Juxtapose

Juxtapose

Part One - That's Life

~~~~~

He was a baby. The warm arms that held his body tight, the gentle sway of their bodies, the light hum of a lullaby, and the gentle pressure of lips to his forehead, all told him this.

It was a woman holding him. Of this, he was sure. He could tell by the softness of her body, the gentle scent of her perfume, and by the sound of her voice. When he sleepily opened his eyes, she was smiling down at him, and he felt a happy giggle escape his throat. He found he especially liked her bright, warm green eyes, and her long auburn hair.

"Now, now, Harry, love, you're supposed to be going to sleep. I can tell the little monster in you is tired."

Harry felt himself smile and could not restrain the urge to grab her nose. "Mummy," he cooed happily.

A door behind them flew open and crashed against the wall. Harry felt the world spin around and when it came to a standstill, he saw a man. Excitement bubbled up in Harry's chest and he squirmed in his mother's arms. "Daddy!" he cried, holding out his arms.

"Lily, you're not going to believe what I found!" Harry heard his daddy exclaim as he hugged Harry to him. Harry liked how his daddy smelled just as much as he liked how his mummy smelled, so Harry stuck his nose against his cheek. Daddy smelled like the outdoors and sometimes, he smelled like an animal. Harry especially liked his daddy when he brought the big doggy, the deer, and the rat home. Harry would remember how he loved to laugh and laugh as the animals played together, and how his mummy would stand in the doorway, yelling at them to get out of the house.

Harry would only laugh more, especially when Paddy put his cold nose in Harry's armpit.

"If you've brought another niffler in to destroy our home again, James, you can bring it straight back."

"No! Lily, I told you about the amulet that my father hid. I found it!"

Harry heard his mummy gasp before he was smothered in-between his most favourite people. Harry watched as his daddy kissed his mummy. "You have to wear it, Lily. It has to be in plain sight."

"Yes, of course."

Then, the scene was fading, and suddenly Harry was outside.

The sun was out and there were no clouds, but it was a chilly day. A fierce wind whipped around Harry, sending his cloak billowing to the right. He tried to get it around his shoulders, but his small fingers could not grasp it. The wind was blowing through his shirt and was in his eyes, which were starting to tear. Harry whimpered in frustration, but suddenly, gentle hands took his wayward cloak and wrapped it around him.

"Hold on tight to that, lad."

Harry did not have to look up to know that it was Sirius. Sirius had been insistent that morning about coming along with James and Harry. Harry was not sure why they were here, but he knew that it had to do with some sort of amulet and the necklace his mum wore all the time.

Harry's mum and dad, and many other people he knew and loved often told him what a smart boy he was. But, lately, Harry did not feel so smart. He wondered why the adults were so secretive lately, and why they spoke in hushed voices, even if they were telling Harry to eat his peas. He wondered what the amulet had to do with anything, and why the amulet had stopped him from having a birthday party a few months back.

Even now, the sore of that disappointment was raw. Harry remembered being told by his mum that he was not allowed to have his party. Harry had cried out that he was turning five, and tried to make his mum understand how important that was. His mum had not relented, so Harry cried some more.

Sirius put a hand on Harry's shoulder as they both watched James, and Harry tried not to let himself cry at the memory of his cancelled birthday party. It was not that he was a spoiled boy. If somebody told him that he was he would pout at them that he was not like his ugly cousin, Dudley. And he wasn't. His dad made sure of that. His fifth birthday was going to be special though. It would have been his first birthday party with his new friends from school.

Harry's dad finished filling the hole he had dug and turned to look at them. James smiled triumphantly. "Nobody will ever find it now, boys!" he exclaimed. "Our problem is over, thanks to the genius of Mr. Padfoot!"

Sirius gave a small, courteous bow, and Harry looked up at him in silent admiration. His father was always telling Harry of Sirius's genius, and Harry hoped to be just like him someday, but he would never tell his dad that. James picked Harry up and they began walking down the hill, back to the modest car Lily had insisted on buying the previous year.

