Blue Vase

Blue Vase

Harry Potter stood in the middle of the street with a grocery bag in his arms. He didn’t move at all, he didn’t blink. It was as though he had come unstuck in time, as if the world had moved forward leaving him there, standing alone, arms clutching the paper bag.

Because of who he was, of course, no one bothered him. If Harry Potter wanted to stand in the middle of the street and pretend to be a statue, then so be it. A couple of children stopped to stare at him, their eyes drifting toward his scar, but no one else minded him at all. This was his neighbourhood, most people were used to the sight of him.

Every day he hopped the steps down from his third storey walk up and crossed the street over to The Daily Prophet. He spent each day, nine to three, setting type, page after page, for the newspaper. It was always the paper for the following day, and Harry often joked that he lived a step ahead of the rest of the world; tomorrow’s headlines read in reverse, everyday except Sundays. On Sundays he returned to the land where people only thought about what happened today, not what would happen tomorrow.

At first he had sought out this job because it was mindless. Years battling evil had made him tired; bone tired and sick of work that wore into his soul and filled his dreams with soot and blood and corpses. When the war ended and the world returned to normal, he went into a quiet retirement, taking a flat across the street from the press. In the afternoons he watched the press through his window, clack clack clack churning out copies of the next day’s paper, and thought that something that solid, that reassuring, that consistent was just what he was looking for.

Three years later he was still setting type, and no one in the neighbourhood found it odd anymore.

Draco Malfoy had been watching him for weeks. Perhaps months, but he tried not to count. It was remarkably easy to watch him, really, given that Harry rarely looked around anymore. Every morning he crossed the street looking at his shoes and stumbling into the offices of the Daily Prophet; every afternoon he shuffled back out, looking straight ahead, blankly, lost in his own thoughts. He rarely had guests, though when he did it was only ever a nervous-looking couple, one redheaded man and a brown-haired woman. Draco presumed that this was Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, married with three children, living across town. They had their own lives now, and Harry Potter was not a part of it. Not because they didn’t want him, but because he couldn’t want them anymore. He was an exhibit, he was their charity work. They always looked awkward when they arrived and when they left, but they kept coming to see him just the same.

On Sunday nights Harry walked up the hill behind the Daily Prophet and watched the sun set over the city. If it rained he wore a blue slicker and black boots; on a nice day he took a sweater along and draped it over his shoulders in case he got cold. He watched the sunset and sometimes he fell asleep there, for a little while. The children in the neighbourhood knew this part of Harry’s life too, and let him be. He would wake up after no more than twenty minutes, and go home, where he would turn on the light, read for a while, and then turn the light out again.

Draco watched all of this. Some months ago now he had bought a small flat a block down the street from the Daily Prophet; he had tracked Harry down and meant to confront him. Potter, he would say. How dare you. How dare you kill my father. How dare you destroy my family name. How dare you. His vengeance was weak, however, and required his utmost attention to keep it stoked and burning. He carried it like a musty blanket, inherited from his great great grandfathers and he was compelled to hoist it around, year after year. Draco looked at himself in the mirror and tested his snarl, his bristling growl, and found it wanting. He was tired. He understood why Harry had gone to type setting. In a way, Draco envied him.

And so instead of confronting him, Draco simply watched him. Draco woke up in the mornings and bought breakfast from the bakery beneath Harry’s flat. Croissants some mornings, with coffee, or a bagel with cream cheese, or fat round bun with bacon and onion inside. He bought his breakfast and sat outside on a small, roped-in terrace and watched Harry descend from his flat above, walk across the street, open the small side door into the Daily Prophet and take a seat at his ink-covered desk. From the terrace, Draco could see him pull open a drawer, pull out a font, and drag papers down from his inbox. Sometimes there would be a small box on the top, tied with a ribbon; a gift from the classifieds editor. She was a slight thing, with mouse-brown hair and small hands. The boxes would have gifts in them; cookies, tarts, little blown-glass animals in funny shapes, cufflinks, tie tacks, and so forth. Harry had lined up these little gifts, the inedible ones at least, in the windowsill on the south facing side of his flat. Sometimes Harry would talk to her in the afternoons, before he went home. She always wanted him to stay longer, and he never did.

