Grey

Three

The rain is heavy, steady since the morning. The trees are damp, discarding leaves with the weight of the rain, dropping into the pavement of Hogsmeade's cobblestone streets. Harry walks past the front window with its painted butterbeer mug, a cloud of foam rising from it as if it were meeting an amber sea. The door is marked The Crying Wolf in peeling gold letters lined with black; Harry opens it and steps inside, keeping the black hood of his Hogwarts robes covering his head.

Draco is in the last booth, beside the entrance to the back of the bar, as he said he'd be. The walls are yellow with smoke, the heavy booths are coated with thick coats of red velvet, each with a metal hen's-claw hook for coats. There is a smell in the room, of fizzy drinks and greasy food, of fun and merriment and joy. Harry inhales the scent before sliding into booth across from Draco.

Christ, Draco says, you might as well worn a red tutu.

What did I do? What's wrong?

Your robes.

It's just a coat, he says, faltering. What's wrong with it?

Look at yourself, he says. Look around you. Everyone will start to look at you, recognize you, know that you're out of school. And if they see you with me...

Oh, Harry says, feeling embarrassed. But it's too late, you know, if I take off my coat it will be even more conspicuous. He lifts a hand up to his face and points to his scar.

I know, Draco sighs. I know. The problem with you, Harry, is that you don't think anything through.

You didn't tell me. And I can hardly rush out the door looking as if I'm planning to come here--did you think of that?

You just need some more sense. It makes things harder than they have to be. Get a fucking clue, Harry. You're the one who thinks so much about us getting caught. If you are going to worry so much you might as well do something useful about it instead of whining all the time.

Stop. I made a mistake. I realize this now. You could at least be a little nicer about it.

I detest kindness, Draco says. I detest people who pride themselves on being nice. Snot-nosed do-gooders, doling out the kindness. They're contemptible.

I'm nice, Harry says. Well, I'm nice to you, anyway.

If I thought that's all it was--lukewarm milk-and-water kindness--I'd be gone faster than you could blink. I'm not charity case, I'm not looking for fuck handouts. I could do fine without you, you realize.

He's in a savage mood. Harry wonders why. He hasn't seen Draco outside of class for a week. Or it might be the rain.

Maybe it isn't kindness then, Harry says. Maybe it's selfishness. Maybe I'm unbearably selfish.

I'd like that better, Draco says. I prefer you greedy. He stubs out his cigarette, reaches for another, thinks better of it. I don't want you sitting across from me like this.

I know, Harry says. But there's nowhere else. It's too wet.

We'll find another place. Somewhere out of the snow.

It isn't snowing.

But it will, Draco says. The north wind will blow. Besides...

The barmaid is suddenly standing by the booth. She has her shirt sleeves rolled up, strands of hair arranged around her head like oily ribbons. Her fingers are ugly, like toes.

Butterbeer?

Yes please, Harry says. When she leaves, he turns back to Draco. Is it safe?

The butterbeer? You mean does it have germs? It shouldn't, it's been prepared for hours. Draco is sneering at him but Harry chooses not to understand him.

No, I mean, is it safe here.

I'm keeping an eye on the door--I could make it out the back way. There's an alley-way to the right. But you're being paranoid, aren't you? There's no way anybody would know we're here.

Listen, Harry says and lowers his voice. It's not as if you and I are the least known wizards in the world. People know us, if anybody were to find out, it would be on the cover of Witch Weekly in two seconds flat. And if you think what they did to Hermione in fourth year was bad...

Draco chuckles. If it got on the cover of Witch Weekly, I think that we would have more things to worry about than our respective popularity ratings.

You're right, you're right. I know you're right. But I think about it. I dream about it. I worry all the time... I'll find us a place where nobody will know us.

You really shouldn't worry, Draco says. You'll be queer of the year and you'll have a million dicks fawning and chasing after you and you'll forget all about me. And then, one day, your ass will turn withered, your eyesight will grow worse than it already is, and then you'll be no good to anybody then.