There was a track of dirt on James's cheek and it reminded Harry of how good his father was at Quidditch. Harry traced the bit of dirt with his index finger, and thought about how good his dad was at making his owies better, and how he told stories, and how he made him laugh, and what a good dad he was. And Harry thought, if a person could be good at all those things, he must be pretty smart, too. Harry looked from one man to the other. In fact, Harry thought, his daddy must be ten bazillion times smarter than Sirius. As James was settling Harry into the backseat of the car, Harry grabbed his hand.

"I changed my mind, daddy. I want to be just like you when I grow up."

James gave him a quirky grin. "You changed your mind? Who did you want to be like before?"

Harry faltered, because he had promised himself never to tell his dad that. But he thought on it and decided that it was okay now that he wanted to be like his daddy, and not Sirius. He stuck his nose up in the air and looked his dad straight in the eye. "I wanted to be like Sirius, but I decided just now that you're a lot smarter than him," he stated matter of fact. "Plus, you're really really good at Quidditch."

Harry watched as his dad threw his head back in a laugh and hit it on the edge of the car, but he only ducked out and continued laughing.

Sirius was pouting from the front seat as he looked back at Harry. "Are you sure, Harry? Really sure? Because, I can prove how much smarter I am than your dad."

Harry shook his head, because he was positive now that his daddy was smarter than Sirius, even if he did do stupid things like trampling through the house as a stag just to get his mum angry.

And as Harry was vigorously shaking his head no, the scene faded out.

When colours and shapes were discernible once again, Harry found that he wished he could go back to that autumn day with his father and godfather. The walls around him were a rough stone and a bleak grey in colour. There were bloodstains on the back wall, but from what, Harry did not want to know.

Harry briefly wondered which memory he was falling into now, when a piercing shriek from above snapped him back to reality. He realised then that this was no memory. This was his reality.

And oh, how he hated it.

His sob of despair was drowned out by a whip cracking and another piercing shriek. He knew that the guard would be making his rounds soon, but he could not bring himself to care. The energy had been sapped from him long ago, so he could no longer throw himself at his cell door, and shriek at the guards. The back of his throat was still sore from his last screaming fit, but he tried to ignore it. His daily rationing of water, soup, and a moulding piece of bread would not be coming for another twelve hours after all. He would have to endure the scratchiness of his throat.

Harry buried his face in his arms and shook. There was a constant draft blowing through the fortress, and it made Harry remember the day on the hill constantly. He was just about to slip back into that particular memory when the door to his cell creaked open. He did not look up, even though this rarely happened.

"Look alive, Potter," snapped an ugly, gravely voice. "It's your birthday and we're here to give you a present."

Harry did look up then and glared at the Head Guard. He was a nasty man with yellowed teeth and scraggly hair. He was baring his teeth now, malevolently, and he held a whip in his hands. "Normally, we know that it's tradition to give spankings to the birthday boy or girl, but we thought it fit to use the whip. So, let's see... you're twenty-three today. How about twenty-five? Seems fair enough."

Two guards from behind came and dragged Harry off of the floor. They clapped chains around his wrist and lifted his shirt up. Without warning, the whip cracked across his back and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. However, a whimper escaped unbidden. The guards laughed mirthfully.

Harry hung his head, feeling all the hope he had ever possessed drain from him. Still, the whipping went on, and by the time it was over, Harry just wanted to die. The guards unchained him and he fell to the floor, bloody and broken.

***

It was a cold, mirthless laugh and the unrelenting pounding of computer keys, which filled the emptiness of the small, dingy flat. The sounds echoed off the colourless walls, bouncing back at the man making them.

He was sitting in a room with one dilapidated, brown couch, a small desk that held his computer, and an uncomfortable looking wooden chair for him to sit. There were no other signs that somebody even lived there, except for the occasional half-used candlestick on the floor or desk.

There had been better days, he remembered bitterly, pushing back his chair to walk to the grimy window. Days of his childhood, playing and running around a large manor house and servants ready to kiss his feet if he so asked. His childhood gave way to adolescence and boarding school. There had been friends, girlfriends, lovers, even a boyfriend. And he had been happy then.

It was a dreary day out, he noted absently as he purposefully pushed the memories away for another time. There had been storm clouds brewing for most of the afternoon, and the sun had flirted with the clouds, never quite going behind them as though it was unwilling to stop showing itself to the people below. It was as though the sun knew what sort of mood he was in today, and did not want to oblige him by hiding its cheerful face.

