Side

SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"...what if there were two,
side by side in orbit..."
R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

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CHAPTER 3 - Friends and Lovers

"...item: two lips, indifferent red; item: two grey eyes,...
...
I see what you are, you are too proud.
But if you were the devil, you are fair."
W. Shakespeare, "Twelfth Night", I,V

I've got one of Draco's old t-shirts on. This is just one of all the stupid, sentimental things I seem to be indulging in since he left - I sometimes wear a piece of clothing that belongs to him. It's as close to him as I can get, letting my skin touch something that has touched his. It doesn't matter that the clothes have been washed in between; the t-shirt I'm wearing has hugged him just like it's hugging me now. It's a rather faded, soft shade of blue which is not really my colour, but it's gorgeous on him, giving the grey of his eyes a faint blue hue, like blue sky trying to peek through clouds. Right now the blue fabric is stained dark with sweat - the kitchen is very hot even with the doors open on to the balcony.

The loaves of bread are a perfect golden brown when I take them out of the oven, and they have the right hollow sound to them when I turn them upside down and tap them with a finger. I've been cooking all day and it will take most of the day tomorrow as well. I'm preparing for my birthday party tomorrow evening. I love birthday parties and I love having lots of food on the table, probably legacy of the non-existent birthday celebrations of my childhood. A good thing I also love to cook. Hermione has been here earlier today to help me; it was a bit like Potions class but here at last is a subject where I outshine her. She likes cooking but I have developed a passion for it - and it's muggle cooking, without any magic, unless you regard artistic creativity as a form of magic. I love the sensuality of it, the tactile values, as Draco once said. I love combining flavours and textures and colours, making them contrast and complement each other, making each dish a work of art to be enjoyed by the eye as well as the palate.

Usually I feel elated when I'm surrounded by the raw materials of a feast, when they are lying there waiting for me to take possession of them, transform them and dress them for the ball. But tonight I feel more anger than elation and I use the cooking to relieve my frustrations. I dip the tomatoes in scalding water and then flay them, I place the onions on the guillotine and chop their heads off, I crush garlic with fresh herbs in the mortar murderously. I think I will have to leave some of the more delicate procedures for tomorrow; in my present mood I'll only demolish everything.

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Granger came to see me at Zabini's flat last night. I don't know how she found out where I was; I suppose she must have got the information from the Personnel officer at the Ministry somehow. I don't put anything past her when it comes to detective work. Or when it comes to helping her friends. She was obviously going somewhere quite fancy to judge from her elegant hair and dress robes, but she had still taken the time to see me. I was absurdly pleased.

"Glad to see you sober," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, well, sorry about last time. But I wasn't... feeling too good."

"You're still not feeling too good, are you?"

There was no point denying it so I just shook my head.

"Harry is being stupid," she said without preamble. "You know what he's like. The ever guilt-ridden golden boy. Makes things very complicated without really meaning to, and then he doesn't know how to get himself out of the tangle."

I looked at her, wanted her to go on, wanted her to talk about Harry so I could at least hear his name.

"Draco. What you two have is exceptional. From the moment you told me about Harry, before you left Hogwarts, I knew that your relationship isn't just an ordinary one. And you proved it to everyone in battle. When you have been through something as sinister as that together and survived, you can't allow yourself to throw your love away for nothing, and believe me, that's what you're doing now. I just can't watch you do this." She looked at me, and then she came up to me and hugged me, gently, warmly, reassuringly. The wonderful simplicity of it - she saw what I needed most that very moment and gave it to me, without question. She held me. It was all I could do not to cry. "In many ways you are the stronger part in this relationship, you know," she said. "I really think you should go home. He needs you."

I hugged her back, first time ever, and marvelled at the slim, firm softness of her body, the comfort of holding her. Her eyes smiled into mine and she left for wherever she was going. Damn you, Harry. You don't deserve friends like her.

Granger is the reason why I'm here now, on my way home, to our flat, to Harry. I'm not the nervous type but right now I'm so nervous I'm shaking. I want to see the look on his face when he catches sight of me - and then I will know for sure.

When I slide the key into the lock I smell food, a heavenly smell, a delicious if incoherent mix of things cooking, baking, simmering. I check myself. I know from experience that if Harry cooks, it means he's upset. He uses cooking as therapy - and it's real muggle cooking, where he has to touch and shape and struggle with every single ingredient. The more upset he is, the more complex the dishes. Judging from the multitude of fragrances seeping from the kitchen he is more upset than I've ever known him. My feelings are equally mixed; they always are when he cooks. Because usually when he's upset, I 'm the reason for it. But at the same time I'm delighted - a twisted delight, really; I enjoy the paradox of being the cause of upsetting him and being the recipient of the results of his culinary therapy. I take a malicious pleasure in the fact that mental torture can result in such enjoyable creative activity.

I take a deep breath and walk through the hall, stop in the doorway to the kitchen. I can see straight away that Harry is more than upset. He's genuinely angry. The beautiful green eyes are blazing and the black eyebrows almost collide above his nose. He's crushing something in the mortar as if he's trying to murder it. There are loaves of bread cooling on the counter, a bowl of fresh raspberries, double cream, dark chocolate. The tomato sauce simmering on the range spreads a wonderful, sharp, garlicky aroma.

