Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

Come As You Are

They had not been in Potter´s crappy, half-furnished flat in Hogsmeade for more than ten minutes before Potter had Draco´s back against the wall, and his tongue rammed down Draco´s throat. And in ten minutes more he had Draco flat on the bed, and was coming into him face up as if he were a woman. Draco was not so much upset as surprised; he had known Potter wanted--that--of course, but he had somehow thought the Boy Who Lived would be more civilized about the whole thing. He had certainly expected to enjoy it, at least a little; as it was Potter came and rolled away and went to sleep almost in the same breath. After a while Draco got up and took a shower.

Wrapped in a towel (all his things were still at Black´s place in the City, and he´d not thought to ask Potter for pajamas) Draco went into the bedroom he´d been allotted and threw himself on the bed and lit a cigarette. He felt as if things were happening to him uncontrollably fast; he´d been a heartbeat away from disaster six hours ago and now he was Seeker for the British Quidditch team and Harry Potter´s lover. The room he presumed he was meant to sleep in was small and bare, holding only a double bed and a rickety dresser, but he liked it. Sleeping with Potter was an intimacy he was not really prepared for.

That was the other thing--Potter. He could cope with the rest of it, no magic, no sharp objects, and no privacy; he could stand to be babysat and he could certainly play Quidditch. But he was not sure where he stood with Potter. He could not remember having agreed to anything, though he could remember Potter shooting him longing looks throughout the day, Potter speaking up for him when he thought he was doomed. He should have remembered that Gryffindors never did anything for free. And now he was what, exactly? In the middle of the thought his eyelids dragged shut, and he stubbed the cigarette end out on the metal bed frame more by accident than design, and slept.

In the morning Potter woke him by throwing open the curtains and letting in the sun, and it was so bright Draco was momentarily blinded. "Get up," Potter said, "You´ve got practice in an hour." Draco dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, leaving the door open as required because he was a substantial investment for his country and if he topped himself or ran they´d be screwed. He shaved himself haphazardly in front of the chattering mirror while Potter watched silently from the doorway. It was luck alone that kept him from slitting his own throat, and he thanked Merlin he was so fair he didn´t need to do this daily.

Practicing with the team brought home to him for the first time what it was Voldemort had done to England. Oh, they had not fielded a World Cup team since his fourth year at Hogwarts; he had known that. He had known that the standard of professional Quidditch was supposed to have declined. Still, he had been half disbelieving when they´d been so intent on having him play. He had thought it might be a diabolical joke on Weasley´s part. He was good; he knew that he was good. He might even have been good enough to play professionally back in the old days. But he was not brilliant. He was no Harry Potter. They should not have been so eager to have him play--no doubt they would not have been, had they not been so desperate.

His teammates were children. They were none of them old enough to have been at Hogwarts when he´d left England (had there been a Hogwarts then). Most of them were not from Pureblood families and not one of them had ever seen a Death Eater in person. To them Draco was an anachronism, a specter of a grim and ghastly past. They refused, to a wizard, to shake his hand, as if he might bear some terrible germ contagious simply by touch.

If this was the best England had to offer they were worse than in trouble--they were screwed. Draco, catching his breath midway through the morning, could not help but feel a little bitter. He knew it, the coach knew it, and even Charlie Weasley knew it. Only these brave, stupid children had failed to realize: this team was being fielded for the sake of pride, some misguided patriotism, and not out of any hope for victory. Even the best Seeker in the world, Viktor Krum and Aidan Lynch rolled into one, could not have saved them. They were talented, and mounted on the best brooms ever made, and they were going to be utterly humiliated.

The worst of it was, in five years, a decade at the outside, they might have been a brilliant team. They only needed experience, and that was the one thing they could not get in a month--the instinct that developed slowly and gradually. Draco had it, or had had it once and would regain it; he had honed it through those long years at Hogwarts, desperate games against better, older players. These kids hadn´t had that opportunity. In their time Hogwarts had not had enough students to field four House teams, and they had played only friendly pretend matches before they graduated and were recruited by professional teams. There, they flew reserve behind more experienced players the clubs had imported from around the world. Now they would face those players across the pitch and they did not stand a chance.

And yet, what right did Draco have to be disappointed? This was still the opportunity he had dreamed of. Still a thousand times more than he deserved. He only hoped he would not be executed, when his team failed to advance beyond the first round. There was not time for more than hope, because whatever his teammates lacked in skill and seasoning, they were still ten years younger and fitter than he. Draco found it was all he could to keep up with them in the drills and sprints. By the end of the day he was exhausted, dripping with sweat; his shoulder ached and his ribs and his lungs and his legs, and he had a bruise on his stomach starting from a mishit Bludger, and he had never imagined he could be so glad to see Potter waiting for him to take him home.