"Nothing can stay happy forever," he murmured, and he laughed bitterly as the sun relented and finally slid behind the dark storm clouds.

His eyes slid down to the street as the shadows disappeared and it became noticeably darker. Children who had been laughing and playing only moments before were called in by their parents as the sky rumbled angrily. He watched them scatter with detached amusement. As the last door slammed, the sky gave an angry clap and suddenly, rain was pouring down.

It had not rained in days, which was odd for the time of year, and people in the shops he frequented wondered when it would rain again.

He wondered if they were now asking when the rain would stop.

Movement caught his eye in the middle of the street, and he saw a rogue child there, spinning in the rain. She was laughing and her hair was in thick, wet strands around her head. She could have been no older than six. He wondered why there was nobody around to scold her for being out in the rain.

Without knowing why, he was suddenly hurrying out the door and out to the street. He walked from beneath the awning that shielded the front walk of his building from the elements, and felt the cold, unforgiving rain pelt down on him. He thought vacantly that if he were to take off his shirt, it would most certainly feel like thousands of cold, wet whips, lashing out at his skin.

The girl was still spinning as he approached her. "Where are your parents?" he called out above the din of the storm and distant cars, and the sound of the city. She stopped spinning so abruptly that she nearly fell backwards before he caught her arm.

She stared up at him, squinting through the rain. "You live in the flat above me," she said to him, and he wondered how she knew this, when he had never seen her before.

"Where are your parents?" he asked again, running a hand through his soaking hair. He finally wondered why he had come out here.

"Inside. They don't know I came out here. They don't like it when I spin in the rain, but they don't understand!"

"They don't understand what?"

"They don't understand that it's freedom! That if I weren't in the middle of a London street, I would take my clothes off and dance in the rain forever! That it would feel like cold kisses to skin that's been in the fire for far too long."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm nine. How old are you?"

"Younger than I feel." He studied the girl, wondering how she could look so much younger than she was, but seem so much smarter than her age suggested she should be. He suddenly felt he did not have twenty-three years of knowledge behind him "You don't seem like you're nine," he commented.

"You're right. I'm younger than I feel." And she grinned up at him, and spread her arms wide. She turned her head up to the sky and opened her mouth to catch the rain on her tongue. He watched as she began spinning again. "Spin with me!" she cried.

"I'm not a child."

"Neither am I!"

He watched her for a few minutes and suddenly felt himself smile. It did not happen so much anymore, and it startled him into a frown. It suddenly seemed imperative to tell this girl his name. "My name is Draco Malfoy!" he shouted as lightning cracked loudly overhead.

She never stopped spinning. "Skye Peterson!"

"I've never told anybody around here my real name."

Skye stopped spinning, and she pushed her soaking hair from her face. "You should," she said, her large grin fading. "It's unique. Aren't you proud of it?"

But, Draco never got to answer, because the door to their building flew open and a woman with curly black hair came storming from it. Her eyes were wild, and Draco thought that she might be drunk. "Skye, how many times have I told you not to play in the rain? Get your arse back in here before I call your father!"

"Coming, mum!" She turned to Draco and rolled her eyes. "They don't understand," she repeated. "The rain is release. The sky cries for people who can't, and it's meant for people to bathe in it - to remember that there are people in pain."

"Skye!"

"See you around, Mr. Malfoy!"

Her mother glared at Draco as Skye ran to her. Draco watched detached as the little girl approached her mother and was smacked across the face. Skye did not flinch. She looked back at Draco and smiled before being pushed back into the building.

The older woman sent one last glare at Draco for effect before stomping inside after Skye. Draco's mind should have been on the little girl and their conversation. But, all he saw was the black hair of her mother, and the fiery blue eyes, and his mind was falling into a memory.

Suddenly, a car honked, and lights flashed at him, pulling him from his reverie. He quickly made it to the sidewalk before he was run over, and began walking inside. However, his mind was quickly sliding back into the memory, and he hardly remembered getting back to his flat. The water-stained walls and the musty smell of the hallway faded. He was no longer in his home, but he recognized where he was.