And I suddenly realise the cooking is not only therapeutic this time; it's for his birthday party. Oh Merlin, I've forgotten. His twenty-first. His birthday is not until Tuesday but the party is tomorrow.

He still hasn't seen me. He washes his hands, takes out ingredients for cookie dough, starts chopping the chocolate viciously with the biggest knife he can find. His fingers are gradually covered with sticky, melted chocolate as he works. A vivid picture of our very first, chocolaty kiss in the Hall at Hogwarts ages ago flashes through my brain, of my tongue teasing his lips, his mouth nervous and hot on mine. Perhaps it's that same memory he is trying to chop to bits with the knife. My blood pounds in my ears as I stare at his hands working, strong nimble hands, experts at catching a fluttering Snitch, experts at making my body arch with pleasure. I stare at the tanned curve of his neck disappearing under an old blue t-shirt that I recognise with a jolt as one of my own. Watching him in an unguarded moment like this, when he thinks he is alone, makes me tremble. A vein stands out on his neck and I picture my lips on it; I can feel the throb of his pulse on my tongue already. I'm breathing fast as I lunge from the doorway into the kitchen. He winces when he sees me, and the knife falls to the floor. I know the intensity of desire in my eyes makes me look dangerous. His are beyond beautiful, shining with shocked surprise, and this arouses me even more. The air around us seems to sing on a high, clear note of tension. I catch his hand and start licking the chocolate from his fingers, sliding them into my mouth one by one and sucking them hard, pulling them out deliberately slowly, my tongue swirling his fingertips. His eyes are wide and their depths shift from shock to anger to lust. He wants to hit me and he wants to fuck me, and torn between the two he does nothing. All I hear is his now rapid breathing, and finally an almost inaudible moan. As if this is the signal I've been waiting for, I back him up against the wall, take his face in my hands and eat his mouth like a peach, all sweet wet freshness. He moans again, he gives me his tongue, his hands come up under my t-shirt, fingers still wet from my mouth and cool on my burning skin. I hear my own moans as if they come from a stranger. I've never wanted him this much before and I know he can feel it. We bite at each others lips, he claws the skin on my back and my fingers dig into his jaw bone. He mumbles something under my kiss but I doubt if he even knows what he's saying.

Suddenly his hands are on my chest, pushing me away from him violently. I stagger backwards to see green fury flash from his eyes just before my head explodes with pain, once, twice. I black out for a fraction of a second, reeling against the counter, and when the room clears again Harry is cradling his fist in his other hand, knuckles red, and he's yelling at me but I've already missed half of what he's saying. I feel blood streaming from my nose and a split lip, dripping on my t-shirt and on the black and white tiles on the floor. It looks beautiful there, blossoming brightly on the hard, shiny surface. My ears are ringing. His mouth is spluttering words I would never have imagined he knew. He rounds off his rant by shoving me towards the door, shoving me out, slamming it shut behind me.

He never thinks when he's angry. He's forgotten I have a key.

But tonight I won't take advantage of having the more structured mind. I just pull a handkerchief out of my jeans pocket and try to stop the flow of blood. I feel dizzy and my nose hurts like hell, but I begin to laugh, irresistibly, in spite of the cut lip. I'm still shaking with silent laughter as I let myself into Zabini's flat again. It's only when I meet my own eyes in the bathroom mirror and see the rigid grimace on my face that I realise I could just as well have cried. My blood swirls pinkly diluted into Zabini's washbasin and down the drain.

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The living room is warm and filled with talk, music, laughter, the clinking of ice against glass. The double doors are open onto the balcony that runs the whole length of the flat, the thin curtains lifting and billowing softly in the warm breeze that smells sweetly of mown grass. Candle flames are reflected in eyes and champagne glasses. This is the main reason I love birthday parties - having so many of the people you love gathered in the same place. I let my eyes sweep over Sirius, Hermione and Seamus, Ginny with her very attractive Muggle boyfriend, the twins, Ron with a dark, pretty girl I haven't seen before... But it also inevitably makes you think of all the people you loved and will never see again. When I see Ron and Ginny I think of Bill and Charlie; when I see Sirius I think of Remus Lupin.

And when I see all my friends here I think of someone who could very well have been here tonight but has chosen not to.

I have just fetched some more bread from the kitchen when I see him hesitantly enter the living room. I nearly drop the plate I'm holding. I realise that people are still talking around me, laughing and drinking and dancing, but I don't hear the tide of voices any more, I don't see anyone's movements but his. Everything stops. I only hear my own heartbeat and I begin to shake. I´m shocked by his beauty, stunned by him as if I saw him for the first time. The sharp lovely face shows no traces of last night; he must have used a healing charm. He looks tired and his eyes are dark, but he moves with his usual smoothness and relaxed elegance. That poise, that grace, that lithe body I know so well, every little secret. My fingers and my lips remember every inch of his skin, every strand of his silky hair. He is white liquid fire, burning me. He spots me across the room and his eyes flash silver; he shifts the bottle of wine he's holding from one hand to the other, and the way his hand slides suggestively up the neck of the bottle makes me swallow hard, trying to ignore the sharp stab of desire. I feel dizzy and the intoxication is not all from the champagne. His eyes are saying something, asking something, and I try to answer them with mine.