the lovely, lovely sight of a perfectly straight line of white powder against black skin. A back maybe, lower back… yes, and the man had definitely been large, at least that's what his protesting muscles were telling him) was probably not the best way to handle MLES at his front door.
They might barge in unannounced (aside from the banging which, obviously did not count) and see things they shouldn't, and then Draco would end up in Azkaban with no drugs and no men, and there would probably be head lice as well.
The idea of head lice finally got him up. Crossing the bedroom was a chore what with the piles of dirty… everything strewn about. And then there was the matter of hiding all the doxy dust spread out on the coffee table. For a moment Draco panicked because really, where does one hide such a vast quantity of illicit substances? Kitchen cupboards were no good; the MLES weren't that stupid, and besides which he had already stored his provisions in there, mainly coffee and chocolate, but mostly coffee. Bathtub was no good, as it leaked and could possibly contaminate said illicit substances. Re: toilet, see above.
There was only one thing for it. He magicked the loose dust into what he fondly thought of as his Drug Sack and shoved it underneath a pile of what appeared to be dirty clothing and even dirtier dishes. In fact, he thought that one of the dishes might actually be growing its own city in mould on the front, but he decided closer examination at this time wouldn't be prudent. He tapped his speakers to cut off the music-the Weird Sisters were losing their touch, he thought to himself as he picked his way through the piles of disgustingness toward the front door, and really they should consider taking some time between records to actually write some decent lyrics instead of churning out the absolute crap that passed for music these days. And as he passed by the coffee table he noticed so stray doxy dust-couldn't have that, MLES wouldn't be too keen on it-so he decided the only thing for it was to lick it off the table, just to be safe, and was only mildly repulsed when his tongue threatened to stick to the rather manky surface of the imitation wood veneer.
It was only upon later reflection that Draco realized that probably wasn't the brightest thing to do, as doxy dust tended to make him rather unpredictable and petulant. Alright well, no, that was all the time really, but doxy dust did funny things, which he really only remembered when he opened the door and, instead of greeting the rather disgruntled looking MLES officer politely, the way he'd meant to, he said, "What the fuck, you bloody wanker?" and prepared to draw his wand.
I say "prepared," because really Draco only thought about drawing his wand, but was promptly distracted by the apparently fascinating wallpaper pattern of the hallway.
"Er," said the officer, "um. Hallo. MLES, you know. Your, um, music? A bit loud, sir. The upstairs neighbour put in a complaint."
Draco snorted. "I haven't got music on," he pointed out, "and besides, I think upstairs has whacked her boyfriend."
"Be that as it may," the officer replied, pushing his way past Draco into the living room. Seemingly stunned into silence by the state of the place, he didn't bother finishing his sentence, just stood there gaping while Draco suddenly realized that there was an officer of the law in his flat, not ten feet from his stash, and he'd better do something quick.
"Coffee!" he yelled. "I mean. Coffee. Sir. Officer. Do you want some? I can make some. I have loads. I might have tea somewhere. Er. Too. As well. Tea? Or coffee?"
The MLES officer stared at him blankly for a moment, the stare of doom, Draco thought to himself, the stare of his utter and total destruction, and then the officer cleared his throat and nodded.
"That would be nice, actually. Thanks."
Harry hadn't a fucking clue what he was doing, but then that didn't really differ from his normal course of action. The coffee was good, surprisingly, although he was extremely hesitant about drinking from the mug the inhabitant of Number Three had come up with, pulled triumphantly from under a stack of papers on the kitchen table. But Harry drank it regardless because truthfully, Number Three was, well, extremely pretty in a strung-out sort of way, and the coffee was actually pretty good aside from some questionables floating about in it, and Harry had never been good at saying no. Especially not to pretty persons who looked as if they could really use some serious saving.
Harry liked saving people, and it had been ages since his last proper rescue.
"You shouldn't listen to your music so loudly," Harry found himself babbling. "It'll ruin your eardrums. Deaf before you're fifty and all that. And, you know, there're the neighbours to think of. I don't want to have to come back here on another noise complaint. Not that this isn't lovely, with the coffee and all, I don't mean that, honestly, you seem like a very charming, er, person and things. I just mean. Your eardrums. And things."
"Of course, of course," Number Three babbled back. "Obviously. I mean, no one wants to go deaf by fifty. That would be wretched, wouldn't it? I'd have to walk around not, you know, hearing anything and then if the Weird Sisters ever do produce another good album I'll be out of luck, all deaf and things, and that's just, well. You know."
"This is good coffee," Harry said. Number Three's pupils seemed to take up the entirety of his eyes. It was sort of a weird effect, actually, and he supposed he should probably search the flat for drugs, but he didn't seem to have the motivation. Instead he found himself saying, "Would you have dinner with me tonight?" and was equally surprised when Number Three, with a slight sneer, looked him up and down and said, "Yeah, alright."
At times like this Remus was beginning to understand that he really didn't like being told that he would never understand.
The fact remained and always would that Severus-regardless of intelligence, shrewdness, and an uncanny knack for manipulating the rest of the world into doing exactly what he wanted-was a complete and utter idiot when it came to people. And all right, so Remus was a werewolf, and not exactly all person to begin with. And yes, he had spent most of his adult life moving from town to town all across Europe in an attempt to, well, he didn't like to use the word ‘escape' (Severus would say ‘hide' or ‘run away,' but Remus didn't much care for those phrases either), but he supposed that was what it had become in the end. But he'd had experiences, at least, and he'd certainly socialised with more people than Severus, who really shouldn't be able to speak on the subject considering he'd spent most of his adult life at Hogwarts or worse-running about the country with Death Eaters who surely ranked far below Dark Creatures (or, hell, flobberworms for that matter) on the scale of understanding people.
Besides which, Remus had read a lot of books. He had read Freud and Winnicott and even Jessica Benjamin. He understood how the modern mind worked, and he knew that what Severus was doing was utterly ridiculous. He was going at it all wrong, for one thing. If Severus were smart, he'd actually, you know, be sorry for what he'd done instead of just sorry for himself.
And if it weren't for the students, Remus really couldn't care less if Severus and Draco Malfoy ever made up, but as it was, they all walked around looking like they might slit their wrists at any moment. Especially the Hufflepuffs.
The rest of the day was spent in a haze. Harry thought he might have responded to some calls, made a few arrests, and possibly done some paperwork, but he couldn't really be sure. He had a date. With Number Three, whose name he only now realized he didn't have a damned clue about. But there would be dinner, at Number Three's flat, which hopefully would be at least slightly less disgusting than when Harry had been there that morning, and dear lord, what was he going to wear?
"Who bloody well cares?" Harry muttered to himself as he rifled through his wardrobe.
