playing the game, living the lie

playing the game, living the lie.

A h/d fic by Abaddon.

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chapter 5: knowing me, knowing you.

a few days later: October 7.

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Sirius Black looked down at the sprawled form of his husband, entangled in sheets and snoring softly.  Remus was so peaceful in the mornings; his usual cares worn away, residing in the tranquillity of sleep.  Of course, Sirius couldn’t resist.

“Moony,” he whispered in a whiny tone, leaning in towards the only visible ear, “wake up.”   The other man muttered something that Sirius’ augmented hearing could clearly recognise as “go ‘way”, and rolled over onto his back, his repositioned arm drawing the sheet away from his chest.  It was all Sirius could do not to lean down and start licking one of those taut little nipples, and suck on the teat like a babe.  Remus had been far too busy with classes, designing lessons, or correcting the day’s work; and Sirius had been patrolling the grounds. It had been almost three weeks since they’d made love, or had any more lasting contact than a few stolen kisses before or after meals when they both had the time to spare.  Sirius had always been the more sensual of the two, and despite the fact they almost always curled up in each other’s arms whilst in bed, the lack of actual sex was simply unbearable.

But no.  He had a better purpose, a higher purpose, and the man refused to be tempted.  Even if temptation would be so very very good.  Tearing blue eyes from the form lying before him, he leaned down towards him, taking the time to lightly brush the golden brown hair from the man’s forehead, he adopted a conversational tone, as if addressing one’s of Remus’ slightly disinterested students.  “Dear me.  Look at the time.  You’ve got class in ten minutes, haven’t you, love?”

Instantly, Remus’ eyes were open and he was out of bed, protecting his modesty rather clumsily with a bed sheet, darting around like a mad thing.  “Fuck!”, he cursed, and again, his mouth spurting out a constant stream of regrets.  “Fucking bloody shit for brains why can’t I get a decent alarm charm Dumbledore will slaughter me for being late not to mention the students and oh dear Merlin I’ve got the  sixth years second period - Gryffindor and Slytherin too - now I have to watch Malfoy and Harry look at each other all lesson.”  In his travels, he absently glanced at the clock that hung on the wall, opposite the bed.  And stopped.  And turned to Sirius, a fury in his eyes.

“You lied to me,” he said in a throaty growl which reminded Sirius exactly what he became a day out of every month.  “You told me I had ten minutes,” he repeated, advancing towards the bed.  “It’s bloody six fucking twenty in the morning!”

Sirius held up his hands in a form of protest, and worriedly realised that he was naked, his wand was out of reach, and there was so many possibilities for a disturbingly embarrassing end.  “Now, Remy,” he tried to be soothing, calm.  “You know I was just having some fun, and you had to get up soon anyway, to get to Hogwarts-”

The other man, seemingly unable to see how climbing onto the bed did lessen his authority somewhat, cut Padfoot off sharply.  “Soon?  Oh yes.  Two and a half hours is often considered to be soon.  Next time I make dinner I’ll tell you it’ll be soon and let you wait Two and a half hours.”  The rage had subsided into a rambling frustration and Remus almost collapsed onto the bed, tiredly running his hands through his hair.  “I didn’t think I could ever teach again, after the last time,” he said brokenly, and Sirius was there to hold him, and massage the shoulders and back – which like the rest of him were slight, but possessed of a hidden wiry strength.

“It’s okay, love.”  At the reassuring voice, Remus finally let go and relaxed into the caress as Sirius wrapped his arms around him, abandoning the massage for something more intimate.  He bent his head to kiss the crown of Remus’ head, lips briefly touching the auburn hair.

“They’re just children, Sirius,” he commented, infinitely tired.  “Just children and they’re about to be caught up in a War.”  He sighed, and moved slightly, his shifting body still held in his lover’s arms.  “Worse thing is, they know.  They’ve gotten used to it.  Merlin, we’ve taken their childhood away.  At least we got to be children.”

Sirius rocked him slow and close; wanting to do anything he could to dispel the other’s fears away.  “Hey, I’m still surprised that when You-Know-Whatsit heard that Moony and Padfoot were back together, he didn’t run screaming in fear,” he joked, trying to elevate the mood, feeling Remus’ soft chuckle against his skin, closing his eyes at the sound.