Harry would take a quick lunch at home, and then scuttle back to his desk to finish his work; by that time, Draco had progressed from the small bakery to a café and sweets shop next to the Daily Prophet. From there, he could watch Harry do his afternoon work, moving the loaded chases to the printer. He rolled up his sleeves to do this, and Draco could see that it was heavy work. His arms bulged out, he moved slowly, careful not to jolt the chase and scatter the type. Harry would smile and exchange words with the printer, wipe his forehead, and go back to his desk.

After a short time, he would go back home, sit in his armchair and read, or listen to some music, or write something in a large leather bound book, or take a walk around the neighbourhood. Draco liked it best when he walked, because that way he could be followed. He didn’t always take the same route, but it was always roughly two hours that he was gone. He walked along quietly, didn’t stop, and rarely looked up. There hadn’t been once that Draco felt he was in danger of being seen. In the last few weeks, he had stopped pretending to hide altogether. Sometimes they walked so close to each other it was as if it were on purpose, Draco just a few steps behind. It was as if this were their time together. It calmed Draco. On the evenings when Harry took his walks, Draco had no nightmares, and felt no desire for vengeance. He had almost forgotten why he watched Harry anymore, except that it pleased him.

And then one day Harry stopped moving. He had picked up groceries from the green grocer as he always did on Wednesdays, but instead of hopping up the stairs to his flat, he stopped in the middle of the street. His eyes looked glassy.

At first Draco thought he had been spotted. He had come back to the bakery for dinner, they had a special on pasties, two for a sickle. He was just walking out of the shop with his pasties when he saw Harry, standing still, looking forward straight at him with those glassy eyes. Finally, after all this time, had Harry seen him? Had he been caught spying? With the greasy white bag in his hand, a newspaper under his arm, he didn’t look like a spy, certainly. For a moment he prepared his speech, so long in coming. How dare you kill my father, Potter. How dare you destroy my family. How dare you. But it was scattered and his growl was unpracticed. He didn’t even know if his eyes could look menacing anymore. After a moment Draco realized that he had not been spotted. Something had gone dreadfully wrong.

He stepped forward into the street and stood in front of Harry. Still, no reaction. Harry didn’t even blink. Draco moved to lift the paper bag from Harry’s arms, and still Harry didn’t move. His arms remained in place as though still holding the vegetables, his hands gripping it’s invisible bottom. Draco gently took his hand, and Harry’s arms collapsed against his sides. His head nodded down against his chest and then he looked up again, blinked, and looked at Draco.

"Thank you," he said.

"Your welcome," Draco said. He was confused. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I’m well, thank you for asking." Draco took his hand and lead him across the street to the foot of the stairs that lead to Harry’s flat.

"Do you want to go home?" Draco asked.

"Yes, yes, I think I do." He stood still, looking blankly at Draco.

"It’s right here," Draco said, pointing up. "Are you sure you’re well?"

"No," he responded softly. "I don’t remember."

Draco lead him up the two flights of rickety stairs to the front door of his flat. The door was always left unlocked; Draco knew this but had never ventured inside. Once he had peered through the window and tried the doorknob, but did not move further than that. Now he opened the door and lead Harry inside, indicated the armchair by the window and watched as Harry sat.

"You don’t remember this?"

"No," Harry said. He was very calm. He didn’t seem at all worried or afraid, and he didn’t seem to mind that Draco came with him, that Draco was there in the first place. He looked out the window into the street with a vague curiosity, sitting uncomfortably on the chair, as if it weren’t his, as if he were a guest.

"Do you remember me?"

Harry turned and looked at Draco, a look of mild concentration on his face. "No," he said. "I’m sorry."