Draco was in a black carriage. It had the Malfoy family crest on the outside of both doors, and had royal purple curtains blocking the windows. There were candles lit in sconces on either side of the doors, and they were his only light.

The carriage was pulled by two thestrals, though Draco could not see them. They made for a quicker journey, and his mother had been insistent that he get home from the train station sooner this time. Draco was not looking forward to being home, and it was made worse because he knew that his time at Hogwarts had just ended forever. There was no light at the end of the tunnel this time. He could only imagine what lay ahead of him.

The road they were riding on was full of potholes and the carriage jolted many times. Draco eyed the candles warily, and was ready for them to jump from their carrier. But, soon, he felt the ride smooth out, and he knew they were on the road that was cared for by the workers of Malfoy Manor. The ride would only take another ten minutes, and then the rest of his life would begin.

Draco thought that it would start with his personal house elf, Glady, greeting him at the door as usual. Then, his mother or father, or perhaps even both would request his presence at dinner. They would discuss his successful completion of Hogwarts, and what he would do now.

Oh, Draco knew what he wanted to do, certainly. But, it was not a respected career for a person born into noble blood. No, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would never settle with their only son as an author. He was destined for many great things, and writing was not in the picture.

When the carriage finally stopped in front of the doors to the manor, the door opened of its own accord, and Draco stepped regally from it. The manor house stood tall and proud above him, and he felt a faint smile grace his lips. There were voices drifting from the front gardens, and Draco thought one to be his mother. He stood motionless as two house elves retrieved his things, and the carriage pulled away. A small circle of hedges came into view, which held a small, but elaborate garden inside. It mostly held narcissus flowers in respect to his mother, but he liked them, and often kept one in his room.

Suddenly, Draco caught a glimpse of a girl in a simple, white dress, with long, curly black hair run past the opening. She was laughing at something and Draco was pulled to her. He began walking without knowing why, until he found himself inside the garden. There the girl stood, a flower in her hand. She was picking the petals off one by one with a malicious little smile on her face. He approached without her noticing.

"We have other things around the grounds that would be much more satisfying to destroy," he said, calmly taking the remaining part of the flower. She startled and looked down at him - even though she was shorter - sniffing haughtily.

"You must be Draco Malfoy," she said. "Your mother has been expecting you all day."

"I'm quite certain you speak the truth. I have never seen you around before. What is your name?"

"Bianca Giovani."

Draco felt his heart skip a beat. "Your father is the Minister of Magic in Italy."

Bianca smiled bitterly. "Yes, he is."

"Forgive me for asking, but, what are you doing here? In Wiltshire?"

Bianca advanced on Draco, pushing her body against his. "Do you like what you see when you look at me, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco felt himself swallow and he cautiously took a step back. He unabashedly studied every curve and line that he could see through the thin dress. Her legs were long and from what he could tell a nice shape. Her hips were wide, but not overly so, while her waist was skinny. He moved his eyes to her breasts, and tried very hard not to lick his lips. They were full and unrestrained by any undergarments. Draco wondered if his hand would be a perfect fit for one of them, or if they would spill over. His trousers were getting decidedly tighter by the second. By the time he reached her face, she was smiling knowingly up at him. It was not a nice smile.

"Yes, I do," he said honestly, his throat dry.

She advanced on him again. "Good." She pressed her breasts against his chest and flattened her hand against his growing erection. "I wouldn't want my first lover to be dissatisfied with my body, now would I?"

Bianca looked into his startled face, smirked, and disappeared from the garden. Draco stared after her, his mouth hanging open slightly. He did not notice the arrival of the others.

"Did what you see, satisfy you, young Mr. Malfoy?" asked a man with a thick Italian accent.

Draco spun on the spot. Lucius, Narcissa, and what Draco could only assume was Bianca's father stood behind him. He bowed respectfully to him. "Yes, I did, Minister. Very much, indeed."

"Ah! You were correct, my dear friend, Lucius!" the Minister exclaimed.

"I apologise, but I'm afraid I do not understand," Draco addressed his father. "She's very beautiful. I would never deny that, but why is she being given to me as a lover?"

Lucius and the Minister laughed. "Is that what she said to you?" Lucius asked. "Boy, you are to marry her. She is not a gift, but a wife."

