Animus

As the days pass, Malfoy and I establish a sort of pattern. I go to work in the morning, stay as long as I can handle being there, then I come home, then we eat, then we fuck.

And except for the occasional bumps in the road, it’s all working out better than I thought it would; that is to say, neither of us has killed the other yet.

A week into our arrangement I come home fully prepared to step into the usual routine. Expecting to smell some kind of food cooking, I smell nothing but antiseptic clean house. Curious, I walk to the kitchen. It is spotless and very, very empty. There’s no food in the oven, nothing on the counters. What the hell?

I shrug out of my robes and toss them over a chair in frustration. Today of all days, a hot meal would have been most appreciated. We were overloaded with work today and I had to stay late. I’m tired, I’m grouchy and I’m starved.

“Malfoy!” I yell, loud enough that my voice resonates throughout the entire house.

“In here!” he yells back.

I turn towards the sound of his voice. “Where is here?!?”

“The library!”

I stalk into the library and there I find him - curled up on a sofa, reading a book, cozy as can be. I take a quick look at the title - Pride and Prejudice.

I didn’t even know I owned that.

 

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” I ask as I loom over him.

“It’s called reading, Harry. You should try it sometime. Might do you some good,” he says without putting the book down.

“I know you’re reading...that’s not...ugh! Can you put that thing down for a minute?”

He marks his page with a bookmark and closes it, then looks up at me, his face blank.

“Where’s dinner?” I ask in my best ‘I am irritated’ voice.

“I didn’t cook it,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I can bloody well see that. Why not?”

“Because I didn’t feel like it. If you remember Harry, that was not part of our arrangement. My calling you by your first name was, you fucking me was, and my being trapped here like a damn prisoner was, but cooking...not on the list.”

Well, I can’t argue with that - the man’s right. Apparently I’ve come to take his cooking for granted. “What the hell are we gonna eat, Malfoy?” I ask as I try desperately to hold on to the offensive.

“How in the world did you survive before I came along? Honestly, Harry, you could make something. It wouldn’t kill you.” He pauses. “Or we could go out somewhere.”

“Out?”  

“Yes, out. To a restaurant. To eat.”

Out? In public? But we already did that. And now he wants to do it again?

I take a moment to consider my options, I could cook - although I’m really, really bad at it - most nights before Draco were based on take-out. I could not eat tonight. Or I could do as he’s suggesting and take us out to eat. I have to admit, the last is the best choice.

I make my decision. “Fine. Let’s go then. Just give me a few minutes to change.”

As I turn to walk out of the room, I catch a glimpse of Malfoy’s little smile of triumph out of the corner of my eye.

Forty minutes later, we end up at a restaurant in the town center that serves American food. It’s busy but the atmosphere is relaxed and the food is very, very good.

As the waiter takes our orders, I find myself watching Malfoy from across the table. It’s interesting to see how quickly he reverts back to being a proper young gentleman once he’s back in a social setting. That genteel, aristocratic air that he always exuded so effortlessly is back with a vengeance.

As I continue to watch him I can’t help but wonder how he does it. How does he manage to retain that part of himself after all that he’s been through?

It’s funny, but a very small part of me admires him for it. If only he hadn’t been such a nasty, little bugger in school...

The minute the waiter walks away, he turns suspicious eyes on me. “What?” he asks.

“What?” I ask back, playing innocent.

“You were staring at me.”

“Was I? Sorry.” 

I wait for him to say something else but he doesn’t. He takes a small sip of his water and looks around, obviously appraising the place. I believe he approves.

Luckily, we don’t have to wait long for our food and once it’s brought out, we both tuck in. As I watch him eat, I try to reconcile this polite young man with the man that I had on all fours just last night. It is almost impossible to do.

 

This disparity causes a couple of questions to rise to the forefront of my mind. And because I know that he will answer almost anything that is put to him, I decide to ask. “How long have you been doing this, Malfoy?”

“What, eating?”

“Don’t be a git, you know what I meant.”

“You meant selling myself on the street like a piece of meat.”

“You’re awfully glib today. But yes...”

 

He shrugs and spears a carrot with his fork. “Little over a year.”

“Do you...do you like it?”

My question causes him to freeze in mid-bite. He puts his fork down and stares at me. “Bloody hell, Harry, you can’t be serious. Do I like it?”

I can see why he would think I was messing with him but I was serious. Lately, I’ve been wondering why he’s still doing this if he hates it as much as he claims. His response puts me on the defensive. “Why have you done it for so long then?” I ask; my voice rising a little in accusation.

He studies me for a moment, then answers quickly. “Because I don’t have a choice right now.”

“You can’t leave.”

He answers the question hidden in my statement. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because Pete would kill me.”

“He’d kill you. And you know this for sure.” Again, it is a question that merely sounds like a statement.

“Oh yes. I have no doubt. You see, I tried it before. A couple of months in, when I realized that no amount of money was worth this, I tried to leave.”

He takes a huge swallow of his wine and wipes his mouth carefully with his napkin. I just stare at him, willing him to go on. When it becomes clear that he doesn’t intend to continue, I ask, “So what happened?”

“He found me and he beat the shit out of me.” 

For a moment, I just sit there and continue to stare at him. The way he said that last sentence...he might as well have been reading a weather report...so completely dead. It unnerves me more than I’d like to admit to.

He speaks again before I can think of anything to say. “Look Harry, he’s not just a pimp. He’s got his fat little fingers in everything. Drugs, racketeering, you name it, he’s into it. He spins a very big web.”