Harry had lost his memory. Within one step and another on the street below, he had forgotten everything. Perhaps this had been the point, after all. Perhaps this was why he was here, doing the same thing day after day. The type setting, the walks, the sunsets on Sundays. Perhaps he was here in order to forget, and it had finally happened. How dare you, Potter, he thought, running over his carefully orchestrated speech. But no. He understood this, in some strange way, and his vengeance made less and less sense now.

"Your name is Harry, do you remember that?"

"No. Who are you?"

"Draco."

"We’re friends?"

"Yes."

It was then that Draco started to lie. He hadn’t intended to, at the start. He didn’t know what else to say; no, we’re not friends, we’re enemies; the last time we spoke to one another I tried to kill you, and you nearly killed me; we are the exactly opposite of friends and any interaction we can have must be the exact opposite of friendly. The calmness on Harry’s face, that blank expression, no hatred at all, no fear, was so complete Draco didn’t want to shatter it. He thought these were simple lies, they could be forgotten later, along with everything else.

And so he lied.

He made dinner; Harry asked him questions. What did he do for a living, where did they meet, where are his mother and father. Draco answered with the most lovely of lies; he was a freelance journalist, they met at a park, each walking other people’s dogs; his mother and father had died in a tragic accident a year ago. Harry had been living here for three years. They ate and talked. Draco explained magic, and showed Harry where he kept his wand (in the desk drawer). He explained about Muggles, leaving out the nasty sides. He didn’t mention the war, or Voldemort. Harry hadn’t noticed his scar yet, and Draco was thankful. He wasn’t sure how he would explain it yet. While Harry was examining the items on the south facing windowsill, Draco slipped Harry’s leather bound book into the bottom of a low drawer, and covered it over with newspapers.

Shortly after dinner, Harry looked tired, and Draco suggested he lay down for a while. He nodded, looking around, and Draco opened the door to his bedroom. Harry thanked him again, and paused for a moment before laying down.

"I don’t remember this either," he said.

"I know." Draco smiled sadly, and left the door slightly ajar.

He went across the street and told the Daily Prophet that Harry was unwell, and that it was unclear when he would be back to work. They looked concerned, but didn’t ask why Draco was telling them, or what his relationship with Harry was. The classifieds editor tried to bully some answers from him, but Draco told her that it was personal, and Harry would let her know what was wrong as soon as possible.

"Don’t rush him," Draco said in his wisest possible tone, "when he’s ready to tell you, he’ll be glad you let him do so in his own time." She accepted this with a kind of thoughtful and sympathetic nod.

When Draco returned to Harry’s flat, the first thing he did was wash Harry’s dishes, and put them all away. He tidied up his living room and hung up the coats left strewn on the couch. He even took out a broom and swept up some crumbs off the floor. And during this entire time made a concerted ever not to think about what he was doing, or why, or what he would do next.

A strangled scream brought him into Harry’s bedroom, and onto Harry’s bed. He was crying, thrashing around underneath the blanket Draco had laid out for him. Draco wrapped his arms around him and cooed at him.

"Shhhh," he said. "It’s alright now. Shhhh."

Harry woke breathing hard against Draco’s cheek. Draco smoothed Harry’s hair out of his face, and asked, "Did you remember something?"

"No," Harry said. "I dreamed of spiders, crawling all over me." He relaxed against Draco’s chest and they rested there together for a while. Harry felt warm and solid in his arms, his body still shivering a little from the nightmare, his rapid breath returning to a normal pace. Draco heard laughter on the street below, and smelled fresh bread. He noted that he was still wearing his shoes, lying on Harry’s bed, Harry’s dark hair against his neck. He ran his thumb back and forth over Harry’s shoulder. He wanted to say something, but his mind was empty of words. His left palm rested against Harry’s waist, flush against his skin where his shirt had ridden up in his thrashing. Draco felt that there was a pulse thumping between them in that place between Harry’s skin and his hand, a hot, almost audible heartbeat.

Harry shifted a little, moving slightly closer to Draco. "You sleep here with me, don’t you."