After all, Number Three would probably be too high to notice that Harry was even there, much less what he was wearing. Harry knew that logically he should be more concerned about the drug addict thing, but honestly, it had been years since he'd had a proper date, and okay, maybe one couldn't actually consider this ‘proper,' but it was something, wasn't it? It was dinner, with a someone he found attractive despite the half-starved, ‘I haven't washed my hair in days' look. It was something.
When he arrived back at Number Three that evening (five shirts later, and he really hoped that a button-down shirt wouldn't be construed as over-dressing, all things considered), he was pleasantly surprised to find that the flat had been cleaned (sort of-there were fewer piles, anyway), and from beneath the rubble, Number Three had unearthed a rather charming dining set, already laid out for dinner with plates and silverware that looked clean, or at least were not sporting cities of mould and fruit flies.
"Here's the thing," said Number Three by way of greeting as they settled at the table, "did you really come here to eat? Because I don't actually own food or, you know, those things you cook it in and I don't actually know how to cook in the first place, aside from coffee, which really isn't cooking so much as flipping a switch."
"I… well…er…" And then, because Harry couldn't think of what else to do except shut himself up as quickly as possible, he leaned across the (slightly sticky) wooden surface and pressed his lips against Number Three's.
And it was nice. Like really, very nice. He'd never kissed another man before, hadn't really kissed all that many people when it came right down to it, but this felt good. Number Three's lips were chapped and dry and his tongue was rough against the roof of Harry's mouth, and it sort of tickled actually, and the edge of the table dug into his ribs uncomfortably, but it was a good kiss. Really, really good.
What was even better, although very, very unexpected, was the part where Number Three slid beneath the table, unbuttoned Harry's pants, and sucked Harry's prick right down his throat. Harry thought maybe he should protest-he didn't even know the man's proper name for god's sake, and he couldn't very well moan ‘Number Three' when he came, now could he?-but then there were lips, feeling not so chapped now, sliding up and down his cock. And there was this tongue-amazing thing really, the tongue, weird wiggly sort of wet muscle but very deft-and the tip was sliding around the slight ridge at the head of Harry's cock. And that was good, really good, much better than the kiss, actually, but Harry couldn't help but think that they'd never even had a proper conversation, and he wasn't sure what the etiquette for this sort of thing was. Like, could he really come in some strange man's mouth without ever asking what he did for a living or, or, his vital statistics or what he'd gotten N.E.W.T.s in or what year he'd finished school or any of that?
But he guessed he could because at that moment, Number Three tightened his grip on Harry's thighs and just, well, swallowed him, was the only word that came to Harry's mind, yes, swallowed was good, and Harry could feel the head of his prick scraping against the back of Number Three's throat, he could feel that throat tightening around him as Number Three actually did swallow for real this time, and honestly it had been a long time, a really long time, so it wasn't Harry's fault that he came in about three minutes.
All right. Two.
And it wasn't his fault that he was still twitching when Number Three licked him clean and tucked him back in his trousers with a little satisfied pat. And when Severus Snape's head appeared in the fire across the room, Harry considered the girlish, appalled scream that erupted from him at the sight entirely uncontrollable.
The thing was, Severus knew Remus was right. He knew it, but he was never going to actually admit it because that-that was a fate worse than death. And he was already dying, he didn't to go around adding to the miserableness of his existence by admitting things like that. Next thing you know he'd be making all sorts of wild declarations-all houses were created equal, Hufflepuffs were good for some things (mainly being pushovers, but regardless), Harry Potter was not, in actuality, the root of all evil-and then where would wizard-kind be?
Straight down the toilet, that's where, without a moral compass, et cetera. No, Severus was not up to admitting anything of the sort, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, but also the bit about Remus being right because well… he hated change. And saying he was sorry. Snapes never apologised. Or possibly that was ‘manticores.' Huh.
Bloody buggering hell. He was going to have to… to Floo that idiot Malfoy boy (man now, Severus supposed he was probably a man, all man-shaped and tall with shoulders and things, although come to think of it Lucius had never been very masculine, looked a bit like a girl, actually, but Draco would be older anyhow, and thus manly in that respect) and say something. Possibly something along the lines of, "I might have made a mistake, not that it can be proven," or even, "It is your duty as a former student to forgive me, as I am fully capable of rescinding your N.E.W.T.s." But then Severus remembered that Draco had never gotten to take N.E.W.T.s what with the whole fleeing for his life thing he was doing during most of the war.
No, he was going to have to actually, really, seriously apologise. And possibly even mean it. Well, hell.
Draco liked giving head. It was a power thing, he supposed, having that vulnerable an organ in his mouth, right next to all his sharp teeth, and being able to make someone twitch and shudder uncontrollably was a pretty damned good rush, too. Especially after the amount of doxy dust he'd consumed before said someone showed up at his door in a ridiculous checked button down shirt, looking painfully earnest.
And then one Painfully Earnest screamed, like a small girl no less, and Draco thought he should probably get out from under the table and see what all the fuss was about.
"Severus," he said, glaring at the man's head in his fire, so rudely interrupting what had fast become a rather enjoyable and profitable night. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Well, Draco, I was going to try another night of fruitless apologies in an attempt at reconciliation, but seeing as you've got Harry Potter over, I'm rather too disgusted at the moment to bother trying."
Harry Potter. Dear god. Draco took a good, close look at the MLES bloke and was horrified to discover that, yes, Mr Checked Shirt was none other than Harry sodding Potter, fucking hell. He had just had Potter's cock in his mouth. In fact, he still had some of Potter's come in his throat, he could feel it there, clinging and all salty and entirely unpleasant now that he knew to whom it belonged.
"You kissed me!" Draco accused, wiping at his mouth and feeling very disgusted with himself.
"You gave me a blowjob!" Potter yelled back, and really, Draco hadn't needed Severus to hear that.
"You owe me ten galleons for that, by the way!" Draco returned, and Severus clucked his tongue disappointedly.
"And here I thought you boys had finally reconciled your differences. Honestly, Draco, if you have to be a poofter, I thought you'd have better taste at least. Harry Potter? Seriously?"
"Shut up!" Draco growled at the fire. "Aren't you supposed to be apologising and grovelling at my feet and all that rubbish? You betrayed me, remember? My life is a horrible wasteland because of you!"
Just then the front door slammed. Draco turned to find Potter gone, although he'd left his rather unfortunate green velvet jacket on the sofa, which Draco vowed to burn as soon as possible, along with everything else Potter had contaminated with his mere presence.
"And now you've lost me ten galleons. Thanks a fucking lot!"
Severus just raised one eyebrow in that horribly knowing way of his. "He'll be back."
Bloody Severus. He was always right.
Remus wasn't really sure what, exactly, he planned to do once he reached Draco Malfoy's flat; he just knew that if he didn't do something to ameliorate this situation (and quickly), all the poor Hufflepuffs might well be dead by morning. In any case he'd no idea what he planned to do upon reaching Malfoy's flat, so when Harry Potter crashed headlong into him coming out the front door, Remus couldn't help but feel a bit relieved.