Over the next three weeks his life developed a relatively stable routine--Quidditch all day, and after, Potter taking him on the bed or in the shower or on the rug in the living room. He had never worked so hard in his life. One or two nights a week Potter had "Auror business" which Draco suspected meant drinking with that fiend Ron Weasley but didn´t really care to ask about; on those nights he was watched by Granger herself. His life was a blur of brooms and sex and cigarettes and Indian takeaways, and in what little time he had to himself he read his way through Potter´s old textbooks, stored in the closet of his bedroom. He knew more than he cared to about the science of Divination but without his wand he couldn´t do much to discover his future. There was always the risk that there was nothing to discover.

And all the time, Potter was making him remember things he would rather have forgotten: a mouth on his, hard enough to make his lip bleed, and fingernails on his body that left small scrapes. Potter was as careless, and as cruel, as Voldemort had been; he seemingly gave no thought to Draco at all. Draco did not fight him, did not force him to make it rape in truth, but he did not participate either. He lay quiet and still, turned his head away and did not watch--there was little pleasure in it for him. He wore high-collared robes to cover the bite marks on his neck, the bruises on his wrists. He wondered what it meant, that Potter found pain so intriguing, but he did not protest when Potter pressed hard on the bruises he´d gotten playing Quidditch, and he did not cry out when Potter slapped him. What could he have done; whom could he have told? He could not have borne anyone knowing what it was Harry Potter did to him.

It was easier to ignore the things Potter said, because after all, they were only words. Words no longer had any power to hurt him. He answered the too-casual, cruel questions with a word or two, did not attempt to defend himself. Did he celebrate the pagan holidays? (Potter had heard that pureblood wizards danced naked on the spring Solstice.) As if the Malfoys did not change religions when the fashions changed. Was it true that his father had beaten him? (Potter had heard that he´d liked it.) As if anyone would enjoy that--there was a difference between sadism and plain old punishment. Did he really believe that Lucius had wanted to die in Draco´s place? (Potter couldn´t believe anyone could really love Draco that much.) And yes, Draco believed that, but then, he had to.

Spring rolled seamlessly into summer and on the first weekend in June Narcissa and Sirius Black threw a garden party at their house in Kent, and Harry took Draco to it as his date. Draco had not realized until then what it meant, Potter´s godfather being married to his own mother. He sincerely hoped that there would not be too many of these family gatherings. He had not seen Narcissa since the long ago birthday on which she´d told him she was leaving Lucius; though he´d been glad to learn she was not dying he was not eager to see her now.

The Blacks had a comfortable, cheerful house, and Draco looked around him wide-eyed as he and Potter stumbled out of the fireplace. Everything was normal, tidy and ordinary; there was none of the cool opulence of Malfoy House. And on the lawn, seated in the midst of a number of her guests, Narcissa Malfoy seemed every bit the housewife. She wore a simple flowered dress, and her hair was loose on her shoulders; though she must have been more than fifty she looked barely old enough to be a mother to the child she held.

When Draco would have hung back (hell, would have run, truth be known) Potter dragged him forward. "Hullo, Jamie," he said. "Narcissa, you look wonderful." He leaned in so that she could kiss his cheek, and patted the head of the chubby boy on her lap.

"Narcissa," Draco echoed, his voice flat even to his own ears. He bent his head and kissed her hair, straightened and stared without meaning to. He had not known until now that his mother had had a child with Black, and he could not stop himself looking over his baby brother. Jamie Black was maybe three at most, soft and rounded and sleepy in the warm sun. Draco, thinking back to baby pictures of himself, could not see any resemblance at all; he had been a thin, pale child, all angles and eyes and difficult questions. Not an easy baby to love, as this one seemed to be. His mother had not said anything to him, not even his name; after the first moment she had not even looked at him.

She was making small talk with Potter now, and he had leaned down to take the child from her arms and pressed its cheek to his. Draco turned away, unable to watch. He was angry, though he had no right to be; hurt, though he would never have admitted it to himself. No one had ever loved him so easily and unconditionally as that, as his mother loved Potter or Potter loved the child. He wanted it though he knew he did not deserve it.

A friendly hand clapped him on the shoulder. He whirled, rage welling up in him, to face Sirius Black--the man himself. "Malfoy, there´s someone that wants a word with you," Black said, and Draco let himself be drawn away. He walked beside Sirius Black, noting that his shoulders were just even with Black´s, that their strides matched, that they moved the same way, and he wondered who he might have been had Black been his father and not Lucius, had he not always worn his parentage like a brand on his face. Would his life have been easier? "You´ll have to forgive your mother," Black was saying, and Draco sighed.

