City

smoke II: city.

A HP slashfic by Abaddon.

A/N: Yeah. I wrote it. About a year and a half late. Much praise goes to the original inspiration for smoke, miss breed, but we're in uncharted (and entirely self-produced) territory here now folks. Oh, and I said I wouldn't write this pairing again. Ha. We've already got one perspective, one explanation, but what better guide than self-denial?

"Had a dream, had a drowning dream

I was in a river of pain

Only difference this time - I wasn't calling out your name."

~City, Natalie Imbruglia.

The door slammed behind him with a bang, but the young man was already striding down the hall, fingers running through unkempt strands of damp blond hair, almost silver, attempting to tuck them back into place for the moment, to regain even just the façade of civilised appearance. Whether or not he succeeded was an entirely different question.

He managed to make it to the stairwell and shot out a hand to grab hold of the banister, not taking great notice of the peeling, grimy plastic that covered the railing. Using the banister as a kind of leverage he hauled himself up the stairs in great leaps, taking two or three steps at a time. He was clearly already somewhat fatigued, although the lack of any great amount of panting on his part indicated he was quite fit, and in suitable condition for this sort of exertion. Judging by the flush on his face and the dampness of his hair to begin with, he had already exerted himself in one way this night.

The staircase wound ever upwards around itself, and the young man lost no time in trying to climb it as quickly as possible, never stopping, not even when he did begin to pant. He seemed to be quite driven in his desire to leave, as if the run down apartment block with its peeling grey painted walls and cracking Formica black-and-white tiled floor held some kind of bizarre terror for him, something he had to escape before he got sucked back in.

As he ran up the stairs, barely breaking a sweat, his clothes began to get a little rumpled. Everything about his choice of apparel screamed good taste, ostentatiously so, as if the young man had the overwhelming suspicion that people needed to be hit over the head with assertions of his sensibilities. Presumably they would then worship him or some such. There were black slacks, Armani, and a matching black jacket. Black Gucci loafers, a maroon shirt of the highest quality cotton - the top two buttons undone revealing an expanse of pale neck and upper chest, hinting at the shape of his collar bone - and a silk silver tie, loosely knotted so that it hung down his chest.

Finally, with one last haul of his arm, he managed to clamber onto the top floor, and took a few moments leaning against the banister to catch his breath. There was a quick, almost rueful look over the side of the railing to look down at the ten or so flights of stairs he had run up and then he was moving again, as if standing still was a form of death. There was a small side door down the passageway with a male icon on the doorway, and he turned into it, banging it open with his back, coming out of the turn to look at himself in the mirror of the bathroom, face made even more bleary by the harsh sterility of the fluorescent light.

He didn't look too good. In fact, he looked distinctly seedy, and he couldn't afford that. Taking his wand - ash, eight inches, ivory - out of his jacket pocket, he waved it over himself, murmuring a simple cleaning charm and taking time to concentrate. Magic was never as easy as it looked, and in some ways the most basic things were the hardest. The energy was focused by the wand, but the intent the energy worked upon was shaped by the mind. You could perform a basic cleaning spell, but if you were distracted, even for a second, the mental visualisation required would fail, and you might end up with patches of your skin which hadn't been cleaned. So the young man kept it relatively straightforward, closing his eyes to better picture himself naked and clean, as if he'd just stepped out of a shower and dried his hair.

There was a slight tingle all over his skin for a few seconds, and he opened his eyes again, cool blue-grey, to survey the reflection. His hair was restored to its regularly immaculate state, and all traces of grime and sweat were now gone. His clothes were still rumpled, but not as much as they could have been. He'd taken a lot of care to fold them neatly before he'd fucked Weasley. But then, he always did.

Swallowing slightly, he tucked his wand back in the jacket pocket specially sewn for just that purpose and opened up the bathroom door, striding out along the corridor towards the roof exit. Yanking open the door, the young man paled slightly at the sudden gust of cold, icy wind but grit his teeth and set his shoulders, making his way out into the freezing London winter night. It was a quick matter to locate his broom and remove the security spells with a muttered incantation.

Straddling the now airborne broom, Draco Malfoy kicked off and soared into the night sky. Draco flew. He could have apparated away from that dingy little hovel (the smoke the sweat the rank smell of sex in the air) but didn't. Perhaps he chose to fly because it gave him the appreciation of distance. Perhaps he did it out of fear of getting caught; the Ministry could check apparitions, if need be. The chance of discovery was slight, but it was there. Whatever reason, he did it.

