Holiday

Holiday by Charlotte Sterling

Chapter Four

* * *

The purpose of life is to fight maturity. - Dick Werthimer

I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy. - J.D. Salinger

If the truth doesn't save us, what does that say about us? - Lois McMaster Bujold

Humour is the absence of terror and terror is the absence of humour. - Lord Richard Buckley

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future. - Oscar Wilde

* * *

"Er, I can explain."

Harry leaned forward in his chair, rested his chin on the palm of his upturned hand and smiled in a way that resembled nothing so much as a hungry lion stalking a gazelle with an injured leg. "Looking forward to it."

Draco continued examining his fingernails disinterestedly. He wore the mild expression a person waiting for a weather report. Harry found this rather remarkable and not entirely unadmirable, considering the circumstances. He knew it was only years of Malfoyian training that allowed Draco to maintain his lazy, icy facade. His true emotions were unknowingly betrayed by a single traitorous bead of perspiration that rolled down his neck.

Harry himself was having trouble remaining cool and collected, because the more he thought about the situation, the more wonderfully and wickedly delicious it became. Merlin knew if the tables were turned, Draco would have no qualms about mercilessly torturing Harry for the next decade. Draco had only recently quit teasing him about the Valentine that Ginny had sent him in their second year. Harry reminded himself to postpone the laughter that fluttered in his chest until Draco had suffered sufficiently.

A few more moments passed, during which both parties sat in careful thought, trying to exhibit posture and expression exactly opposite what they were thinking. As time stretched on with near tangible viscosity, it became obvious that Draco might soon need another prompt to resume speaking, lest he disinterestedly examine his fingernails so intensely that they burst into flames.

After realizing that a subtle and well-placed 'ahem' would come out sounding too reminiscent of a certain toadish and highly unpleasant former professor for his own piece of mind, Harry decided to allow his companion to continue stewing in discomfort a while longer. Draco's sense of self preservation would almost assuredly stop him before he spontaneously combusted. The Dursleys wouldn't return for a few hours, at least. Besides, Harry was finding it far too enjoyable to be on the humiliation-free side of the equation - a rare occurrence indeed when Draco was involved - to rush the process. He leaned back in his chair with one hand behind his head, sipped his drink and sighed, contented.

When the silence became too loud for even a Malfoy to bear it with any real degree of dignity, Draco finally looked up from his hands and shifted in his chair to face Harry. He opened his mouth to speak but promptly shut it again, pursing his lips together like someone searching for a word they can almost remember.

"Yes?" Harry inquired helpfully. Patronization of this caliber was an art form.

The scathing glare aimed at him in reply led Harry to vaguely hope his earlier musings on Draco's pyrotelekinetic abilities had been inaccurate.

Malfoy tilted his head to the side and fixed Harry with an appraising gaze. "You're really making a meal of this, aren't you?"

"Me?" Harry asked, blinking innocently.

Draco really was talented at expressing phrases not used in polite circles with just his eyebrows.

"Don't I have a right to?" Harry continued in reply to Draco's expression. "What would you do if I was going around calling myself Draco Malfoy?"

Draco appeared to ponder this for a moment. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. After a long look at the pool and the surrounding area, he turned his head to Harry, looking thoughtful, and sighed.

"You know, Harry, in all these years, I don't believe I'd ever seen your feet before today. Isn't that odd? I mean we live in the same- "

"What the hell are you talking about? You're dodging the question and not even doing a good job of it. I want to know why you're using my name. And I want to know why you're here, whether I should be worried about it, why you're so friendly all of a sudden, why you were acting so strange this year ... and did you bite me on the last day of school?"

Upon hearing this last question, Draco wrinkled his nose and raised a hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle a snort of laughter. He wasn't successful.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing. Look, I'm starting to get annoyed here and- "

"Oh, is precious perfect Potter Getting Annoyed? Surely there are laws against such a thing!"

"When did I become 'Potter' again? Was it was when you decided on the name change? Won't it get confusing with so many of us running about?"

Draco laughed. "I think it's about time for a refill, Harry." He waved his half-empty drink around as evidence.

"Ha. Ha. I don't think there's going to be any refills until you tell me what's going on."

"Ugh." Draco made a face of mild disdain and rolled his eyes, "Curiosity killed the cat, you know." He added something else that sounded suspiciously like 'bloody prying Gryffindor' under his breath.