"There´s nothing to forgive," he answered, and his voice was soft, unhappy, a child´s voice. He felt like a child; he could have cried, thinking what a ruin he had made of his life. He swallowed hard, desperate to get the taste of weakness out of his mouth, and said again, more strongly, "There is nothing she could do that would need my forgiveness."

Black told him, very gently, "There are always things to forgive. Narcissa is sometimes harsher than she means to be; it is not--not that she is not pleased to have you home, only that she is not quite sure how to express her feelings." Draco thought, but didn´t say, that it seemed unlikely Narcissa had feelings. Let Black discover for himself how cold she could be. In the large, cluttered living room, Charlie Weasley waited, his back to the door. Draco felt a momentary surge of panic. He would not, could not, submit to the Kiss--but Weasley turned a half-hearted smile on him, as if he knew what Draco was thinking.

"Malfoy," the other man greeted him, pleasantly enough. "How have you been? Are you enjoying playing for Jamieson?" He put out his hand and Draco shook it a little uncertainly. It was odd, how quickly one grew used to being avoided, so that it seemed a surprise when decent people were not afraid of one.

"I´m enjoying it," he told Weasley frankly. "It´s an unbelievable chance."

"Yeah," Weasley said a little glumly, "I´m sure."

Draco, impulsively, blurted out, "I don´t know why you did this, Weasley--I don´t know why either of you did it, or Potter for that matter. But I wanted to thank you, because even if you didn´t do it for me you saved my life."

"I didn´t do it for you," Weasley answered grimly, "And I don´t want your thanks. I would have done it for anyone, Malfoy, anyone who hadn´t killed my brother. I would have done it even if they had killed someone else´s brother, and why should my brother´s life be worth more than that of any other good man who died for his country? I did it to be true to what he fought for."

"I´m sorry--." Draco, half way through, choked the words off. What good would they do? He wasn´t sorry. Given the opportunity he probably would do it again, and words were fucking useless anyway. "Fair enough, Weasley," he said instead. And it was fair--more than fairness; it was a brand of justice he had not expected from the idiots at the Ministry, had not really expected from anyone. For a moment he was sorry indeed, that he and Weasley could never be friends. He was coming to admire the man very much. He probably should have thought of that before he´d killed the brother.

"I guess it´s as well that was said," Charlie Weasley went on. "I think it is best when everyone knows where he stands. Malfoy, I had Sirius bring you here so that I could tell you my brother Ron wants to bury the hatchet. Is that acceptable to you? There are a fair number of wrongs on both sides, and I know he attacked you last."

Draco thought, what if it isn´t acceptable? It was not as if he could fight Ron the Weasel off without magic. "Of course," he answered, as graciously as possible. He was not unaware that Charlie was saving him again.

"Come on," Black directed his words to Draco. "Harry´s going to be wondering where you are, and it´s almost time for dinner to be served." He drew Draco gently away, and Draco resisted for a moment, staring at the mantelpiece behind Charlie. It was covered--almost sagging--beneath the weight of framed pictures. There must have been thirty of them, at least: Jamie alone, Jamie and Black, Jamie and Potter. Narcissa and Black. Potter and Black. Potter, Granger, and the Weasel. There was not one picture present that was more than ten years old; there was not one picture of Draco, of his father, of what had once been Narcissa´s life. It was as final as a slap in the face. Without a word he followed Black out of the house into the sun.

He went where he was led; he sat where he was told to sit--at a table of "youngsters." Potter was on his right and the Weasel and Granger were across the table. He recognized some of the others from Hogwarts as well, but it was easier not to say anything. He watched his empty plate (House Elves did not serve those who had born the Dark Mark, of course, and though he could have served himself he found he was not hungry) and for a long time he was unaware of the direction the conversation had taken. Potter´s voice brought him back to himself--Potter saying his name.

"What?" Draco asked a little guiltily. He knew that Potter would be angry with him for not paying attention--was no doubt already angry with him for slipping away with Black earlier.

Potter´s eyes narrowed and Draco readied himself for the explosion. But Potter´s voice was perfectly level, albeit a little cold. "I said, `Is it true that incest is an old pureblood tradition´--one that you´re personally familiar with, Malfoy?" So. Potter had chosen to punish him by publicly humiliating him.

Control. Draco pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. Looking down at Potter, he answered as coolly as he could, "I am not the only pureblood at this table, as you well know. I am also not the best one to answer this--particular--question. Now, if you´ll all excuse me--."