Besides, the cold night air whipped through him and he welcomed the chill. There was a small chance of frostbite, but another muttered charm and he would be protected against that extreme at least. The wind was bracing against his skin, raising goose bumps and a cool sweat. Purging from him the stink of sex and nicotine, even if it was half imagined. Smell was the most evocative of the senses, and every time Draco smelled cigarette smoke he thought of Weasley, as Weasley traditionally smoked like a chimney, both before and after the deed, although it had been a long time since Draco had stayed to watch. And when he thought of Weasley, he thought of Harry.

He was glad the wind washed him clean of the stench of his adultery.

Beneath him, the city sparkled like a jewel. London rebuilt after the war, a sign of the new Britannia, the new world. All those myriad people, wizard and muggle going about their business, their scurrying little lives, and how could he say he was any better, with what he did? He had to get away from those people, the light, the noise, the stink of civilisation. The city was nothing but a prison.

He tried a few loops in the air, tried to bring back some of his verve, his spirit, his fire, but he had lost it an hour or so previously, the torrent of rage and filth and life pouring out of him in a single burst. Now he merely felt tired and old and aching and the cold stung his bones and fogged his breath. Even clean, his form seemed drawn, his skin pallid, and his hair had lost some of its old lustre. The set of his face begged for release, for rest, and yet his eyes still burned.

His robes flapped around him, and he curled one hand in the fabric, pulling at it so it conformed tighter to his body, keeping the other hand warily on the broomstick. He had flown in worse, of course, but there were no reason not to be cautious.

He always preferred to fly in these times, between what he was and what he is, before the present caught up with him and tumbled him into a future he preferred not to think about. It gave him time to reflect, to compose himself, to work out his lies. Apparating was too sudden, too disturbing in its replacement of one now with the next. For one thing, it left you with no excuses.

Turning sharply to the south, Draco started tracing the solitary route that would take him back home.

I suppose you think you know me. I should you think you hate me. It's only fair after all. And you know what? You might very well be right. After all, I'm sure if it ever came out you'd be far too busy condemning me to do anything else. Not that you aren't already, of course. It's a known fact that the vast majority of the world would prefer me dead. I just try to sit back and enjoy the infamy - it's vastly entertaining, really, watching entire echelons of wizarding society pale at my very existence.

Things would have been a lot easier if I'd gotten involved during the war; gotten involved and died tragically, horribly, predictably, and cleared the way for someone a lot more respectable, a lot more tolerable to take my place at Harry's side. Probably Weasley - you probably think they'd make such a cute couple, don't you? Except that Harry could never give Weasley what he needs and Weasley could never give Harry what he needs. On the other hand, I can give them both what they need, and want. I can make them happy - well, I doubt Weasley will ever be really happy, but I can fuck him hard enough so that he doesn't worry for a while.

It's a tangled little web we've woven, suited for high drama or low camp - or perhaps low drama or high camp, I'm not entirely sure. But really, let's return to me, shall we? My favourite subject, at any rate, and the one I'm most knowledgeable about (except for Harry, and I don't discuss him.) I am the most hated man in wizarding Britain. I am also, according to those people who survey such things and therefore display an atrocious lack of social skills, the most talked about. You wouldn't expect that, would you? By all rights, it should be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Survived. Amazingly, he comes in at number two. After all, he is a hero, and the world doesn't have much left anymore that hasn't been sullied or broken, so it clings to its heroes. There's a mystique around Harry, a reverence. He's seen as something above the world and the world doesn't especially want to destroy that conception of him.

There's no reverence about me, I assure you, despite the fact that there should be. Probably because Harry chose me, which is why the world talks about me and just can't stop. Not a day goes by where some filthy little tabloid with its head in the journalistic gutter doesn't trawl out some half-concocted story about my childhood, or adolescence, or links with Voldemort, and ask the age old question of exactly what Harry could ever see in a has been wreck of humanity such as myself.

No matter how much Harry defends me in public, the public refuses to believe him. To some, I'm always going to be the schemer, the sycophant, the bootlicker and brat and evil borderline psychotic who stole their hero away from someone more suitable - presumably each and every one of them. Really, I should be hounded into the hills by a mob of muggle-born, foaming at the mouth and carrying torches. And how dare Harry defend me, let alone commit the unforgivable sin of loving me.