He never thought he’d hear that laugh again.  It was subtle, and low – Remus had always been too cautious, too timid to draw attention to himself; trying almost too hard to be restrained and shy in real life, so as to disassociate himself completely from the wolf within.  Without opening his eyes, he murmured, “it’s so good to hear that again, Moony,” almost as if it were a revelation.

“Well, I’ve always believed in laughing during inappropriate moments,” retorted the other man, easily.  “Remember graduation?  I giggled my way through most of Dumbledore’s speech.”

A smirk crawled across Sirius’ face, and he slumped back onto the bed, arms splayed out.  “Oh yes.  But I think I may have had something to do with that, seeing as I spent the time tickling you and all.”

Remus clambered up next to him, resting his head on a palm, elbow bent, and reached out to toy with the flowing hair of his mate.  “Does it surprise you?”, he asked, as if it was obvious what he was asking.  Which to Sirius, it most certainly was not.

“What do you ever mean?”

“Us.  Here.  Now.”

“Oh.  That.”  He stretched, and one hand just happened to land on Remus’ head, ruffling the hair.  “Well, we are here, and I assume that’s a sign we were meant to be here.”  Allowing himself a brief moment of truth, he admitted quietly, “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t taken me back.”  It was true, though.  His obsession with vengeance had allowed him to survive Azkaban, but at a near cost to his humanity.  Having Harry as a grounding had helped, and the events of the previous year had given him something else to focus on besides hate, but Remus had brought him back to himself.  Sirius’ gentility and compassion, his sense of play and humour, and most of all, his love for Remus: parts of him Sirius had assumed he’d lost.   He’d forced them so deep down inside his soul so the Dementors couldn’t suck them out of him – but in doing so he didn’t think he’d be able to find it again.

Remus allowed himself the luxury of that embrace, and reached up to brush his lips against the other’s temple.  “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t wanted to be taken back,” he responded.  “After all, who else would have taken on a sad sack like me as a husband?”

Sirius laughed hard, and when the tremors had coursed through his body, he turned so that their eyes were parallel.  “One who could have given you a decent honeymoon, perhaps?”  It was his one regret about their marriage, barely five months old: just after his actions last year had allowed the Ministry to ‘pardon’ him.  They took Harry to live with them over the summer break, as the Dursleys had been informed about the threat to Harry’s life (as per Dumbledore’s instructions – Dumbledore and not Albus, for the sheer reason it was just strange to think of your former Headmaster by the first name) and promptly moved to the Costa de Sol.  All of Harry’s stuff they couldn’t barter, sell or donate (basically his school supplies) had been left with him, and so Sirius had taken them both on a shopping excursion to Diagon Alley first week of the hols.  Something normal families did; something that defined them as a normal family.  However, the constant presence of Harry had meant that the mind-blowing sex was neither constant nor enduring as they might have hoped.  Although they certainly had reasons and opportunities to practice their Silencing spells.

“Is it really that bad?” he asked, his mind snapping back to Remus’ earlier rant.

“What really that bad?” Remus proffered sleepily, snuggling closer, which caused Sirius to feel a gentle pang of guilt at the early awakening.

“Harry and Malfoy.”

“Oh.  No, not really, I guess.  Part of me wants to yell at them, to try and find some happiness now, before everything goes to hell.  And part of me…” He broke off, not willing to continue, although Sirius caught the look in his eye and met it.

“Do they remind you of…?”  Sirius wasn’t exactly willing to bring up ancient history either.

Remus moved away, sitting on the edge of the bed.  The weight of the past in his mind still haunted him.  “In some ways.  But…” He groped for words.  “I think that this time, things will be….more.”

“More?”  Sirius arched an eyebrow, and bent himself up to join Remus.

He nodded.  “More.  For better or for worse.”  He felt the arms hold him again, and soft lips brush at his neck.  The mouth turned hungry, and started to make it’s way down the pale flesh, licking, teasing, kissing.  Remus craned his neck, about to say “Stop that, you know I have to work,” when the hands he knew by sense of touch now, calloused and worn from years of imprisonment captured his face between them.  Sirius had always been driven by escape, Remus mused to himself, whether from his family or from Hogwarts or from Azkaban.  Wanting to push him further, challenge himself, see and do things that none had ever done before.