Potter stood so quickly that he knocked his chair over. Curious eyes turned toward them. There was going to be a scene, and Draco detested scenes that were not of his own making. He bent and righted Potter´s chair, and said softly, "Sit down, Potter; this is not a fight you want to have with me in public. Not in front of my mother, who loves you." Potter sat, and Draco turned away. He heard someone stand and follow him, but he kept his head high and did not look back. Rounding the corner of the house, he stopped and dug out a cigarette, and the man behind him stopped too. Draco lit his cigarette and dropped the match before it burned his fingers--years of living as a Muggle come in handy--and asked, warily, "What do you want from me?"

Ron Weasley looked older than thirty, his face a little too full, his color a little too high. He looked like a man with a problem, and of course he was. Draco, raised to believe that abuse of any kind was a weakness, felt a reluctant stirring of pity beneath his disgust. "A cigarette for a start," Weasley answered, taking it with a hand that shook. But he lit it easily enough, the flick of his wand very practiced. His voice was a ruined husk--too many late nights, too many bars closed down, too many cigarettes. This close Draco could see the small burst blood vessels in his eyes, under his skin.

They stood together, smoking companionably in the shadow of the house. Weasley smelled faintly of alcohol, the way an addict does--vodka for breakfast--but he seemed comparatively sober. Purebloods generally had a pretty high tolerance, and Draco wondered if really the Weasel could drink enough to forget anything. He cleared his throat, trying to think of something friendly to say, and Weasley beat him to it, asking him about Quidditch.

Draco told him, a little too honestly, about the team and its chances, and the Weasel--Ron--laughed and responded. Suddenly they were talking, really talking, and Draco thought, surprised--we could be friends. It could be that easy. Because now they had Potter in common, now they were both disgraced, now they had both disappointed their fathers. What were a few decades of feuding compared to that? He caught himself inviting Ron over to watch the Amazons play on Potter´s big new Instaview (three thousand channels, nineteen of which showed nothing but Quidditch games broadcast in real time), and added, "If it´s all right with Potter, of course."

Weasley glanced at him curiously before responding. No doubt he wondered what the hell Draco and Potter were doing together, when they had so little liking for one another. Fair enough. Draco wondered that himself. He realized, with a pang, that there was no going back from here. It was one thing to lie with a man, play the whore; he had done that before and it was unpleasant but afterward one simply walked away. It was something else again to be seen with Potter in public, to be friends with his friends. It made their liaison into a relationship, gave it a semblance of legitimacy.

"We´d better go back," he said now, stabbing his cigarette out against the wall of his mother´s house. It makes a small black blot on the pale Cotswold stone, and he was secretly glad he had been able to mar her perfect new life, even if only he and Ron the Weasel knew about it. Walking back silent as old comrades, he thought that it was ironic: once it had been Ron running when Harry called, and he had despised the man for lowering himself so. Now it was Draco who did as he was told, and there was no use arguing it was because he had to, because once he would have chosen the Kiss over such degradation. How far they had all fallen, since that moment when the Morsmorde stained the sky over Dolwydellan one last time.

"I´m playing in the first round of the World Cup on Monday week," he heard himself say, and all at once the absurdity of it caught up with him and he snickered. "Merlin! I´m the worst killer in England, and they punish me by making me play Quidditch and sleep with Harry Potter." Weasley eyed him gravely, probably thinking he had gone mad, and then he must have realized how funny it all was, too. He and Draco laughed so hard they had to stop and sit on the wall surrounding the garden. Draco laughed so hard he felt sick, so hard that he had tears in his eyes, and when he blinked them clear Potter was standing over him staring grimly down.

"Malfoy." Potter´s voice was tight, angry. "It´s time to go. What in the hell were you doing?"

Draco shook his head, unable to explain, and Potter grabbed his wrist and hauled him firmly to his feet. "Goodbye, Ron," he tossed coldly over his shoulder, and dragged Draco toward the house and the fireplace. Draco followed, obedient as ever, stumbling and weak from laughter. He knew quite well that Potter was going to be angry, not only because Draco had walked away from him, but also because he had seemed not to need him. And yet, he rather thought it had been worth it.

They staggered tiredly into Potter´s flat, and ate a rather bad leftover curry, and although it was only eight o´clock, went to bed. Potter wasn´t talking; clearly he was still sulky. Draco sucked him off and left him to it, unable to keep his eyes open. He felt drugged, almost, from nerves and sun and despair. Lying down in his own bed, feeling the cool sheet under his cheek, he thought again of what Potter had said.