"Is it really asking too much to want an explanation?" Harry laughed bitterly and muttered, "Bloody name-thieving Slytherin."

"I'm just trying to relax and enjoy my vacation. Even us scheming, evil Slytherins need a break once in a while. What's there to explain?"

"You know damn well what there is to explain. You know what? Nevermind. I give up."

Harry sat back in his chair, with more force than was necessarily required for the task, and folded his hands across his chest.

Draco continued to glare straight ahead for a while before exhaling loudly and rolling his eyes as he turned to look at Harry. He watched, stared actually, until it started to make Harry uncomfortable.

Just as Harry was about say something about it, Draco flashed him a dazzling bright smile and gave him a sort of indulgent look.

"Oh, Harry. Don't be like that. You've already done enough sulking to last a lifetime. Besides, you're not properly attired for it ... Look, I'm sorry. I'll tell you everything, okay?" He tilted his head and pouted slightly.

Harry ignored him for as long as possible but finally had to uncross his arms and turn to face him. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Now, now." Draco made lazy, placating movements with his hands. "Don't get cheeky with me again. Merlin knows what would happen if Harry Potter Gets Annoyed twice in one day."

Harry huffed, lifting the fringe off his forehead. Too late. Really, of all the people that could have showed up here, why him? He pleaded to the sky.

Draco leaned forward and picked up his drink, then went about the elaborate process of shifting around in his chair to find the best position, like a cat trying to find the perfect spot on, to all appearances, a perfectly even floor. Although he didn't carry out the task with nearly as much drama, Harry settled into his chair, too. He had an inkling that Draco's story would be neither short nor simple.

When both were comfortably situated, Harry indicated that Draco had the floor with a grand flourish of his hand. "Anytime you're ready."

A slightly disturbing grin lit up Draco's eyes. Harry was terribly familiar with it, as he had seen it plenty of times throughout the years, albeit never on the ground before. It was the slow, sharp smile that always spread across Draco's face right before he did something utterly reprehensible during a Quidditch match. It was the slightly maniacal glinting grin of a person totally in their element and wholly sure of every move they make. The last time Harry had seen it, he had been about half a second away from taking a Bludger to the back of the head, as per Draco's orders, of course.

Draco sipped his drink and smiled at Harry. "Well, Harry, we've already established that I'm a total bastard, yes?"

"Yes," Harry agreed tentatively.

"Ah, good. Then it shouldn't come as a surprise to you ..." Draco held up his left hand and waved "... when I do this."

With a sharp crack, Draco Disapparated.

* * *

The closest Harry had ever come to being intoxicated before that week was when he had drank four butterbeers in one afternoon. Even then, it had been nothing more than a flush in his cheeks and a slight proclivity to giggle excessively.

He had heard of hangovers before; had seen some of his classmates stumble bleary-eyed into the Great Hall, refusing breakfast with a grimace and instead choking down one of the several ready-made anti-hangover potions available. None of which, Harry could tell from his offhand observations, did anything other than taste awful.

Secretly, Harry had thought that people suffering from hangovers must all have been indulging themselves a little bit. Martyrdom had its appeal, especially when it included an excuse to be cranky and irritable and lie in bed until noon.

Upon waking the next day, Harry was forced to reconsider his opinion.

The good news - the only good news - was that Uncle Vernon, Aunt Marge and Dudley were apparently not in the suite. This assumption was based solely on the dramatic absence of flagrant stupidity in the air, as Harry had not yet found the will to get off the couch, or even open his eyes, for that matter. Further examination of the situation, conducted by grasping blindly for the television remote control and pressing random buttons until it switched on, revealed that the Dursleys were indeed not there because it was 1:07 p.m. Upon noting Harry still asleep at such a late hour they had probably assumed he was near death and had gone out to celebrate.

The bad news ranged from the fact that Harry's entire body hurt; even his teeth, which had previously provided little input on such matters, to the fact that any movement at all, even blinking or breathing, produced such waves of nausea and vertigo that Harry began making furtive plans to spend the rest of his life on the couch; because surely, suffering of this magnitude could never improve to the point of living a normal life again. Also, he could tell just by the way it felt, that his hair had achieved new heights in its ongoing quest for total anarchy. Oh, and there was Draco The Profound Bastard to consider, also. Harry groaned.