It continually amazed Remus that out of everything, it was his embrace that Sirius refused to escape from.

All too suddenly lips descended upon his, and it seemed for a moment, that time stood still.  The kiss was not passionate; the fires of youth were long behind them both, but it was gentle and kind, and tasted of home.  Sirius was home.

When Remus opened his eyes, he could see himself reflected in the blue of his partner’s eyes and opened his mouth to speak.  Sirius laid one finger across his lips, and shushed him.  “You have two hours before you have to go, Remus Lupin.  And despite the past five months, we still have near twelve years of catching up to do.”

In another part of campus, it was breakfast (although it could be argued Sirius was eating a snack of his own), and the Gryffindors were loosely seated around their table.  Morning chatter was somewhat subdued today; not so much for any particular reason besides lack of effort.  It was a few weeks since the now-infamous ‘Ron gives Malfoy a pasting in the corridor’ incident, and Hermione herself had quickly broached the gap between her and her boyfriend, calculating the exact amount of rueful apology it would take before Ron took her back.  He did, somewhat predictably, and thus life returned to normal.  Harry may have felt a tad excluded by Hermione and Ron’s new-found closeness, but he knew better than to push it.  He held his peace when he was asked by one or the other to excuse himself, so they could have some private time, and did his best to keep a straight face the myriad times Hermione overloaded herself with books, and Ron helped her pick up the resulting mess from the floor almost like an over-eager puppy dog wanting to please his mistress.  Merlin knew the Slytherins, and even some of the other houses (albeit good-naturedly) made various noises whenever Ron and Hermione came walking along.  Pansy Parkinson was heard to feign vomiting, and proclaimed in a loud voice that the only thing uglier than those two together would be the prospect of children, all red straggly hair and buck teeth.

Harry had been shocked by the comment, and moved quickly to defend her, as did all the Gryffindors present (it had been a Care of Magical Creatures lesson, with Hagrid distracted by the unnamed evilly smelling oily thing in a bucket that kept trying to suck people into itself.)  Ron himself had damn near exploded with fury, which surprised no-one.  What shocked the gathered crowd was that all Hermione did was lightly touch Ron’s arm, and his rage subsided.  It was amazing!  Pansy noticed, and stepped forward to further challenge her opposition (for if Draco was Harry’s, and to a lesser extent, Ron’s nemesis, then there was no doubt that Hermione and Pansy had it in for each other something terrible.)

Pansy sneered (highly original, really, considering she was a Slytherin) and enquired if Granger had bought a matching doggy bowl to go with that leash, seeing as she loved her new pet and all.  Making firmly sure that Ron wasn’t going to do anything suicidally heroic, she shot a similar glare at Harry just in case he tried something equally stupid, and took up the metaphorical gauntlet.  Adopting a sweet smile, she assured Pansy that it was such a shame that Draco had decided he and Pansy should be ‘just friends’.  Perhaps her blood wasn’t pure enough?

Harry meanwhile, had become distracted the moment Malfoy – Draco – the resident git – had been mentioned.  Where was he, anyway, leaving Pansy to take on the Mudblood and the Weasel by herself?  He scanned the crowd to see Draco standing a short distance away, taking no heed to the bitch fest, and unlikely to even if they brought out the brooms and started cloud-wrestling.  Draco was far too busy looking at him.

For a moment, things sort of…faded into the distance for Harry, and he could vaguely hear Hermione sounding genuinely apologetic to Pansy, some comment about how “it isn’t your blood that’s the problem…he wants what he can never have.”

Harry broke the glance (it was just a little glance, after all) to look back at Hermione, mystified, to find both her and Pansy looking at him! Of all people!  Hermione with those sad eyes, as if watching a funeral, and Pansy near crying.  Even Ron seemed caught up in the mysterious emotion, although too busy staring at the ground and scuffing his shoes to acknowledge Harry’s puzzled curiosity.