“And you...poor little thing, got caught in it.”

“Yes, I did. And I didn’t run far enough away and he found me. And for Merlin’s sake, stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m not going to keep answering your questions if you keep reacting with sarcasm.”

“Fine,” I say, suddenly not feeling up to arguing.

He looks surprised. “Really?”

I sigh. “Yes, really. Not everything about this arrangement is about making you miserable.”

He looks at me, his eyes bright and piercing. “Yes it is. You’re just too tired to push it right now.”

I look down at my half-eaten dinner. My appetite seems to have vanished. I reach for the wine instead and drink a generous amount. “You must have been very desperate to accept this offer.”

He whispers, “Yes. I was.”

“You must really hate me.”

He shrugs. “Hate is a very strong word. I hated you in school and look where that got me.”

I nod, although I do not understand. But I do remember the retching sounds from the first night and I have to wonder if maybe hate isn’t a strong enough word.

Then he resumes eating, and I, for want of something to do, resume drinking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He follows me as I walk through the house, trying to decide where we will end up. His footfalls behind me are strangely soothing. I believe I’m getting used to having him here. I might even miss this a little when he’s gone.

“So where...” he begins to say before cutting himself off abruptly.

I turn toward him, looking at him curiously.

“Harry don’t...” he says.

 

“Don’t what?” I say as I grab a bottle of scotch from the bar.

“Don’t drink anymore. You’ve had enough.”

“What?” I say incredulously. “No I haven’t.”

“Harry, come on, I had to drive you home.”

“And now we’re here and I’m not driving anywhere.”

“Harry...”

I cut him off angrily. “What does it matter to you if I drink or not?”

He looks uncomfortable, as if he wants to say something but he’s not sure if he should. Finally he seems to screw up his courage and says, “You’re rougher when you’ve been drinking.”

Am I? Maybe I am. I’ve never thought about it. But still, I need this drink. And Malfoy seems to have had no trouble dealing with things up to now. “I’ll try to be more gentle,” I say, although I’m not sure if I mean it.

He looks defeated as he sinks onto the couch. “Yeah, whatever, go hide in your bottle, then.”

Now that stops me. I stand there, holding the bottle out as if I were offering him some. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looks down at the floor and I can see that he’s deep in thought. Deciding if he should answer? I seem to remember asking him something like this before and he completely skirted the question.

He doesn’t this time.

He looks up. “It simply means that you drink too much. It means that you’re using alcohol as a means of escape.”

I set the bottle down hard. I notice peripherally that some of the liquid splashes out onto the bar. “So you’re playing psychologist now?”

“I don’t need to be a psychologist to see what you’re doing, Harry. The alcohol, the job, the seclusion here...all different ways to hide. What I can’t quite figure out is what you’re hiding from.”

“You don’t know shit. You don’t know anything...” 

“But I do know. I’ve seen it every god damn day since I’ve been here.”

“Look, not that you’re right, but after what I’ve been through, if I decide that I want to indulge a little...” 

“Oh spare me the whining about your horrid life, Harry. I’ve already heard it. And if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been having a pretty shitty time of it also, but you don’t see me trying to obliterate who I am!”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just trying to live my life, that’s all. I did my bit, I saved the world...and I just want to have a bloody drink!”

I’m shouting now. How long have I been shouting? How long has he?

“You saved the world and now you’re going to drink yourself to death? Is that it? In that much of a hurry to join mum and dad?”

“Malfoy, I swear to God, if you don’t shut your mouth...”

He stands up. “What? What are you going to do? Hit me? Will that make you feel better? Or would you rather just put your hands around my throat? Huh? What the hell is that all about Harry?”

No more. I can’t hear anymore. The things he’s saying...I can’t...

I throw myself at him and tackle him to the ground. I straddle him and without any sort of conscious thought, I place my hands around his throat. He immediately gasps for air as his eyes open wide.

He looks surprised. He didn’t think I would do this?

But it was his fucking idea.

It was his fucking idea.

I shout it at him so that he understands.

And then something horrible happens.

His face is replaced by the face in my dream from the other night. Dead, cold, sightless, blood trickling...

No!

My hands fall away from his throat and I push myself up. I stand on legs that don’t want to support me and I stagger away from him. I have to get out of here. I have to get out now.

He’s rolled on to his side and is taking huge breaths of air as he clutches at his throat. His face is no longer dead, but it is very, very pale. He’s looking up at me; his eyes completely unreadable.

Before he can say anything, I take the car keys from my pocket and run out of the room.

As I all but throw myself in the car, I realize that I don’t have a destination in mind. I just need to get away from this house. From Draco and his dead staring face.

I start the car with shaking hands and pull out onto the street; trying very hard not to think about the fact that I almost killed him.

No longer feeling the least bit drunk, I drive into town and head for the nearest pub; a place I’ve been to many times before. The bartender knows me and asks if I want my usual. I nod and two minutes later I’m sitting in a quiet corner, my still-shaking hands wrapped around a glass of scotch.

As I continue to drink, I lose track of time. I lose track of everything, which is why I’m here in the first place.

To get away, to forget...to hide? Am I hiding? Was Malfoy right?

No, he doesn’t know anything. How could he? How could he?

Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself...

I shake my head and force myself not to follow that train of thought.

I bring the glass up to my lips and swallow...and swallow until everything - the doubts, the fear, the pain, everything - melts in the sweet haze of bitter liquor.