"Remus? What are you doing here?"
"Er, well," said Remus, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. "Actually I came to save Hogwarts. And yourself?"
Harry flushed. "A case. Erm. Did you know that Draco Malfoy lives here?" Harry sounded like he was accusing Remus of something. Interesting.
"I did, actually. It's why I'm here."
"Draco Malfoy is the key to saving Hogwarts? Well then, they're all doomed."
"Erm yes well, very possibly. I should probably… that is…" Remus gestured at the door. "I should go up, don't you think? If the saving is to be done."
"I wouldn't bother," Harry told him. "Malfoy's talking to Snape just now, and the last thing anyone wants to see is that face poking out from the fire."
"They're talking, are they?" Remus felt even more relieved at this news, and it hadn't even been necessary for him to get knocked on his arse this time around. Severus and Draco were talking. That was good. Very good. If things went well perhaps Severus would quit playing the martyr and leave Hogwarts, and all before any Hufflepuffs were sacrificed in the process.
Harry didn't know why he was back. Really, he didn't. Well, he'd forgotten his jacket, but it was a pretty ugly jacket and he'd only worn it in the first place because Hermione had once told him it made him look more sophisticated. Fucking Draco Malfoy. Only literally. He had literally fucked Draco Malfoy. It was disgusting. It was unbearable. He wanted to do it again.
When he banged on Draco's front door, though, no one answered. Well, not really-Harry could hear a sort of whimpering coming from inside and was immediately thrown back to that day sixth year in the bathroom, when he'd seen Malfoy crying and he'd nearly killed him and Snape had come along, thank god, although really… really not, because then Snape had killed Dumbledore, because Malfoy couldn't, and really, Harry wanted to believe that these things happened for a reason.
So he broke the door handle and strode inside the flat, ready to rain down the wrath of righteous anger and all that upon Malfoy's head, only to find Malfoy huddled in a corner, clearly tripping on something, crying his Malfoy eyes out and snotting all over the place to boot. And suddenly… suddenly Harry couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him. And there was that whole saving people thing he did, and Malfoy very obviously needed saving, and he hadn't killed Dumbledore after all, a good thing too, because then he'd probably have had to continue killing people for Voldemort and they might've met on some battlefield somewhere and Harry might've had to kill him, and then where would they be?
Not crouched on Malfoy's disgusting floor in his disgusting flat, that's for sure.
"What's… are you… okay?" Harry sucked at this. He knew it. But he was trying, right? And not just because he wanted another blowjob. He sort of… cared. A bit. And Malfoy was very pathetic, with the snot and the tears and the trembling from too much doxy dust. In fact, Malfoy looked like he might vomit at any moment, but Harry didn't even back away to avoid the chunks. He just knelt there next to Malfoy, hand hovering above Malfoy's back, not sure if he should touch him or not, and, well, he tried. And that was what was important, right?
"No," Malfoy said, and his eyes were blank and wide. "'M not okay. Severus. He means well. Wants me to forgive him. But I can't, can I? He should've… should've never let me join in the first place. Should've let me go back after… you know. With Dumbledore."
"Perhaps," Harry said, and let his hand drop onto Malfoy's back, and not just because he wanted Malfoy to stop crying so that maybe they could snog again, there was no way he could handle that much snot that close to his face. And Malfoy didn't freak out or hit him or anything, so there was that. "But then," Harry continued, licking his lips nervously, and honestly, Malfoy looked absolutely disgusting when he cried, "but then you'd probably have died. You know. Or been sent to Azkaban. And you don't… I mean… is the whole pureblood thing really worth dying for?"
"Maybe. All right, fuck it, it's not important. I couldn't give a shit about purity, but this," he waved his arms around, gesturing to the flat as a whole, "this would never have happened. And it's all bloody Severus' fault."
"Er," said Harry, feeling very pathetic and lost and clueless, "well, don't you think some of that is the doxy dust talking?"
"Fuck you." But Malfoy leaned against him and pressed his snotty face into Harry's neck, which Harry thought was rather improprietous all things considered, but then again he'd come in Malfoy's mouth so he supposed nothing was entirely impossible.
Just then a loud, rhythmic banging came from above, getting faster and more furious with each passing moment, and when Harry turned his head to look out the window, he saw that it was raining toads.
As reported by The Daily Prophet June 14, 2010, the story of a freak storm directly over a toad farm and the wind tunnel it created, picking up the entire contents of the farm and dropping them upon London and the surrounding area in what appeared to be a veritable rain of toads. Just a coincidence, a freak occurrence some would say.
The toads also fell on Hogwarts. Some claimed it was because of the school's natural magical energy. The papers put it down to magical attraction and left it at that, although those within the school seemed to question the validity of such an explanation. The headmaster was quoted in The Daily Prophet thus: "Hufflepuff house will be severely punished for such a fool stunt as this, mark my words! The greenhouse roofs shattered, hundreds of plants destroyed! We'll spend the next three months trying to get toad out of the walkways and all so some lonely Hufflepuffs could keep those animals lucky enough not to be killed or mangled in the fall as pets?!"
A suitable explanation for the highly disturbing rain of toads on both London and Hogwarts was never found. Headmaster Snape handed in his resignation to the Board of Governors the following day, citing "extreme duress and having had quite enough of ungrateful heathens for one lifetime" as his reason for leaving.
Am I truly to believe this was simply a matter of circumstance? Just something funny that happened in the course of human history, an amusing anecdote to report later? I would like to think so because the alternative-that these things are, for lack of a better word, fated-seems entirely contrary to human existence, to the randomness of it, to the choices, to the hundreds of ways our lives could be better or just altogether different if only.
But no. These things happen for a reason. And it is the humble opinion of this narrator that these strange things happen all the time. And so it goes and so it goes and the book says, "We may be through with the past, but the past is not through with us."
Fin. Review? Maybe? You know you want to.
Author: phaballa
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco; also featuring a Very Depressed and Tragic Snape, and a Somewhat Harried, Often Frustrated Remus
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or his associates. That happy right belongs to JK Rowling, etc.
Warnings: See title. Also drugs.
Summary: Severus Snape was dying. Not in the way that one normally thinks of as dying, what with the failing of body and mind and so forth. He was barely fifty years old after all, and considering his genetic makeup (recent history notwithstanding, of course, and adjusting for his rather disgusting Muggle father whose blood would no doubt decrease his life span by no less than five years) Severus had at least another seventy-five years left to live. He was in his prime, really, but instead of being on his third glory-seeking wife and seventh trollopy mistress he was stuck inside this school, dying.
Author's notes: Originally written for merry_smutmas as a gift for the lovely ishafel. This fic is on crack, and for that I am truly sorry. It's meant to be based on the film Magnolia and the last few lines are taken from that. Thanks to my beta, petulantgod who not only came up with the ending and really helped the entire fic not suck so much, but also made people think I'm British, w00t!