Fortunately, Hagrid had worked out that the oily thing didn’t like steel, and thus was fending it off with a pitchfork.  His attention now diverted back to the class, rather than just survival, he broke up the moment when he missed with his pitchfork and the oily thing reached out to gobble up Goyle.  A few hollers later and the entire class was helping.

When Harry looked again, class was over, and Draco was nowhere to be seen.

He’d shocked himself out of his reverie, and caught up with Ron and Hermione on the way to their next class – which Hermione had to remind him was a split, so she had to go to Arithmancy and he and Ron would toddle off to the Study of Ancient Runes.  He asked them what the whole deal was with that moment, and they ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ till he changed topic, ostensibly to “Why do you think Malfoy was looking at me?”

Hermione and Ron stopped.  Immediately.  Harry, who’d been traipsing hyperactively around them almost fell over in an attempt to mirror the sudden halt.  Bewildered, he watched as Ron and Hermione shared a glance and held hands, turning to him as if addressing a child.  Ron cleared his throat, loudly, and Hermione spoke.

“Now, Harry, we can’t help you with Draco.  Not till you help yourself with Draco.”  And turning, impassive, regal, they walked to class, leaving Harry shaking his head in their wake.

It had started that day, a few weeks ago now.  But since then Harry had been ever more aware of someone watching him constantly: Draco, and Harry was increasingly unnerved by it.  Not only that, but it seemed that there were other levels of watching; people watching Harry being watched by Draco.  Even more disturbing, if that was possible, and by people he’d never have guessed.  Hermione.  Ron.  Pansy bloody Parkinson, and sniffing at him every time she did.  Neville, by the Istari!  Even Professors Lupin and Snape: although Harry was certain that Snape was itching to deduct a few hundred points from Gryffindor, due to Potter’s obvious distraction of Malfoy.  In desperation, he turned to Seamus and Dean, interrupting one of the infamous Quidditch versus Soccer arguments at the dinner table, which caused Harry to get even more dirty looks from his fellow Gryffindors for disturbing the night’s entertainment. 

He knew, as all did, that you simply didn’t interrupt Seamus and Dean, not unless you wanted to wake up with something horrible in your bed the following morning, or have your breakfast turn green.  They simply disliked interruptions in the same way that Snape disliked people.  Harry considered himself lucky he didn’t fall victim to a practical joke then and there, but the two merely benefited him with similar smiles, and Dean asked, “What’s the matter, Harry?”

Well, Harry spent perhaps 5 minutes just babbling about the whole deal – starting with Draco, and continuing with everyone’s strange behaviour, and then returning to Draco, and then harping on a bit more about Draco, in between casual digs at his supposed friends who refused to tell him what was going on!  Seamus’ grin got so big you could probably see it in Cork, and Dean kept throwing worried glances at his friend, while trying to calm Harry down as well.  Finally, Harry ran out of rant, and just as Seamus opened his mouth to provide a solution…Dean clamped his hand over Seamus’ mouth, causing both Seamus’ and Harry’s eyes to widen in surprise, and then as he awkwardly apologised, he dragged Seamus from the table and into an adjoining corridor, away from prying emerald eyes.

In the subsequent tussle, Harry could make out snatches of conversation.

Firstly, Dean yelped.

Then Seamus, annoyed and bewildered: “Now why d’ya do that for?”

Dean: “You licked me!”

Harry blinked.  Surely that couldn’t be right.

But he could hear the smile in Seamus’ voice as he responded. “And you’d prefer me to have bitten?  Didn’t know you were into kink, Dean m’lad.”

A grumble.  “Sometime, Shame, I have no idea whether you’re teasing or being serious.”

“Course I was teasin’.  Ha.  Like I want to lick ya.”

There was a pause, then Dean again.

“I’m sorry, but I knew what you were going to say – and no, we can’t just tell him.”

“But look at him!  Hero of millions, and he can’t even work it out.  Plus that puppy dog look isn’t exactly cute on Harry, y’know.  He looks like he needs to go t’the bog.  We’d be doin’ him a favour, like I said.”

“And like I said, no.  When he’s ready to do something about it, he’ll realise.”

A pause.