Or tried to, at least. It seemed that his body had decided that saliva production was an optional activity. As he grimaced at the bitter taste in his mouth, Harry rolled onto his stomach, much to the protest of every molecule of his being, and pushed up onto his hands to peer over the back of the sofa in search of water.

There were bottles of water in the refrigerator but that was a considerable distance away. The kitchen sink was closer but Harry had already learned that people here did not drink the tap water for a good reason. It was beginning to look like all hope was lost, when he saw it. Basking in it's own splendid majesty on the end table across the room, just meters away from Harry himself, was his bottle of water from last night. He was fairly sure he could see small harp-playing Seraphs circling around it.

Before the bottle could notice his sinister plans for mass consumption and possibly escape, Harry draped an arm over the end of the bed, rummaged through the front pocket of his backpack, dug out his wand, pointed it at the bottle and said in the best voice possible for someone in his condition, "Accio water!"

It was then that Harry's brain returned from the trip it had taken to the corner store for a loaf of bread. He clasped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, and tried to follow several lines of thought at once. It was illegal to perform underage magic. But he had done it before and gotten away with it. And it had been for bigger and therefore more controversial things than summoning water. And Draco had said that the Ministry wouldn't even be able to tell if he used any magic anyway. But Draco was a bastardous ferret. But he had used magic yesterday when he Disapparated. The one thing that was certain was that the entire -

Harry decided that he really needed to work on improving his attention span, as was indicated by his utter surprise when a bottle of water smacked him squarely in the head.

"Crap."

* * *

Three hours, two aspirin, and one Mars Bar later, Harry was feeling somewhat better. Still far from perfect, he could currently bear the burden of existence with modest ease and felt that this was considerable progress. For several minutes he had been pondering the enigma of the dirty ferret they called Draco Malfoy. Harry had actually been having a somewhat decent afternoon the day before. Factoring in a grade curve for the company he had been keeping, it could have even been called a highly pleasant afternoon.

From what Harry could tell, Draco too had been enjoying it well enough. Probably not as much as he would enjoy hitting people with rocks or making small children cry, but still. Harry wanted very much to know what secret Draco was keeping. What could be so important that he should act like he did? Harry hoped it wasn't anything too elaborate, because he wasn't really feeling up to much for the next, oh, decade.

There were a million different scenarios that played out in Harry's mind as to why Draco was there. Subtle delineations aside, they all boiled down to Voldemort, Death Eaters, favourite Malfoy Family pastimes, nefarious plots, unnecessarily complex plans, and blah, blah, blah ... It was difficult to think of Voldemort as anything more than a bad dream when one was so removed from one's usual surroundings. Harry tried not to imagine Lord Voldything sitting by a pool, drinking tropical slushy beverages and wearing ugly flip-flops.

* * *

After Draco had Disapparated, Harry had remained sitting by the pool for another hour. Part of him had been too lazy and disgruntled to be bothered with going inside, even though it had been getting dark. The other part, loath as he was to admit it, had been hoping Draco would come back. Not just because he wanted to know what was going on, but also because he had been having ... a nice time.

After leaving the pool the night before, Harry had gone up to the hotel room, changed out of his swim trunks, brushed his hair and gone back down to the lobby to wait for the Dursleys. There he enjoyed a relaxing three hours, lounging in a wobbly folding metal chair while receiving suspicious glares from hotel employees and guests alike, as he thought of the various ways by which he could cause injury to a certain twitchy albino prat and make it look like an accident. Harry wondered if giant squids were carnivorous.

The Dursleys returned at 11:15 and Dudley ever-so-kindly thumped Harry on the head with a giant foam hand that he had bought at a football game. The giant squid would be eating well this year.

Tired, depressed and more than a little cranky, Harry followed the Dursleys up to their hotel room. Ten minutes later, he was asleep.

* * *

While he had endured his fair share of embarrassment and disappointment in life, Harry never quite got used to the initial sting. His poor, ever-naive brain had been so pleased with the unexpected camaraderie between him and Draco earlier that day. He had been looking forward to returning to school and seeing the looks on his classmates' faces when Draco and him spoke cordially and did not try, at least not with any real effort behind it, to kill each other. He had also already planned a fiendish, er ... lesson, to be taught to that git, Teddy Nott, whom Draco had also mentioned having an extreme dislike for.

And yeah, he knew Draco could probably provide some very useful information regarding Lord Voldemort & Co. Any assistance Harry could get in that department would certainly not be turned down, but it wasn't even the promise of helpful secrets and strategy that had been so alluring in Draco's offer of friendship.