Yet More Comments: And a big thanks to everyone over at merry_smutmas who read and reviewed. I got some wonderful comments and a very nice response there, despite the fact that this fic is totally on drugs.
The Death of a Soul, A Blowjob Beneath a Table, and the Rain of Toads That Followed
As reported by the Southampton Soothsayer in March of 1879, the account of the kidnapping of one Alexandra Glass, age eight, daughter to the famous Astrologist Augustus Glass, who invented the Glass-Hayburn arithmantical equation used to calculate the aural patterns of stars. Her body was never recovered and the two men accused of the crime received the dementor's kiss, their souls sucked from their bodies with only the faintest glimmer of a trial. After all, when the daughter of one of the magical community's most eminent magicologists is taken and (probably) murdered, there isn't much to say in the accused persons' defence.
Ten years later Miss Glass walked calmly into her father's house at Black Forest Park on the arm of a man called Black who claimed to have found her wandering the Wakefield Woods, living among the dryads and obliviated beyond comprehension.
Glass was delighted to have his daughter back, but she never quite recovered from the deaths of the two men who were executed for her alleged kidnapping. A year later she took her own life; her suicide note was addressed to ones Barnabus Forest and Joseph Park, her accused kidnappers.
Three men: Black, Forest, and Park. Black Forest Park. And I would like to think this was only a matter of chance.
As reported in the Birmingham Gazette in June of 1958, the story of an explosion, the massive quantities of water Summoned by Auror John O'Keife used to extinguish the resulting flames, and the corpse of one Ryan Rourke found once the smoke had cleared.
Rourke-husband and father of two, well-liked and respected in his community-had accidentally been Summoned along with the nearly one thousand litres of water from Rourke's backyard swimming pool, where he'd been experimenting with underwater breathing charms.
The story would end there, except that this was not the first time Rourke and O'Keife had… met, if you can properly call it that. In fact, they had encountered each other only two nights previous at one of the infamous Knockturn Alley auctions. Rourke was the auctioneer, a day job to support his magical experiments, and O'Keife was on the losing side of a bidding war for a very important and very ugly collectible figurine of Merlin said to be carved by the wizard himself. Frustrated by his loss (and rather drunk besides, this narrator will have you know), O'Keife attacked Rourke in a fit of rage and had to be thrown out of the auction, all the while screaming near-incoherent death threats at the auctioneer who he blamed for his loss.
Two days later Rourke's body was found amidst the rubble of the explosion and subsequent fire quelled by Auror O'Keife. His heart failed during the Summons, although his underwater breathing apparatus remained intact during the entire ordeal.
And I am trying to believe this was all a matter of chance.
As reported in The Daily Prophet November 1, 1981, the story of a young man and his small family hidden by the Fidelius Charm who were murdered in their own house. All but the man's small son, who miraculously survived the attack with only a single scar.
The man, respected and loved almost universally, had been betrayed by a dear friend, and the attacker, it seems, had been betrayed as well, for when he attempted the Killing Curse on young Harry Potter, it was he, rather, who was slain.
Only later was it discovered that in point of fact the very reason the attacker, He Who Must Not Be Named, attempted such a thing was down to the word of one of his followers who had overheard a prophecy stating that the Potter boy would be his only major threat. In attempting to murder Harry Potter while he was still a defenceless child, the Dark Lord sealed his own fate and vanquished himself in the process.
Not only that, the very man who had overheard said prophecy later became a professor at Hogwarts School teaching potions, instructing the very same child he had sent his master to murder ten years previous.
Is this just one of those things that happened? Can we really delude ourselves into thinking that this is just a matter of chance? A simple coincidence?
No. These things happen for a reason. And they happen all the time.
At times it seemed like Harry Potter's life resembled less of a coherent narrative and more of a series of near-misses and chance escapes. People called him the Boy Who Lived, but Harry tended to think of himself as the Boy Who Survived. Or sometimes, when he was really bored waiting for a breakthrough, the Boy Who Sat Around Uselessly on His Bum, or the Boy Who Waited While Chewing His Nails Into Nubs.
As it turned out, going off on quests to find missing bits of an evil Dark Lord's soul wasn't nearly as interesting as some might have you believe. Then again, it was better than sitting through another year of lectures, exams, and house politics. And once Harry had finally done it, finally found the six horcruxes (Horcruces, Hermione would say with a sniff, that's the proper plural, honestly, and if one more person says, ‘patronuses' I swear I am going to write the Department of Naming Things an extremely nasty letter), and of course slaughtered Voldemort horribly on the field of battle (which had been more like a small, vacant lot, but regardless), well then…
Then came the really boring part.
Voldemort was dead. Harry knew he should be happy about it. He should rejoice and open champagne and dance in the streets (all right, maybe not dance because he rather failed at that particular art form and he'd no desire to show off what an excruciating idiot he could, at times, resemble), but instead he just felt… lost. And sort of sad. Not about Voldemort, because that would be seriously fucked up, being sad about the death of the most evil man…thing… to ever sort of live. More sad because now he didn't have anything to do with his life.
Hell, he hadn't even finished Hogwarts, so the whole part where he would find a career and all that normal growing up stuff was sort of lost on him.
When he expressed his concern to Hermione, she came up with what (for her) seemed like the perfect solution: they should all three spend the summer following Voldemort's demise studying and catching up, at the end of which Harry would use his influence as Voldemort's vanquisher to force the N.E.W.T. examiners into holding a special session. The plan didn't seem like much fun to Harry, but then again neither was wandering around Grimmauld Place listlessly (there was only so much time he could spend playing his new favourite game-Throw Things At Kreacher).
So they hired on Remus Lupin as a tutor and Harry, Ron, and Hermione settled in for a long summer of revising and memorization. Ron's mum was so pleased that they'd decided to go for N.E.W.T.s after all that she made them large batches of brownies and biscuits and sweets on an almost daily basis, which Harry wouldn't touch because the last thing he wanted was to become one of those sad ex-heroes with a giant gut hanging out over the waistband of his trousers going on to anyone who would listen about his glory days.
It's sort of ironic, then, that that's almost precisely what ended up happening, although without the bit about the giant gut. Harry, after all, had always been sort of underfed and malnourished-looking, a bit like a runt kitten that should've been drowned at birth, actually. Lucky for the rest of us he wasn't, what with the whole vanquishing the Dark Lord thing, but all the same, he never really did anything of importance after that.
And what was more, he never wanted to.