No, I'm sure the thousand and one theories must be right. I'm blackmailing him, clearly. It's a love potion, a charm gone wrong. He suffers from insanity due to the war and this is the result. He's cursed, depraved, depressed, lonely, out of his mind. Anything so long as he isn't compos mentis and I get to be vindicated. Anything so the world can ignore what's happening in front of their eyes, what's happened in front of their eyes for years, because that might just make it a little harder for the world to worship him, if his taste is irregular, his romantic desires so opaque.

Everyone used to be able to empathise with Harry; his life was so well known. The perfect family, then Voldemort, the Dursleys, then salvation in Hogwarts for three years, before everything started falling apart. Then the years became associated with failures, rather than successes. Harry became a Greek tragedy, writ large with the names of those who failed or those he failed. Snape. Diggory. Black. Dumbledore. Somehow, he managed to regroup and keep fighting, and wouldn't let go. Voldemort used to find him most irritating - trust me, I know, I was there. My father certainly wasn't impressed by the fact he kept surviving, kept throwing it in our faces. But the fact was that Harry fought, and won, and lived, and so he became a legend. Everyone wanted to be him; every child since the war has been brought up with his example in mind. And it all made a kind of tragic sense, as I said. The only thing that never clicked in the story, that jarred the narrative, was me. Erase Draco Malfoy from the history books and Harry becomes a picture perfect saint again, ready for all the middle class hypocrites to just lap up with their fables of Merlin and Godric Gryffindor and Dumbledore.

One of the few friends of Harry's who's always supported me was Weasley, and that was always rather ironic, considering I fuck him on a regular basis. Arse or mouth, I'm not particularly choosy and neither is he. But then, Harry hasn't got many friends left. He doesn't trust people in the same way, not since the war, and most of the ones he did have died. Granger's still alive, although that's hardly a plus considering she's in St. Mungo's. She has lucid periods, sometimes, when she can remember everything quite clearly and put things together but they come at random and are few and far between. Harry visits her when he can, and holds her hand, and cleans the drool from her mouth with a tissue if she's not having a lucid moment. I watch him with her, and we banter if she's up to it.

She tells me to make him happy, and I try. I visit her myself sometimes, and tell her my fears about Harry and I, because there's no-one she can tell. If she's coherent, she tells me that the world can get fucked, and I agree with her. I don't tell her about Weasley though, because I think she might try to kill me. Well, if she could. Thanks to her instability, they've slapped a nice restraining charm on Granger, and it does make her company that little bit more tolerable, I must admit. She can't harm anyone, especially herself, but still. Some things don't need to be said.

I know why I started things with Weasley. It was simple; it was power. I had it over him; he needed to be shown that, again and again and again. Each fuck, each kiss, each act of obedience and submission was a lesson. He learnt to obey, to worship and I did so like being worshipped.

And then Harry came along, and everything changed. Don't ask me to explain it, because I don't exactly understand it myself. I needed both of them. One to punish and hurt, and one to love. And so I kept going, punishing Weasley for making me want him, fucking him harder and harder and the amazing thing was he loved it. Harry never realised, of course. We made sure of that.

We made sure of a lot of things, and it's my wedding anniversary tomorrow.

Draco crept into the apartment he shared with his husband, having landed rather well on the rooftop space they kept especially reserved for such things. He shut the door behind him, taking care not to knock over anything in the dark. It was rather easy, especially as he'd been the one to decorate the apartment in the first place - he could find his way around the room in his sleep with both hands tied behind his back. That might have been an exaggeration, but it was truth, or essentially so. Harry would be sleeping in the adjoining bedroom, and all Draco had to do was get there, undress and slide beneath the covers without a sound, cuddling up close to the man he did love.

He continued moving further, and stopped instantly the moment he heard a sound, like a rustling. Something moved in the darkness and one of the lamps came on, revealing Harry Potter lounging back in one of their armchairs, still dressed in clothes from work.

"Don't bother, Draco. I know where you've been. I've always known."

"But-"

Harry cut Draco off with a gesture, looking calm, almost blankly at Draco before he turned to read the clock on the bookshelf behind him. "One thirty-six, a.m. Happy Anniversary; I'm going to bed."

With that he raised himself from the chair and turned to head back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.