Then Seamus, sounding dejected.  “Awww, you’re no fun.”

The two promptly reappeared, apologised to Harry, mumbled something about needing to go study, and left the Hall.

It had been that, over and over again.  People refusing to answer his questions.  People looking at him.  Draco looking at him.  Harry was reminded of last year, when the Weasleys attempted to plan a surprise birthday behind his back.  The sensation of being out of the loop; worse, the sensation that the loop is about you, and you don’t even know why.  It seemed the entire school was keeping a secret from him, and there was this gaggle of fourth year Hufflepuff girls who giggled everytime he walked by.

He was slowly being driven mad, he knew it.  Just a few more weeks and he’d be attempting to dance the polka on one foot while singing “I’m a little teapot” in falsetto.  Hmmm.  Maybe not.  But for now, Harry had never felt more alone.  People had taken to well, not avoiding him, but like now, avoiding conversation.  It was breakfast, after all; the table was almost full – except the seat next to him, a glaring indicator if there ever was one – and people were talking in hushed groups, twos or threes, as if anymore might let the secret slip, might let him know.

And so he sat somewhat glumly down at the Gryffindor table, decidedly uninterested in breakfast, just pushing the spoon around the bowl, watching the cereal form new patterns in the milk.  Ooooh.  Look.  There’s Madam Hooch.  My life can’t get anymore boring than this, can it Harry?  No, Harry, I’m certain it can’t.  Dean and Seamus were on one side, having a spirited discussion - Probably about Quidditch, he thought, they always talk about Quidditch - and Ron was sitting a few seats down and across, next to Hermione, who had her nose in a book, spooning cereal into her mouth as she read.  Ron it seemed, had actually bothered to get her said cereal, and placed it in front of her in the hope she ate, and now watched her every bite.

Really.  It was quite...disturbing.  To say the least.

In addition to the revelation that hung, taunting him, on the edge of fruition (it probably would turn out to be another surprise birthday party, or maybe Draco – Malfoy, dammit! – had enchanted his hair purple or something) Harry was tired and out of sorts.  He hadn't been sleeping, and there had been dreams again, dreaming of ice and fire and screams like wine.  If nothing else, he mused, I have to kill Voldemort for ruining my sleep on a semi-perpetual basis.  And having extremely bad fashion sense. 

Oh yes.

Meanwhile, Ron was distracted from the great breakfast experience that was Hermione eating, if the terror on his face was anything to go by.  Harry stared at him, wandering what on earth could provoke such a response, before the faint ‘whumph!’ of displaced air made him realise that someone had sat next to him, in the vacant seat.  And as he turned his head round to see who it was, Harry was reminded of those Muggle horror films when everything goes slow motion just before the heroine is captured by the monster.

He saw…a heart-shaped face, full red lips and flaming red hair.  Chocolate eyes, rich and deep.  Something akin to beauty, if the emotion hadn’t been so lacking.  Ginny Weasley was bored.

Big time.

Harry considered running.  It wasn't that Ginny was a bad person; it's just that she had finally grown out of her shell during last year and what appeared scared the living bejesus out of him.  She had declared almost everyone to be such a 'BOY!' (whatever that meant), and spent most of her time wandering the corridors or hanging around Ravenclaws.  When asked why Ravenclaws, she told Hermione that at least that way she’d be certain they weren’t members of her family.  She’d taken to reading battered Sartre or Nietzsche paperbacks on the stairs as she waited for them to organise themselves the way she wanted, fixing those who dared question her with wordless stares and the occasional verbatim quote about the abyss and such.

She had proven herself to an apt student - more than apt, really - which is why she was so unconcerned at slacking off, seeing as how she could probably get better marks than Ron and Harry combined, and she spent no small amount of her time being jaded.  Not especially nasty, but merely rather...there, and little more.

"Uh, hello Ginny," he proffered, knowing he'd come out worse in any conversation.  Ron seemed to be trying to catch his attention, a few seats down from Ginny, making hand gestures and mouthing something that seemed to be 'Abort!  Abort!’ 

She looked at him, as if to say 'What do you want?', and spoke.  "'lo, Harry."