"Er. Hello. This is Harry. Er, I work in law enforcement, MLES actually, out of London? And erm, what else? I'm twenty-nine years old, getting up there a bit I suppose, but then if we're all going to live to be a hundred and fifty, in the grand scheme of things it's not all that ancient. I like um, films and books. Nothing too stressful because my work is fairly stressful. I'm looking for someone like that-laidback, you know, and er, kind. God, I sound like a sentimental idiot. Just trying to be honest here, you know? I'm not looking for a shag, that's the thing. I'm really interested in meeting someone special who likes quiet things. And, erm, if you do too, maybe owl me, yeah? Right. So, er-"
Harry Potter's days were pretty much all the same. Wake up. Clean his teeth. Wash his face. Put on his uniform and strap on his wand. Breakfast, then work.
Working for the MLES wasn't nearly as exciting as he thought it would be when he decided to join up, but in the end he hadn't had the energy for Auror training (another two years on top of enough N.E.W.T.s to murder a horse, and honestly, shouldn't killing the most evil Dark Wizard ever count for something?) so he'd gone for this gig instead, and it was all right. Not fantastic, not terribly exciting, but he got to patrol Diagon and Knockturn, respond to calls in his jurisdiction, and stop over at Fortescue's for the occasional sundae.
When Harry got his first major call of the day, he was enjoying one of said sundaes and was forced to leave it behind with a reluctant glance backward before he Apparated to the location point, a towering five-story flat clear across the Alley on the far side of Gringotts. The building looked as if it might topple over at any moment, vaguely reminding Harry of the Burrow, especially with the racket going on on the top floor.
Domestic disturbances. God, how Harry loathed them.
With a sigh he slipped through the front door and climbed the stairs to the top, feeling slightly out of breath once he finally reached the top. The resident of number five seemed distinctly displeased to see him.
"Whatchoo want?" she grunted.
"Hello, Miss. My name is Officer Porter (his alias, because it wouldn't do to have people fawning over the famous Harry Potter while he was attempting to enforce the law). I received word of a disturbance at this residence and I'm here to look things over."
The woman, a rather stout, angry looking thing, glared at him from the rather small slit between the door and its frame where she had cracked the door open just enough to see him.
"Nufink's being disturbed here and there weren't no calls made neither."
"The call didn't originate from your flat, Miss. It was, ah, the downstairs neighbour, I believe."
"That trash? Deals in doxy dust he does, and I seen men-strange looking things, mind you-going in and out all times of night. ‘S him you should be bothering, not me. There ain't nufink here."
Just then a crash came from inside the flat. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Nevertheless, Miss, I will need to have a look."
When the women seemed disinclined to move, Harry was forced to shove the door open on her and slip inside uninvited, much to the dismay of the woman, who decided to show her displeasure by screaming directly into Harry's face.
"Here now, you ain't got the right to go barging into people's private homes and things! Who do you think you are? You can't just-"
"I'm an officer of the law, Miss," Harry said loudly, pulling out his wand and stepping further into the rather shabbily decorated room. "Is there anyone else here?"
"Yer here, ain'tcha?" she yelled.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Aside from the two of us, Miss, is anyone else here?"
"No! Now you leave, why doncha?"
Another crash from further into the flat and Harry swung around to point his wand at the woman, ropes flying out of it to wrap around her. Her eyes were wide with panic and she was yelling again.
"Don't you fucking go back there! Don't you dare!" As Harry headed down the hallway for the back room-- "Don't you go in my bedroom!" she screamed, hopping around comically in an attempt to follow him. "Don't you look in my closet, you bastard! Don't you even!"
Harry paused in front of the closet and yanked the door open. "Miss!" he yelled back to her, resisting the urge to smile (finding a bloody, struggling man with a sheet wrapped round him in someone's closet was not, in general, a reason for smiling), "what's this?"
"That's not mine!"
Shaking his head in bemusement, Harry pressed the tiny button his wrist watch that activated the voice charm. "This is Porter, unit seven, requesting backup on a possible 733. Please advise."
Now this would be exciting. It wasn't everyday, after all, that a simple domestic disturbance turned out to be a possible homicide. Yes, life was good.
Severus Snape was dying.
Not in the way that one normally thinks of as dying, what with the failing of body and mind and so forth. He was barely fifty years old after all, and considering his genetic makeup (recent history notwithstanding, of course, and adjusting for his rather disgusting Muggle father whose blood would no doubt decrease his life span by no less than five years) Severus had at least another seventy-five years left to live. He was in his prime, really, but instead of being on his third glory-seeking wife and seventh trollopy mistress he was stuck inside this school, dying.
Again, not literally. That would be far too melodramatic for even Severus to consider. He tended instead to think of it as a metaphoric death--the death of a soul. Sometimes when he was alone in his office (if by alone one meant surrounded by portraits that never bloody well shut up, thank you very much), he whispered the catchphrase to himself, his newest mantra: the death of a soul. His whispers were invariably followed immediately by a chorus of scoffings and not a few eyerollings from previous headmasters, but honestly, none of them could truly understand Severus' pain.
He had failed, over and over. And now, well... Now he was dying and there was nothing to be done for it.
"You're not dying," Remus Lupin would tell him over tea afternoons in that patient, ever-so-slightly patronising tone. The man wore sweater vests and turned into a great hairy beast once a month though, so honestly, who did he think he was kidding, attempting to dispense advice?
"This school is killing me," Severus always insisted, knowing that truly, no one could ever understand his pain.
"Then stop whinging about it and get yourself out," Lupin told him. His calm logic in the face of Severus' flailing (not to mention dying) soul was infuriating, to say the least.
"I can't." To this Lupin raised one eyebrow, again looking infuriatingly placid even as Severus' nostrils flared passionately in what was no doubt a very unbecoming manner (his nose already being abnormally large and thus completely ill-equipped for flareage.)
"Is this that thing about Draco Malfoy again?"
"I betrayed him, Lupin. I don't expect someone of your moronic Gryffindor tendencies to understand the dishonour that accompanies such an action."
This time Lupin actually rolled his eyes, which Severus thought extremely disrespectful of a headmaster of Hogwarts School. "Oh, I rather think I do understand, actually. You're punishing yourself with this position. Really, Severus, it would be much easier to put an advert in the Prophet-Naughty boy seeks dominatrix to purge him of past transgressions. Own equipment a plus but not required. "
"I betrayed him," Severus replied sullenly, ignoring the bit about the dominatrix despite it sounding rather intriguing. He wondered how anonymous those Prophet personals were, anyway, and whether he could trust the publishers…
"You can't make up for it by saving everyone else. The students despise you, you know. You're not doing them any favours."
"Do shut up."
The main problem with being MLES, Harry had found over the past seven years, was that all the exciting cases were invariably reassigned to the Auror division and the MLES officer who'd opened the case got shunted right back out into the Alley to go hunt down traffic violators and settle minor disputes. Which was exactly how Harry found himself being ushered out of number five by what Harry considered to be an overly-smug Auror with a seriously condescending attitude. And honestly, he was Harry fucking Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord! Why could no one seem to remember this?