He had liked the idea of finally getting to practice Quidditch with someone who could keep up with him. Ron was good, but Harry usually had to hold back a little, lest Ron start accusing him of showing off; even though Ron, as far as Harry could tell, made it a policy never to hold back while playing chess. Harry had liked how, although he barely knew Draco, he was already sure that he wouldn't have to worry about Draco being secretly jealous, or angry, or offended, or having his feelings hurt and not saying a word about it like Ron did. If Draco so much as had the hiccups, it was guaranteed that everyone would know about it and would have to suffer right along with him - and that wasn't such a bad thing, considering the alternative.

He had imagined Hermione's reaction to him suddenly being friends with Draco. She would be livid at first, and rightly so, in Harry's opinion. If anyone deserved a free shot at Draco, it was her. Harry would even hold him down. Eventually she would come to grudgingly accept his presence, perhaps even as well as one would eventually accept a family member's beloved yapping, ankle-biting dog. For all Hermione lectured about Tolerance and Equality and Forgiveness and House Harmony, she still had some learning to do on the subjects. It wasn't that Harry wanted to prove her wrong, he just wanted to show her that she wasn't always right and that it was sometimes easier to talk about things than to do them.

Friendship with Draco held the promise of not having to watch your back while walking in the halls. It was the novelty of having a friend that didn't bear the same and, admittedly, often annoying, noble Gryffindor colours but might just be an okay person regardless. He had liked the idea of having Draco, vicious little ball of wrath that he was, on his side. Because surely life would be much more peaceful knowing you had a Malfoy playing on your team.

Even though Harry had a brief altercation between his modesty and sense of humility over it, he also liked the idea that two such powerful people - himself, the supposed saviour of the wizarding world, The Boy Who Has A Really Long Nickname and Draco, cunning, sly, ambitious, charismatic, The Boy Who Is Often Not Quite As Mean As They Say - could join forces ... or even just sit around and play Exploding Snap. The point was, no one in their right mind would have tried to stop them. People would scramble and leap out of their path as they walked down the hall, robes billowing dramatically. Harry didn't want to admit it, but he liked the concept of power and authority. Just a little.

What had appealed to Harry most about it though, was the idea of proving them wrong. Every last one of them. Everyone had always just accepted that Draco and he were natural born enemies, doomed to forever stand against the other, each destined for greatness but on opposite sides of the chessboard. They saw it in black and white, protagonist and antagonist, winner and loser and they didn't seem to care that they had already decided the fate of two eleven year old boys.

Harry had wanted to show everyone that he wouldn't play along with their plans just because it was how they thought things should go. He wanted to show them that the Sorting Hat had been right in thinking he would do well in Slytherin, because he wasn't a shadow that followed blindly. He wanted to remind people to stay on their toes around him because he wasn't just their Gryffindor hero, a crude caricature of nobility and bravery, a mascot.

Most of all, and for reasons he couldn't entirely grasp, he had wanted to show them that a Slytherin - The Slytherin - might turn out to be more than anyone expected.

Draco, apparently, had wanted free drinks.

* * *

Noting that sitting alone in a dark room all day wasn't the best way to pass the hours, especially when one has just managed to thoroughly depress themselves, Harry decided to wander around the hotel some and see if he could find anything interesting. He could go get a real lunch in the diner, check out the arcade ... Maybe he would have a look around at the other floors, the top stories were supposed to be really nice.

He took a quick shower and was relieved when he stepped out to find that his hair had returned to it's normal and only slightly rebellious, disposition. He pulled on his Chudley Cannons t-shirt, only to decide that it was too horribly wrinkled to be worn. After rummaging through his suitcase, Harry found his favorite black shirt, the one he had once overheard Parvati and Lavender discussing in their own little language of squeaks and sighs and giggles. He cleaned up his empty water bottles, candy wrapper and his various possessions that had become scattered throughout the suite - including his socks, one of which was found under the sofa while the other had been in the hallway. Ron would have been proud. Harry grabbed his five dollar fortune and card key off the table, had a quick glance in the mirror, then headed for the door.

So yeah. Lunch. Arcade. Maybe get a newspaper from the lobby. Maybe stop by the pool. Explore the hotel ...

One thing was for sure. He certainly wasn't looking for Draco.

No sir.