"Marry? But, I do not want to marry yet. I'm not yet eighteen!"

"Draco, darling," Narcissa broke her silence, coming forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, "you are seventeen, and a seventeen year old Malfoy heir at that. You are finished with Hogwarts, and you knew that there would be obligations for you to fulfil. This is but the first. You will be wed to Ms. Giovani come July."

Draco glanced up at his father, who wore a hard look in his eye. He knew he could not argue his way out of this. Come hell or high water, his parents would be sure that he was with a wife before his next birthday.

"Yes, mother," he acquiesced. "I apologise for seeming ungrateful. She seems to be the perfect bride. I shall be honoured to marry her next month."

With a jolt, he realised that next month was only a few days away. Water seemed to fill his ears as the Minister conversed jovially with Lucius, and something heavy was placed in his stomach. He felt like he was moving through some sort of foam as he made his excuses and retired to his room for the remainder of the evening.

As he closed his door behind himself, he caught a glimpse of Bianca, and she was smirking.

***

When Draco pulled himself from the memory, he was cold and wet. There were no lights in his flat except from the screensaver from the computer, so he was glad that he did not have much of anything to obstruct his path to his bedroom.

The bedroom was as bare as the living room, save for the one large four poster bed and a small wardrobe. There was, of course, a small window in the room, but it was covered in plastic that was meant to keep the cold out in winter. He did not know how to take it off properly, so there it stayed for the entire year. There were blinds behind the plastic that he could not get to, so there never was any light in his bedroom.

He was shaking from the wet and maybe a little from the memory as well, but he pushed it away along with his wet clothes, and pulled on the first piece of clothing that he found on the floor. It was an old jumper from his days at Hogwarts, and while it should have been too small for him now, it was actually too big. Draco wondered if the concern Joseph was showing toward him, held any bearing.

The small window in the living room showed that the storm had turned into a gale. The weather now suited his mood, but now he thought he might like to see the sun again. He sat heavily on the worn couch, and cringed when it creaked and groaned unhappily under his weight. He wished for something warm to drink, but knew there was nothing in his cupboards. There had been nothing to eat or drink, but soup, bread, and water, for the past two weeks, and he had already eaten his daily rationing earlier that afternoon.

Joseph would not be happy when Draco asked for more money the next day for food.

Draco sighed. The stack of bills by his desk was enough reminder of his situation. He did not need to be willingly reminding himself of what trouble he was in. However, the constant rumble in his stomach would not let him forget.

He wished he had somebody to talk to. There was Joseph, but they only had monthly meetings for Joseph to see how Draco was holding up. And Draco would be forced to squash his pride to ask for money. The meeting was tomorrow, but Draco wanted somebody to talk to now.

He wished for Bianca. He even wished for Aida.

Would she even understand? Draco wondered. Would she be old enough to let Draco talk and talk without her interrupting for something she wanted?

Draco did not care. He wanted Aida back. He wanted to push his nose into her curly blonde locks of hair and smell the sweet shampoo Bianca had favoured for her. He wanted to wipe away her tears, and buy her toys, and make her laugh. He wanted to put her to sleep at night, and hold her close when she had nightmares.

He wanted his daughter.

Vivid memories were threatening once again, but he violently pushed them away. He thought of Skye in the flat below him. He wondered if she was in warm clothes, and whether she was being well fed. He wondered if her father was any better than her mother.

He looked outside to the continuing gale, and thought of the sun flirting with the clouds. He thought of the times in his life when he had been happy. Happiness did not last forever. For anybody. It was a fleeting thing to be grabbed when it was offered.

And Skye did that. She grabbed it when it was offered. She took a chance when it started raining and left her warm home, just to spin and twirl in the rain. It was her happiness. But, it had ended, just like everything else nice.

No. Happiness is not forever. Draco was positive.

He looked around the small, dingy room, and he felt so alone, so out of place, but yet... at home. There had been days of simple pleasures like non-creaking furniture, and expensive wine, and sex in the gardens. There had been Aida, laughing and running through the estate, calling for her daddy to catch her. There had been food.

There was nothing here, but an old computer, a couch, and a cynical man, who was younger than he felt. And suddenly, he was sure.

"But, neither can it stay like this forever."