Before he knew it Harry was standing on the landing staring at the peeling white surface of number five's door, his wand hanging uselessly from his fingers. Damn Aurors and their damn smugness.
Draco had plans for the day. And all right, so maybe those plans consisted of sleeping off his hangover, waking up to snort some doxy dust, and listening to the new Weird Sisters album as loudly as his speakers could possibly get. But instead some wanker--"Bloody wanker!"--had to start knocking on the sodding door and would. Not. Stop.
"Fucking bloody shit bugger!" Draco screamed, only to discover that the whole bit with the Weird Sisters album, et cetera, had already happened, or possibly was still happening from the night before, and he couldn't actually hear himself yelling over the noise. Not that that stopped the banging on the door from echoing through the whole bloody flat. Oh no. Only MLES could possibly be that incredibly rude and annoying.
It was at that moment that Draco realized that lying in bed still trembling slightly from whatever it was he'd done the night before (he thought there might have been a very large, black man involved, as he distinctly remembered the lovely, lovely sight of a perfectly straight line of white powder against black skin. A back maybe, lower back… yes, and the man had definitely been large, at least that's what his protesting muscles were telling him) was probably not the best way to handle MLES at his front door.
They might barge in unannounced (aside from the banging which, obviously did not count) and see things they shouldn't, and then Draco would end up in Azkaban with no drugs and no men, and there would probably be head lice as well.
The idea of head lice finally got him up. Crossing the bedroom was a chore what with the piles of dirty… everything strewn about. And then there was the matter of hiding all the doxy dust spread out on the coffee table. For a moment Draco panicked because really, where does one hide such a vast quantity of illicit substances? Kitchen cupboards were no good; the MLES weren't that stupid, and besides which he had already stored his provisions in there, mainly coffee and chocolate, but mostly coffee. Bathtub was no good, as it leaked and could possibly contaminate said illicit substances. Re: toilet, see above.
There was only one thing for it. He magicked the loose dust into what he fondly thought of as his Drug Sack and shoved it underneath a pile of what appeared to be dirty clothing and even dirtier dishes. In fact, he thought that one of the dishes might actually be growing its own city in mould on the front, but he decided closer examination at this time wouldn't be prudent. He tapped his speakers to cut off the music-the Weird Sisters were losing their touch, he thought to himself as he picked his way through the piles of disgustingness toward the front door, and really they should consider taking some time between records to actually write some decent lyrics instead of churning out the absolute crap that passed for music these days. And as he passed by the coffee table he noticed so stray doxy dust-couldn't have that, MLES wouldn't be too keen on it-so he decided the only thing for it was to lick it off the table, just to be safe, and was only mildly repulsed when his tongue threatened to stick to the rather manky surface of the imitation wood veneer.
It was only upon later reflection that Draco realized that probably wasn't the brightest thing to do, as doxy dust tended to make him rather unpredictable and petulant. Alright well, no, that was all the time really, but doxy dust did funny things, which he really only remembered when he opened the door and, instead of greeting the rather disgruntled looking MLES officer politely, the way he'd meant to, he said, "What the fuck, you bloody wanker?" and prepared to draw his wand.
I say "prepared," because really Draco only thought about drawing his wand, but was promptly distracted by the apparently fascinating wallpaper pattern of the hallway.
"Er," said the officer, "um. Hallo. MLES, you know. Your, um, music? A bit loud, sir. The upstairs neighbour put in a complaint."
Draco snorted. "I haven't got music on," he pointed out, "and besides, I think upstairs has whacked her boyfriend."
"Be that as it may," the officer replied, pushing his way past Draco into the living room. Seemingly stunned into silence by the state of the place, he didn't bother finishing his sentence, just stood there gaping while Draco suddenly realized that there was an officer of the law in his flat, not ten feet from his stash, and he'd better do something quick.
"Coffee!" he yelled. "I mean. Coffee. Sir. Officer. Do you want some? I can make some. I have loads. I might have tea somewhere. Er. Too. As well. Tea? Or coffee?"
The MLES officer stared at him blankly for a moment, the stare of doom, Draco thought to himself, the stare of his utter and total destruction, and then the officer cleared his throat and nodded.
"That would be nice, actually. Thanks."
Harry hadn't a fucking clue what he was doing, but then that didn't really differ from his normal course of action. The coffee was good, surprisingly, although he was extremely hesitant about drinking from the mug the inhabitant of Number Three had come up with, pulled triumphantly from under a stack of papers on the kitchen table. But Harry drank it regardless because truthfully, Number Three was, well, extremely pretty in a strung-out sort of way, and the coffee was actually pretty good aside from some questionables floating about in it, and Harry had never been good at saying no. Especially not to pretty persons who looked as if they could really use some serious saving.
Harry liked saving people, and it had been ages since his last proper rescue.
"You shouldn't listen to your music so loudly," Harry found himself babbling. "It'll ruin your eardrums. Deaf before you're fifty and all that. And, you know, there're the neighbours to think of. I don't want to have to come back here on another noise complaint. Not that this isn't lovely, with the coffee and all, I don't mean that, honestly, you seem like a very charming, er, person and things. I just mean. Your eardrums. And things."
"Of course, of course," Number Three babbled back. "Obviously. I mean, no one wants to go deaf by fifty. That would be wretched, wouldn't it? I'd have to walk around not, you know, hearing anything and then if the Weird Sisters ever do produce another good album I'll be out of luck, all deaf and things, and that's just, well. You know."
"This is good coffee," Harry said. Number Three's pupils seemed to take up the entirety of his eyes. It was sort of a weird effect, actually, and he supposed he should probably search the flat for drugs, but he didn't seem to have the motivation. Instead he found himself saying, "Would you have dinner with me tonight?" and was equally surprised when Number Three, with a slight sneer, looked him up and down and said, "Yeah, alright."
At times like this Remus was beginning to understand that he really didn't like being told that he would never understand.
The fact remained and always would that Severus-regardless of intelligence, shrewdness, and an uncanny knack for manipulating the rest of the world into doing exactly what he wanted-was a complete and utter idiot when it came to people. And all right, so Remus was a werewolf, and not exactly all person to begin with. And yes, he had spent most of his adult life moving from town to town all across Europe in an attempt to, well, he didn't like to use the word ‘escape' (Severus would say ‘hide' or ‘run away,' but Remus didn't much care for those phrases either), but he supposed that was what it had become in the end. But he'd had experiences, at least, and he'd certainly socialised with more people than Severus, who really shouldn't be able to speak on the subject considering he'd spent most of his adult life at Hogwarts or worse-running about the country with Death Eaters who surely ranked far below Dark Creatures (or, hell, flobberworms for that matter) on the scale of understanding people.
Besides which, Remus had read a lot of books. He had read Freud and Winnicott and even Jessica Benjamin. He understood how the modern mind worked, and he knew that what Severus was doing was utterly ridiculous. He was going at it all wrong, for one thing. If Severus were smart, he'd actually, you know, be sorry for what he'd done instead of just sorry for himself.
