Revolution

REVOLUTION.

Part One.

It was the time for cigarettes on a Tuesday morning. He could smell the smoke as he inhaled it in, took it out and let it puff out in the whirl of gray circles in the air. He didn't know anybody who lived in this town, not anybody he knew from school. Ron and Hermione never called anymore and he never picked up the phone and punched their numbers in--never wrote them any letters. Hedwig was gone, flying off somewhere she couldn't seen and then there was the townspeople that thought him strange. They thought he was so strange that he enjoyed going to the public events and dressing up in his darkest of clothes, grinning boyishly from cheek to cheek, spitting out the cigarette butts he liked to chew on even though they tasted so bad he wanted to choke on them--a reason why he smoked in the first place. Punishment. Punishment always took him by surprise. It took him by the neck and dragged him over to the nearest walls, grounds and made him want to die, or worse. Harry had never liked the idea of dying, had never understood why people dressed up as Goths, only liked that cigarettes made his lungs grow weak and only liked feeling weak just to make up an excuse for not being strong in the first place.

He had tried to quit that Tuesday morning. Felt his hand disappear into one of the trash cans near his house, only to pull out the cigarette again and again until it was useless. He needed something in his hand to hold--it was just like breathing. You didn't think about breathing, it came so naturally you hardly ever thought about it until someone made you stop. Or blinking. Once you started thinking about blinking you'd start to notice and you'd try to count how many minutes you could go without doing it or the way you blinked was just like the way you took out your eyelash in one single two-fingered pull--down, down. Up and up again.

The town was having their weekly dance again, the one you dressed up in fancy corsets to make your boobs pop up on the top, the ones where the men wore long, big hats that made their wives giggles when it hit their chins. Harry wasn't attending and when he entered his house to sit on the sofa cushions and stare at the blank television before he turned it on with the push of his foot. What did war mean anyway? And why were the celebrities wearing tops that went up beneath their breasts when they had white teeth to show? And why wasn't he more interested in girls than boys?

Being gay was something Harry accepted...just as his name. He knew the town knew, he knew by the whispers of the local school kids calling him the "old fag that rented the porno movies" which Harry had flushed but made himself laugh at afterwards. He wasn't old--barely twenty-two made it easier to say that fact and mean it. He didn't lose any of his youth, and he knew some boys down at the parking lot who smoked too, seventeen year old boys wearing school uniforms looking at him, all over. He knew they were just as gay as him, one of them had the lips to shine and Harry suspected he wore the same brand of lipstick because when they blinked it made their lips shine. Harry wanted to know how he did it--made it magic like that. The way his eyes closed made his lips appear just as pink as his tongue but when he opened them again, his lips were as pale as his skin, blending with his white-blonde hair.

When that boy had been alone in the parking lot, Harry had stepped toward him and sat on one of the cars, smiling at him and teasing him about doing his homework. The boy didn't fit in with the boys that smoked...because he began coughing whenever he did and that Tuesday afternoon he didn't have something in his fingers.

The boy was familiar, but that didn't matter to Harry. Ever since the war, he always found everyone familiar. The boy reminded him of Draco Malfoy--even Harry liked to call him Draco at times, just because his eyes were the same length, the same color. But he knew it wasn't true. Because Draco wasn't seventeen, Draco wasn't in the muggle world, and Draco wasn't alive.

Harry knew, because he had killed him himself.

The boy often asked Harry why he did call him Draco and Harry told him it was just a nickname. It had been the second week they had met on a Tuesday, and Harry made his legs grow apart as he spoke, making sure the boy watched him. He knew just the way teenage boys wanted it, if they were gay. He knew the boy would watch his legs first, have his eyes on what was there before looking up to his face, and his cheeks turned so pink Harry wanted to lick it just to make sure it didn't taste like candy.

So it was that Tuesday that Harry had the boy in his arms. It didn't happen slowly, it happened as fast as it could come, until they were both close with their lips ripping apart each other's and Harry could only smell in the scent of how clean the boy was, remained to him, right on top of the car. Harry knew the boy would get beaten if any of his friends saw him with the fag in town that rented porno's, but he didn't care. He liked the danger. He had always liked complications, the way they drew larger and larger by every second.

But it was the whisper that ruined it all. Because as the boy's tongue drew in, he pulled in, looked at Harry straight in the eyes, breathing so heavily--"I can find you Draco Malfoy."

There it was. And there it started.

**

"I am not looking for him. He's dead," Harry told the boy listlessly the next morning. "I killed him. I saw him dead."

"He's not dead," the boy insisted without a trace of question on how he had died, even though Harry had been sure he was a muggle. "I know he isn't."

"How do you know?" Harry asked him, shoving him away from the close way they were against each other.

The boy looked away, half his face visible and the other half dead by his voice. "I know him."

"How?" Harry asked him angrily. "Who the fuck are you? You're a muggle. You live in this fucked up town, smoke around with every bad schoolboy you can find, follow them around. You're just trying to get to me. Don't you have anything better to do then to bother the town fag?"