It wasn’t a question, and Draco did not feel inclined to disagree with it. Not yet, not right now.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

At the time it even felt like the truth. When Harry propped himself up on his elbow and looked at Draco, carefully, tracing his fingers over Draco’s face as though the secret to his memory were hidden somewhere here, as if touching him would bring it all back, this beautiful life above the bakery where they walk their friends’ dogs and write articles about global warming and the growth of the sparrow population and what wonderful little bistros there are in deepest London. Draco’s heart beat wildly, half with fear that Harry’s fingers would find the truth, that they would find the thread of the lie that would unravel Draco. But instead Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s forehead, his cheeks, his lips.

Draco closed his eyes and believed it all too. He believed that he woke in the mornings in this bed, easterly windows brightening up the room. He imagined the arguments they’d had, whether to move to a larger flat, whether to go back up to Hogsmede and get out of god awful London. With Harry’s lips against his navel he imagined that they sat together in the dual armchairs in the evenings, Harry’s by the window, so he can look out, and Draco’s across from it, feet up on the coffee table, books in hand. He imagined that sometimes they read to one another, long epic books that made them cry a little at the end, taking turns. Maybe they would curl up on the couch together, Harry’s head against Draco’s chest, listening to his voice rumble out the last chapters of their favourite book. He imagined that making love to Harry, as he did now, was completely ordinary.

Late into the night, with Harry’s skin pressed into Draco’s like warmth he had forgotten could exist at all, he imagined that on Sunday nights they watched the sunset together, that sometimes Harry would fall asleep against his shoulder. It was Draco who brought Harry’s sweater, the one Harry always insisted he wouldn’t need, which he would then drape over the sleeping form, push his hair out of his eyes, stroke his cheek, touch his hands. The lie would last the night, at least. How dare you, Potter. The words were an echo now, an itchy, niggling feeling in the back of his head.

When Draco slept that night with Harry curled around him, his hands lying limp against his stomach, he dreamed of portraits against the walls, pointing their fingers at him in disgust. He walked through a long, endless corridor with Malfoy after Malfoy after Malfoy muttering curses at him and spitting. A bust of his father turned to gape at him. "How dare you," his father said, his plaster lips cracking.

In the morning Harry woke and lay still for a moment. Draco felt himself blush, he worried at first. What had he done? Why was he here, why did he lie? Before he could consider any answers, Draco knew Harry remembered nothing, nothing before yesterday afternoon at least, because after a he curled against Draco’s chest and kissed him. Draco exhaled slowly. "Did we fight?" Harry asked.

"Fight?"

"Your things aren’t here, are they. Did we fight?"

"Yes, something like that."

"Tell me."

Draco didn’t even need to think about the answer. It seemed so true, so right, this was just as it had gone. He was jealous, he had accused Harry of having an affair with the classifieds editor. He had flown off the handle and thrown a vase against the wall ("Just there, you see? The mark there?") He knew now that he had been wrong, he was so sorry. Draco admitted that he was possessive, that he found it difficult to trust people, that his worst fear was to lose what they had and he sometimes saw that lost in almost anything. He told Harry about the time they took a holiday and went to the coast in the summer time, how Harry had made friends with some people in town, how they had all gone swimming together and Draco had become jealous because of the friendship Harry had with another man’s wife.

"I can be unbearable at times," Draco admitted.

"But I forgave you, eventually?"

"Yes, you did."

"You were going to move back here with me?"

"Yes, I’ve given notice."

They had a late and leisurely breakfast, which Draco picked up from the bakery downstairs. Jam and butter, warm bread, a little bacon, fresh peaches. Harry stretched.

"Let’s go to some places I might remember," he said. "Can we go to the coast? I want to see the beach." Draco smiled.

It was off season, and they had the length of the beach to themselves, for the most part. Some children made rough sandcastles with orange and pink plastic buckets; one couple, a tall man and a short, chubby woman, walked along the pier. Draco and Harry wore oilcoats and sweaters against the cool wind, but carried their shoes and socks in order to feel the damp sand against their feet. "I loved it here," Harry said, smelling salt air.