And if it weren't for the students, Remus really couldn't care less if Severus and Draco Malfoy ever made up, but as it was, they all walked around looking like they might slit their wrists at any moment. Especially the Hufflepuffs.
The rest of the day was spent in a haze. Harry thought he might have responded to some calls, made a few arrests, and possibly done some paperwork, but he couldn't really be sure. He had a date. With Number Three, whose name he only now realized he didn't have a damned clue about. But there would be dinner, at Number Three's flat, which hopefully would be at least slightly less disgusting than when Harry had been there that morning, and dear lord, what was he going to wear?
"Who bloody well cares?" Harry muttered to himself as he rifled through his wardrobe.
After all, Number Three would probably be too high to notice that Harry was even there, much less what he was wearing. Harry knew that logically he should be more concerned about the drug addict thing, but honestly, it had been years since he'd had a proper date, and okay, maybe one couldn't actually consider this ‘proper,' but it was something, wasn't it? It was dinner, with a someone he found attractive despite the half-starved, ‘I haven't washed my hair in days' look. It was something.
When he arrived back at Number Three that evening (five shirts later, and he really hoped that a button-down shirt wouldn't be construed as over-dressing, all things considered), he was pleasantly surprised to find that the flat had been cleaned (sort of-there were fewer piles, anyway), and from beneath the rubble, Number Three had unearthed a rather charming dining set, already laid out for dinner with plates and silverware that looked clean, or at least were not sporting cities of mould and fruit flies.
"Here's the thing," said Number Three by way of greeting as they settled at the table, "did you really come here to eat? Because I don't actually own food or, you know, those things you cook it in and I don't actually know how to cook in the first place, aside from coffee, which really isn't cooking so much as flipping a switch."
"I… well…er…" And then, because Harry couldn't think of what else to do except shut himself up as quickly as possible, he leaned across the (slightly sticky) wooden surface and pressed his lips against Number Three's.
And it was nice. Like really, very nice. He'd never kissed another man before, hadn't really kissed all that many people when it came right down to it, but this felt good. Number Three's lips were chapped and dry and his tongue was rough against the roof of Harry's mouth, and it sort of tickled actually, and the edge of the table dug into his ribs uncomfortably, but it was a good kiss. Really, really good.
What was even better, although very, very unexpected, was the part where Number Three slid beneath the table, unbuttoned Harry's pants, and sucked Harry's prick right down his throat. Harry thought maybe he should protest-he didn't even know the man's proper name for god's sake, and he couldn't very well moan ‘Number Three' when he came, now could he?-but then there were lips, feeling not so chapped now, sliding up and down his cock. And there was this tongue-amazing thing really, the tongue, weird wiggly sort of wet muscle but very deft-and the tip was sliding around the slight ridge at the head of Harry's cock. And that was good, really good, much better than the kiss, actually, but Harry couldn't help but think that they'd never even had a proper conversation, and he wasn't sure what the etiquette for this sort of thing was. Like, could he really come in some strange man's mouth without ever asking what he did for a living or, or, his vital statistics or what he'd gotten N.E.W.T.s in or what year he'd finished school or any of that?
But he guessed he could because at that moment, Number Three tightened his grip on Harry's thighs and just, well, swallowed him, was the only word that came to Harry's mind, yes, swallowed was good, and Harry could feel the head of his prick scraping against the back of Number Three's throat, he could feel that throat tightening around him as Number Three actually did swallow for real this time, and honestly it had been a long time, a really long time, so it wasn't Harry's fault that he came in about three minutes.
All right. Two.
And it wasn't his fault that he was still twitching when Number Three licked him clean and tucked him back in his trousers with a little satisfied pat. And when Severus Snape's head appeared in the fire across the room, Harry considered the girlish, appalled scream that erupted from him at the sight entirely uncontrollable.
The thing was, Severus knew Remus was right. He knew it, but he was never going to actually admit it because that-that was a fate worse than death. And he was already dying, he didn't to go around adding to the miserableness of his existence by admitting things like that. Next thing you know he'd be making all sorts of wild declarations-all houses were created equal, Hufflepuffs were good for some things (mainly being pushovers, but regardless), Harry Potter was not, in actuality, the root of all evil-and then where would wizard-kind be?
Straight down the toilet, that's where, without a moral compass, et cetera. No, Severus was not up to admitting anything of the sort, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, but also the bit about Remus being right because well… he hated change. And saying he was sorry. Snapes never apologised. Or possibly that was ‘manticores.' Huh.
Bloody buggering hell. He was going to have to… to Floo that idiot Malfoy boy (man now, Severus supposed he was probably a man, all man-shaped and tall with shoulders and things, although come to think of it Lucius had never been very masculine, looked a bit like a girl, actually, but Draco would be older anyhow, and thus manly in that respect) and say something. Possibly something along the lines of, "I might have made a mistake, not that it can be proven," or even, "It is your duty as a former student to forgive me, as I am fully capable of rescinding your N.E.W.T.s." But then Severus remembered that Draco had never gotten to take N.E.W.T.s what with the whole fleeing for his life thing he was doing during most of the war.
No, he was going to have to actually, really, seriously apologise. And possibly even mean it. Well, hell.
Draco liked giving head. It was a power thing, he supposed, having that vulnerable an organ in his mouth, right next to all his sharp teeth, and being able to make someone twitch and shudder uncontrollably was a pretty damned good rush, too. Especially after the amount of doxy dust he'd consumed before said someone showed up at his door in a ridiculous checked button down shirt, looking painfully earnest.
And then one Painfully Earnest screamed, like a small girl no less, and Draco thought he should probably get out from under the table and see what all the fuss was about.
"Severus," he said, glaring at the man's head in his fire, so rudely interrupting what had fast become a rather enjoyable and profitable night. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Well, Draco, I was going to try another night of fruitless apologies in an attempt at reconciliation, but seeing as you've got Harry Potter over, I'm rather too disgusted at the moment to bother trying."
Harry Potter. Dear god. Draco took a good, close look at the MLES bloke and was horrified to discover that, yes, Mr Checked Shirt was none other than Harry sodding Potter, fucking hell. He had just had Potter's cock in his mouth. In fact, he still had some of Potter's come in his throat, he could feel it there, clinging and all salty and entirely unpleasant now that he knew to whom it belonged.
"You kissed me!" Draco accused, wiping at his mouth and feeling very disgusted with himself.
"You gave me a blowjob!" Potter yelled back, and really, Draco hadn't needed Severus to hear that.
"You owe me ten galleons for that, by the way!" Draco returned, and Severus clucked his tongue disappointedly.
"And here I thought you boys had finally reconciled your differences. Honestly, Draco, if you have to be a poofter, I thought you'd have better taste at least. Harry Potter? Seriously?"