"I grew up with your name," the boy said, his face lifting up to meet eyes with his, his lips so pink now from the sunlight that Harry wanted to let him burn, burn right there in his pale skin. Fire on skin would be pleasant, Harry decided. He would let his own tongue travel across the boy's nipples just to make them burn-- he shook his head and tried to listen. "I grew up learning your name. Don't you think someone would notice, Harry? That fucking Harry Potter moved into my town? That'd be an insult, wouldn't it? I am not a wizard, but that doesn't mean I don't know shit about you or the world you used to live in. I was in the war. I am the war. I know all about it. I can tell you anything that happened with it. I can tell you anything you never knew. Did you know Granger's hair was sweaty all across her face when she pointed her wand at Nott, that she gasped when she said the words? Did you want to know that Weasley didn't know who to kill first, his brother or Lucius? How's that for a Squib?" The boy stopped speaking, his clenched fists wriggling against his pants--Harry noticed a bulge in his pants almost immediately and only took that in with painful amusement before he began to reply.

"Squib. You're a squib," Harry said bluntly.

"I am not evil," the boy told him, his hand coming over slowly to graze Harry's chest through his shirt. "I just want you to forget about this Malfoy person and move on. I want you to stop calling me Draco. I thought you two were enemies. Why is he so important?"

Harry looked down at the boy with a peculiar expression--knowing it was the only thing the boy wouldn't try to read..."Because he just is."

**

145^th Harley Brown Café.

Eight o'clock proved to be a time where Harry stood in front of the mirror and couldn't look good in anything. The shirts, the sleeves, the pants, he wanted to go naked outside of the door, pull whoever this person was that the boy and tell him he wasn't going to name a price for his body or looks. Harry never liked doing things that were daring as much as he hated doing things that were too nice. When the boy--Dave, for what the boy had said his name was--had told him Draco Malfoy always dropped by that café wearing black pants, black sweater and a hooded cloak to drink coffee and left exactly at ten o'clock at night to go to his house, Harry knew he had to find him.

Harry didn't know what he would do when he met him there. He didn't want to touch him, or talk to him. He stuffed his wand in the back of his pants, a wand he hadn't used for the last two years, knowing if anything was to happen, the most important thing would-- he would kill him, because he wasn't supposed to be alive.

**

The café was vacant at eight-thirty, with dinner menus up on the glass windows and only one waiter that walked around, smiling, her eyes tired and wet as she tried to scribble down orders, the a group of men that sat far away from Harry tugged at her skirt as she tried to slap them away. Harry wasn't surprised the café was located out of town--a late night café was such an unusual thought the town would rather have gay male strippers at their weekly dances rather than have such a thing located there.

Harry waited until he heard the door open--he had a cloak on, too, because Dave had told him Draco wouldn't stay if he knew Harry was there. But Harry didn't hide his face or head--he didn't need to. He didn't want to. People could stare all they wanted at his scar, but the fact of the matter was, he wouldn't pay any attention.

A hooded man entered the café, clutching in his arms a small bag which Harry suspected had more than money in it. He took a seat two tables away from Harry, waiting patiently for the waiter to come to his table. When she did arrive, she had the look of pain on her face. "Hello, mister!" she chirped in a false, happy voice. "How're you today? Do you want the same thing you always have?"

A low voice responded with one order of coffee with cream and the dinner special, and the waiter rushed to create distance between them by almost running out to the back of the café to place his order. The man didn't seem surprised at all--he looked down at his hands and Harry looked at them too...they were pale, skinny with long, drawn-out fingers that gave the impression the man hadn't been fed properly for a long time. Harry wondered what they would feel like wrapped around his cock. He couldn't help himself thinking these kinds of things--just the way the hands tapped on the napkins as the man waited for his coffee made Harry's bottom lip shake just because he couldn't stand the sight of not having the hands exploring his face, neck, body. Even though the hood covered almost the entire portion of his face, Harry could see even with the mixture of disbelief and horror that his hair was silver-blonde.

Harry found himself rising from his chair--even the chatter of the men from the other table who seemed so keen on harassing young girl waitresses seemed distant as he walked toward where Draco sat...if he was Draco. Maybe Dave was playing a trick, maybe it was Dave...maybe...just maybe...

"Hello, Potter."

**

It took a long time before Harry understood what he had just heard--the low, gruff voice of Draco's seemed almost as same at it had in the war just before he had killed him..."Do it." Just before the green light struck out and hit him straight across the face like a slap that went bang, bang before he lost his breath.

It was him, the same him who had died right on his knees was sitting in the Harley café in another muggle town, covered by a hood where only his light hair was visible.

"Hello," Harry began to say as he took the chair across from him--and faced him. Draco looked up, and his face was revealed.

Harry couldn't help but let out a gasp--now he understood the waitress had to have the fake voice around him, now he understood why everyone hated smoking, because it repulsed them, and that was what Draco's face did to him. It was filled with two large bruises--one on one side of the cheek, and the other at his forehead, scratches and tiny little scars biting into his flesh with raw meat being exposed. It made Harry feel so sick he couldn't help but let his eyes look down to Draco's hands instead. The same hands he had wanted to feel his cock--and he was disgusted to find out he still wanted them in his ass, still wanted them wrapped around his dick until he came.

Draco's expression stayed the same and Harry couldn't help but avoid saying 'why are you still alive' to the question, "Who did this to you?"

His smile was the bitterest thing out of everything, even the his maimed features. "Don't you know?"

"No." Harry grew breathless as he reached over to try to clutch Draco's hand, but thought he shouldn't and took it back.

Draco continued to smile. "You."

**