"Yes, you did," Draco said. "Do you remember it?"

"No." he closed his eyes. "But I love it now." He slipped his hand into Draco’s and they walked quietly.

Harry had nightmares again that night. Just before he woke, his tears dampening Draco’s chest, he felt sure that Harry had regained his memory. He felt terribly guilty. He had no answer for what he’d done; why had he lied? Why did he pretend to be Harry’s lover, make up outrageous stories, give them a history that didn’t exist?

It was true that there had been a moment, at school, just before they finished and left to fight in opposite sides of a pointless war, that he wondered if there was something between them, or, if there could have been. A cold night, wandering around in the garden without permission, blowing hot air into his cupped hands, he had nearly run into Harry, who was doing just the same thing, and for a few minutes they shared a piece of the sky, looked at stars, lost in their own thoughts. Draco wondered now what would have happened if, instead of watching Harry shiver, he had stepped toward him and enveloped him in his wool cloak. Would it have been that easy? And what would have happened afterward?

Draco could not have done other than what he had done; he had fought alongside his father. Had he stood a little to the left, in the end, he would have died as well. But he did not. For years he mourned his own life, extended so far beyond his father’s. For years he cursed Harry Potter and everything he stood for, even though he knew in his heart that he couldn’t blame Harry, and that he couldn’t blame himself. Harry, also, could not have done otherwise. But Draco survived, he had been pardoned, he had gone on.

Or had he. He had retreated into the past, let it whisper its vengeances into his ears. He had lain awake night after night wishing for something he didn’t understand, envying the dead and cursing himself for living. And Harry had tried to eclipse his past altogether, tried to turn his history off, shut the book on his life with one determined slam and never open it again. In the end he had succeeded, but only for a little while.

Harry sat up in bed, pre-dawn light in the window. He was breathing fast from his nightmare. Draco was suddenly terrified. There was something in Harry’s posture, something heavy in the way he held his shoulders, that made Draco feel certain. He had remembered.

"Voldemort," Harry said.

It was over, then. Draco felt sick. Harry would turn and look at Draco and be angry. Perhaps he would go into the other room, open the drawer, and pull out his wand. Perhaps he would come back, hair wild and eyes blazing, and turn the wand on Draco. Perhaps Harry would kill him. He wasn’t sure if the idea made him more afraid or relieved. He swallowed hard.

"You remembered," he said. His voice sounded strangely calm in his own ears.

Harry said nothing. He rubbed his fingers against his lips, and then through his hair. He turned and looked at Draco, who didn’t move, his arm still outstretched across the place where Harry had been lying, his other hand curled into Harry’s lap. Harry reached toward him, traced his fingers over Draco’s cheek and sighed.

"No," he said. "No, I didn’t. I had a nightmare about a horrible man and a horrible war." He lay down in Draco’s embrace again, burying his face in Draco’s neck. They were silent for a while, tense, Harry’s hand tracing lines up and down Draco’s back, up over his shoulders, sliding through his hair. Draco could feel the cold air on Harry’s skin, could feel him growing warm as he held him. He didn’t dare move for fear of what would happen next, for fear of what would have to be said. He felt lips on his neck and looked blankly into the darkness.

After a time, when Draco thought he had already fallen asleep, Harry whispered quietly, "Can you forgive me?"

Draco closed his eyes. "I forgave you long ago."

The next morning, Harry woke early and fetched breakfast from the bakery.

"I remembered something," he said, as he brought a tray into the bedroom and laid it on the bed. He poured coffee into two cups and put them on the bedside table.

"Did you?" Draco said, sleepily. For a moment he had forgotten the interruption in the middle of the night, he had forgotten that his lies weren’t true.

"I remembered that you like your coffee black. And that you like croissants with jam. And that it was a blue vase, the one you threw against the wall there. See? You can see a bit of blue in the mark. I’m right, aren’t I?"

Draco smiled. "Yes," he said. "You’re right."