"Shut up!" Draco growled at the fire. "Aren't you supposed to be apologising and grovelling at my feet and all that rubbish? You betrayed me, remember? My life is a horrible wasteland because of you!"
Just then the front door slammed. Draco turned to find Potter gone, although he'd left his rather unfortunate green velvet jacket on the sofa, which Draco vowed to burn as soon as possible, along with everything else Potter had contaminated with his mere presence.
"And now you've lost me ten galleons. Thanks a fucking lot!"
Severus just raised one eyebrow in that horribly knowing way of his. "He'll be back."
Bloody Severus. He was always right.
Remus wasn't really sure what, exactly, he planned to do once he reached Draco Malfoy's flat; he just knew that if he didn't do something to ameliorate this situation (and quickly), all the poor Hufflepuffs might well be dead by morning. In any case he'd no idea what he planned to do upon reaching Malfoy's flat, so when Harry Potter crashed headlong into him coming out the front door, Remus couldn't help but feel a bit relieved.
"Remus? What are you doing here?"
"Er, well," said Remus, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. "Actually I came to save Hogwarts. And yourself?"
Harry flushed. "A case. Erm. Did you know that Draco Malfoy lives here?" Harry sounded like he was accusing Remus of something. Interesting.
"I did, actually. It's why I'm here."
"Draco Malfoy is the key to saving Hogwarts? Well then, they're all doomed."
"Erm yes well, very possibly. I should probably… that is…" Remus gestured at the door. "I should go up, don't you think? If the saving is to be done."
"I wouldn't bother," Harry told him. "Malfoy's talking to Snape just now, and the last thing anyone wants to see is that face poking out from the fire."
"They're talking, are they?" Remus felt even more relieved at this news, and it hadn't even been necessary for him to get knocked on his arse this time around. Severus and Draco were talking. That was good. Very good. If things went well perhaps Severus would quit playing the martyr and leave Hogwarts, and all before any Hufflepuffs were sacrificed in the process.
Harry didn't know why he was back. Really, he didn't. Well, he'd forgotten his jacket, but it was a pretty ugly jacket and he'd only worn it in the first place because Hermione had once told him it made him look more sophisticated. Fucking Draco Malfoy. Only literally. He had literally fucked Draco Malfoy. It was disgusting. It was unbearable. He wanted to do it again.
When he banged on Draco's front door, though, no one answered. Well, not really-Harry could hear a sort of whimpering coming from inside and was immediately thrown back to that day sixth year in the bathroom, when he'd seen Malfoy crying and he'd nearly killed him and Snape had come along, thank god, although really… really not, because then Snape had killed Dumbledore, because Malfoy couldn't, and really, Harry wanted to believe that these things happened for a reason.
So he broke the door handle and strode inside the flat, ready to rain down the wrath of righteous anger and all that upon Malfoy's head, only to find Malfoy huddled in a corner, clearly tripping on something, crying his Malfoy eyes out and snotting all over the place to boot. And suddenly… suddenly Harry couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him. And there was that whole saving people thing he did, and Malfoy very obviously needed saving, and he hadn't killed Dumbledore after all, a good thing too, because then he'd probably have had to continue killing people for Voldemort and they might've met on some battlefield somewhere and Harry might've had to kill him, and then where would they be?
Not crouched on Malfoy's disgusting floor in his disgusting flat, that's for sure.
"What's… are you… okay?" Harry sucked at this. He knew it. But he was trying, right? And not just because he wanted another blowjob. He sort of… cared. A bit. And Malfoy was very pathetic, with the snot and the tears and the trembling from too much doxy dust. In fact, Malfoy looked like he might vomit at any moment, but Harry didn't even back away to avoid the chunks. He just knelt there next to Malfoy, hand hovering above Malfoy's back, not sure if he should touch him or not, and, well, he tried. And that was what was important, right?
"No," Malfoy said, and his eyes were blank and wide. "'M not okay. Severus. He means well. Wants me to forgive him. But I can't, can I? He should've… should've never let me join in the first place. Should've let me go back after… you know. With Dumbledore."
"Perhaps," Harry said, and let his hand drop onto Malfoy's back, and not just because he wanted Malfoy to stop crying so that maybe they could snog again, there was no way he could handle that much snot that close to his face. And Malfoy didn't freak out or hit him or anything, so there was that. "But then," Harry continued, licking his lips nervously, and honestly, Malfoy looked absolutely disgusting when he cried, "but then you'd probably have died. You know. Or been sent to Azkaban. And you don't… I mean… is the whole pureblood thing really worth dying for?"
"Maybe. All right, fuck it, it's not important. I couldn't give a shit about purity, but this," he waved his arms around, gesturing to the flat as a whole, "this would never have happened. And it's all bloody Severus' fault."
"Er," said Harry, feeling very pathetic and lost and clueless, "well, don't you think some of that is the doxy dust talking?"
"Fuck you." But Malfoy leaned against him and pressed his snotty face into Harry's neck, which Harry thought was rather improprietous all things considered, but then again he'd come in Malfoy's mouth so he supposed nothing was entirely impossible.
Just then a loud, rhythmic banging came from above, getting faster and more furious with each passing moment, and when Harry turned his head to look out the window, he saw that it was raining toads.
As reported by The Daily Prophet June 14, 2010, the story of a freak storm directly over a toad farm and the wind tunnel it created, picking up the entire contents of the farm and dropping them upon London and the surrounding area in what appeared to be a veritable rain of toads. Just a coincidence, a freak occurrence some would say.
The toads also fell on Hogwarts. Some claimed it was because of the school's natural magical energy. The papers put it down to magical attraction and left it at that, although those within the school seemed to question the validity of such an explanation. The headmaster was quoted in The Daily Prophet thus: "Hufflepuff house will be severely punished for such a fool stunt as this, mark my words! The greenhouse roofs shattered, hundreds of plants destroyed! We'll spend the next three months trying to get toad out of the walkways and all so some lonely Hufflepuffs could keep those animals lucky enough not to be killed or mangled in the fall as pets?!"
A suitable explanation for the highly disturbing rain of toads on both London and Hogwarts was never found. Headmaster Snape handed in his resignation to the Board of Governors the following day, citing "extreme duress and having had quite enough of ungrateful heathens for one lifetime" as his reason for leaving.
Am I truly to believe this was simply a matter of circumstance? Just something funny that happened in the course of human history, an amusing anecdote to report later? I would like to think so because the alternative-that these things are, for lack of a better word, fated-seems entirely contrary to human existence, to the randomness of it, to the choices, to the hundreds of ways our lives could be better or just altogether different if only.
But no. These things happen for a reason. And it is the humble opinion of this narrator that these strange things happen all the time. And so it goes and so it goes and the book says, "We may be through with the past, but the past is not through with us."
Fin. Review? Maybe? You know you want to.