"How're you," he asked, trying not to sound like a strangled cat.  "I haven't seen you round lately," he said, swilling some juice in a mug, ignoring Ron.  He could handle this.  He was the Boy Who Lived, after all.  Easy.

"I've been pretty busy," she offered.  "Plus we don't exactly mix much; different years and all."  Ginny looked down, and inspected her fingernails, while Harry was adrift.  Whether she was adoring him or disdaining him, he still had no clue of how to treat her.

"Oh.  Right."  Harry felt even worse than stupid.  "How's uh, what's-her-name, Caroline?"  He proffered the name of Ginny's off-again on-again girlfriend as a possibility.  From the look on Ginny's face, she wasn't impressed with his forgetfulness.  And Ron was giving him his patented 'My God, you're going to get killed' open-mouthed-stunned-mullet look, as his hands mimed a flying broom as it crashed and burned.  Hermione looked concerned, and you knew that was worse than any hand signal Ron could give.

Ginny suddenly seemed to be very interested in the table top, drawing a nail across it. "Caroline and I are...having difficulties," she said, coolly.  "We were on a break and she decided to sleep with half of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team."  Harry could have sworn she muttered "dozy cow" under her breath, but she turned to him then.

“And what about your life?”, she asked, resting her head on a hand.  “Now that Ron and Hermione have gotten together, you must be feeling a bit lonely.”

Harry blinked, somewhat startled by the change of subject, and even more by her potential sympathy.  Jaded, sarcastic, refusing to be emotionally vulnerable Ginny Weasley offering sympathy?  Unheard of.  “Um….yes, I guess,” he stammered, waiting for the final blow.  “Little to say."

“You should get yourself a boyfriend.  Or just get out there, and date.”

“Yeah, well…” Harry trailed off.  “Excuse me?  Boyfriend?  I used to have a thing for Cho Chang, y’know.”

“Yes, I know, yes it was painfully obvious to all concerned, and yes, for the past two years you’ve been checking out Justin Finch-Fletchly’s arse.”  She took a sip of her juice.  “Amongst others.  Ron told me.”

Harry coughed and spluttered and gave a glare that promised bloody vengeance upon his best friend, which Hermione met and returned in her best ‘If you hurt him, I’ll cut yer balls off’ protective girlfriend mode.  Not angry, just…definite.  She had her resolve face on.  He could just imagine her looking at him in that level headed ‘I brook no opposition’ way and saying, ‘See this?  This is my resolve face.  It means I’m resolved.’

“Yes, alright,” he admitted, somewhat beaten, “I’m attracted to guys as well as girls.”

Ginny patted him lightly, condescendingly on the shoulder.  “See?  That wasn’t so difficult, was it?  You know, I must be eligible for a new broom by now.”  Seeing Harry’s confusion, she continued.  “When you sign up to queerdom, Harry, you get a little stamp card.  Every straight person you convert, you get a stamp.  Ten stamps and you get a wand polishing kit.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “Do I want to know how many you have to turn to get a new broom?”, he asked dryly.

Ginny laughed.  “Probably not.”

"Male or female, it doesn’t matter.  No-one ever wants me for anything but the Boy Who Lived anyway."  It was true.  Last year Colin Creevy had asked if he could sleep with him, as long as he could film it and sell it to punters.

Their conversation was disturbed by a cough, and both Harry and Ginny turned to see the erstwhile Caroline Henshaw, the over-emotional fifth-year Ravenclaw that caused Ginny so much trouble.  Tears had stained her mascara and she reached out to her ex-girlfriend.  “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just….Ginny, can we talk?”

Ginny looked at Harry.  Harry shook his head.  “Go ahead.”  It seems they would have a lot to talk about, he thought, and wondered briefly if intimate details of half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team were going to be disclosed to the public. Ginny smiled back and took Caroline’s hand, clambering over the seat, and steadying herself with a hand on Harry’s shoulder.  Pausing for a moment, Harry could almost feel the smile on her lips.  “You might like to ask Draco Malfoy out, Harry,” she whispered in his ear.  “He looks at you even worse than I used to.”  Chuckling to herself, she left, leaving a stunned Boy Who Lived in her wake.

Voldemort would have been proud.