Fuck you.

Yes, you do, Draco says, and smirks.

---

Two days later. Harry has dragged Draco to some random hotel in the middle of London. He isn't sure of the neighborhood, he isn't sure of anything that's going on.

This is the room? Draco asks. He twists his black leather gloves in his hands as if they're wet and he's wringing them out.

Yeah, Harry says, and pokes a rusty key the size of a fork into a big, old wooden door. The hotel is the only one in a row of houses, all grey, formerly white, darkened by grime, narrow and tall, with flat roofs. There is no grass in the front, only dust and a few parched weeds growing beside the walk. A brown paper bag torn open lays like a corpse of a dead animal beside the gutter.
Draco glances over his shoulder as he steps inside. Don't worry, Harry says, nobody's watching. Muggles don't give a flying fuck about either you or me. Lace curtains dangle in the window, Draco notices, as Harry pushes the door open for them to reveal the lobby, or what may be called the lobby. It is really nothing more than a desk in a living room. A man with watery eyes and skin the texture of cloth doesn't look up as he draws a key from a drawer behind the counter at Harry's request.

They make their way up the steps. Harry pokes the worn, rusty key into the lock and forcefully opens the door to reveal their scene: a worn linoleum floor in a pattern of brown and yellow squares, two chairs seated around a stand-up ashtray, a television set dating from the 1950s. Harry flicks on the lightswitch. Overhead, a fixture with three pink glass blossoms, two of the bulbs missing.

Harry puts a chain on the door. The room is close and dark, with one window, open a few inches. The afternoon sun is hitting the blind, turning it golden. The air smells of cabbage, but also of homemade soap.

Draco gives a small sigh.

Don't look so disappointed, Harry says. None of it will rub off on you. Just don't touch anything.

Oh, it might, Draco says with a small breathless laugh. I have to touch you. You'll rub off.

Most of the room is taken up by the bed, old and brass with a tremendous mattress. It will probably creak. Thinking of this, Draco smiles.

Harry closes the door behind him and puts his arms carefully around Draco, brushes his lips over the side of his neck, his throat; not the mouth. Draco shivers.

I'm easy to get rid of afterwards, Harry says, whispering. You can just go back to school and take a shower.

Don't say that, Draco says, whispering also. You're making fun of me. You never believe I mean it.

You mean it enough for this, Harry says. Draco slides his arm around his waist and they go further into the room. Harry kisses him again, this time harder, sliding his hand underneath Draco's shirt, pressing him down on the bed.

Draco's hair has become undone; Harry smoothes his hand over it, the pale tapering swath of it, and thinks of flame, the shimmering flame of a white candle.

Harry goes to his bag and pulls out a bottle. Sorry there's no butler, he says. Want a drink? Cheap whiskey.

Yes, Draco says. He takes out two plastic cups out of his bag and pours. Say when.

When.

No ice, Harry says, but you can have water.

That's all right. Draco gulps the whiskey, coughs a little, smiles at him, standing with his back against the bureau.

Short and hard and straight up, Harry says. The way you love it. He sits down on the bed with his drink. Here's to loving it. He raises his glass. He's not smiling back.

You're unusually nasty today.

Self-defense, Harry says.

I don't love it, I love you, Draco says. I do know the difference.

Up to a point, Harry says. Or so you think. It saves face.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just walk out of here.

Harry grins. Come over here then.

Although Harry knows Draco wants him to, he won't say he loves him. Perhaps it would leave him armourless, like an admission of guilt.

The sun has moved across; there's just a wedge of light remaining, on the left side of the drawn blind. Outside, a car rumbles past. Cars must have been going past all this time. Why then has the effect been silence? Silence and his breath, their breaths, labouring, withheld, trying not to make any noise. Or not too much noise. Why should pleasure sound so much like distress? Like someone wounded. Harry's put his hand over Draco's mouth.