Incest was an old purebred tradition, though they had called it inbreeding then, or linebreeding. It had even been an old Malfoy tradition, once--brothers lying with sisters, fathers with daughters, mothers with sons. Anything to keep the bloodline pure, and anything to keep it magical, powerful. It had been illegal in Britain for more than a century, of course, and not done for a long time before that. Oh, it kept magic in the family, but who wanted heirs with translucent skin and six toes, children who could barely read and write their names? Draco had had trouble learning to read: dyslexia, they called it, and his own parents had been distant cousins.

Abruptly he fell asleep, still thinking of incest, and dreamed not of his mother but of the first man he had ever lain with. Evan Rosier had been Lucius´ age or older, wrinkled and gray and holding a debt Lucius could not pay. He had been kind, as gentle as possible, and Draco had been terrified. Somehow they had muddled through but Draco had been left wondering why men thought sex was worth killing for. In the dream Rosier had his father´s face, his father´s long, elegant fingers; in the dream he came into Draco so hard, so fast, that Draco felt something tear and bit the older man´s shoulder to keep from screaming. He woke shuddering, sick, and disoriented. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, before he threw up until he tasted blood.

When he could bear to raise his head again, Potter was standing in the doorway, his face concerned. Another small humiliation in a lifetime of small humiliations. Potter brought him a cup of water, and felt his forehead with the back of his hand. Draco rinsed his mouth, his throat too raw to swallow despite his desperate thirst. He could not bear to say thank you because that would mean acknowledging Potter´s kindness, but he let himself be led to Potter´s bed and they lay down together to sleep for the first time. He woke to gray dawn breaking, a week before the first game of the World Cup.

Two days later he left with the team for France. He still felt lightheaded at the speed of it all, and when Potter kissed him goodbye he startled himself by kissing back. Rennes was a blur of Quidditch, and they stayed at a rather posh hotel in which he had his own room and bath, though it connected to the coach´s room and they had taken down the door. While the children--most of whom were still young enough to find bars and nightclubs enthralling--headed out on the town, Draco spent the evening watching Quidditch tapes. Feeling virtuous (and well aware that virtue made people hate one) he was preparing to go bed early when someone knocked on the outer door. He spent a long moment considering possibilities: could it be Potter? A lynch mob? Room service? Eventually curiosity beat out caution and he answered it.

It turned out to be Elizabeth, one of his teammates. Overwhelming his surprise, he let her in. "What can I do for you?" he asked. It was probably the most he´d ever said to her; she was small and serious and a little mousy and generally ignored him totally.

Now she answered him, "I want you to--" and her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. "I can´t do this," she finished, already turning away. "Jesus Christ! I can´t do this!" Mystified but polite, Draco handed her a box of tissues, and waited while she blew her nose. "I need you to make love to me," she said miserably.

Draco felt as if he´d wandered into a bad play. "What?" he demanded. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Elizabeth flinched--she seemed even younger than nineteen--but shook her head resolutely. "I need a baby," she croaked. "My mother wants me to have your baby. We´ve already paid--we won´t get it back--you have to do it to me."

So. It seemed that he was to play the stallion after all. "Mother said the Malfoy line was too powerful to go to waste. I have two brothers who were Squibs--they were older, they died in the war." Elizabeth was sobbing. Draco drew her to the bed, sat her down, still trying to make sense of it all. "Mother was so pleased when she saw the ad for you in Witch Weekly..." He made slow, careful love to her, feeling disgusted with himself. Her small round breasts jiggled when he touched them. She cried the whole time, and some part of him he would rather not have known about found it exciting. He had never been so glad to see anyone go. And only when she had gone did he remember that the coach had been next door the whole time, no doubt supervising the entire thing. He got up and took another shower, revolted but more relaxed than he had been in months.

The next night there was a cheerful young French witch waiting, whose husband had proved to be impotent. Then he had a night off, and spent it wondering if this had all been done with Potter´s approval. The night after, it was the Mudblood, the British Minister for Magic, who knocked on Draco´s door. By then he had realized they must be giving him some sort of aphrodisiac to ensure his performance; he was terrified of Granger and he knew he´d never have been able to get it up with her otherwise. She was so--efficient. He suspected she had the whole thing on a timetable.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked her during a scheduled breather.

She turned over to face him, her hair curling around her face and softening it. But her words were as hard as ever. "I want a baby," she answered bleakly. "I´m Muggleborn, so I don´t have too much more time. And the man--the man I thought would be the father of my babies--well, he´s not in that place. But I want magic for my baby, and strength, and beauty..."

"You want me, only with a better personality," Draco suggested.

Granger sighed and let one hand slide suggestively down his chest, and Draco recalled his duty and went back to work. He rather wondered what it was they´d ask him to do next. He spent his days on the playing field and his nights in the bedroom, and truly, what better way was there to serve his country?