Sober

Harry sat in the circle, patiently waiting for his turn. He listened to the others introduce themselves until it finally got to him.

And this time he was ready.

“Hello.” Harry fidgeted with the sunglasses he held in his hands instead of wearing on his face. “My name’s Harry and I’m an addict.”

No judgement, no sounds of surprise, just a simple, “Hello, Harry.”

“I’m addicted to Xanax, coke, alcohol and reckless living.”

Pansy introduced Harry to Xanax bars.

Draco introduced him to blow.

Harry’s uncle introduced him to alcohol before Harry had been taken from his relatives and put in foster care.

And Harry had been addicted to reckless living from the day he was born, he suspected.

Harry looked down at the metal arms of his sunglasses and compulsively bent and straightened them out over and over again. “I’ve been clean for six months, three weeks, one day, and eight hours so far. This is my sixth time trying to stay sober.”

Six months, three weeks, one day, and eight hours ago Luna showed up at Harry’s apartment and took him home with her.

Five months, three weeks, and twenty-two hours ago, Harry said goodbye to Draco at the cemetery.

Five months, six days, and three hours ago, Ron and Fred talked Harry into trying rehab again.

Two months, one day, and fourteen hours ago, Harry left rehab with a new therapist, a notebook full of lyrics, and something that felt like peace in his chest.

And six weeks and six hours ago, exactly, Harry had listed his apartment for sale and began searching for a new place just as nice, just as luxurious and private, and without the memories filling the halls and tainting the walls.

Five days and nine hours in the future, Harry would be moving to his new townhouse in Brooklyn. It was huge, it was beautiful, Draco Malfoy had never been inside of it, and one of the four bedrooms overlooked the private park behind the condo building and Harry just knew that his piano would fit perfectly.

There were a few people who nodded encouragingly for Harry to go on, but Harry kept his eyes on his glasses.

“If I didn’t start trying to get sober when I did, the first time, I’d be dead,” he said honestly. Harry’s throat swelled and he swallowed harshly. He studied himself in the mirror reflection of his sunglasses and forced the next words out. “The day I knew I had to get sober was the day that my boyfriend died.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Harry yelled. He snatched an award he’d won, some meaningless piece of shit, and threw it at the wall. “I mean it, Draco, I can’t keep fucking doing this!”

They said they were going to quit.

They fucking agreed.

And Harry came home from an interview that Fred set up to promote their upcoming album and found Draco and some fucking shirtless and blonde Calvin Klein model doing lines at their dining table.

Harry threw his keys at the guy and told him to get his fucking clothes on and get out of his house.

Draco had smirked with pupils blown wide the whole time the other guy scrambled to get dressed and ducked out the door just as Harry threw the award.

Harry spun around and glared at Draco. Draco ignored him and looked down at the table while he straightened out two lines on the glass mirror that they’d hidden from themselves just a few days ago.

“Come sit.” Draco tapped the razor on the glass and smiled lazily up at Harry. “It’s good, and free apparently.”

Harry had screamed; all his frustration and temptation and anger boiling to the surface.

“We fucking AGREED,” Harry yelled at Draco. “No more! No coke, no pills, no booze. What the fuck happened to that?”

It was their fourth or fifth agreement.

They always swore they’d get clean after a big fight.

And they’d just fought two days ago.

“I decided I didn’t give a damn anymore,” Draco said airily, avoiding eye contact with Harry. “If you want to be straight and smile prettily for the cameras and judge me, then do it, Potter. I don’t care.”

Harry stared incredulously at him as Draco did a line right in front of him. “Draco, please, I can’t do this anymore,” Harry said, desperate and scared. “I can’t do the withdrawals and the fighting and the highs and the lows. Please, let’s quit.”

Draco swiped beneath his nose and smirked up at Harry. A look that used to be so sexy Harry could get hard from just seeing it; now it was a smirk on a thin face with a small trickle of blood and Harry had never been less turned on in his life.

“Quit if you want, I’ll quit tomorrow,” Draco laughed. He tilted his head toward the other line and challenged Harry with his eyes. “Let’s get lost and we’ll quit tomorrow.”

Harry took a step toward the table, his eyes caught now on the line that he knew would make his entire body sing.

He could do it.

He could get high.

They could have sex so good that Harry might write a song about it.

But what was the point of writing a song that he’d forget as soon as he came back down and had to be Harry again?

Harry reached his hand out before snatching it back to his chest. “No,” he said, his voice shaking while he stared at that perfect white line.

That perfect lie.

“We agreed,” Harry said. He reached out again and flipped the glass off the table, sending snow all around them while the glass shattered at his feet.

Draco howled like a wounded animal and jumped to his feet to shove Harry. “What the fuck, Potter?” he yelled. “What is your problem?”

Harry stumbled backwards, but he stayed on his feet. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he hissed at Draco, pissed as hell now. “You brought that fucking guy to our house, our home, and you probably fucked him, didn’t you? And now you’re getting fucking loaded when WE AGREED.”

“Home?!” Draco laughed and his voice was cold and cruel. “This isn’t a fucking home, Harry, it’s a god damned prison being stuck here with you!”

Harry acted like that didn’t hurt.

He acted like it wasn’t the truth.

“Then go,” Harry told him, refusing to break for his entertainment. “Fucking leave if you’re so unhappy.”

Harry’s stomach curled as Draco stared at him as if they were strangers.

As if they hadn’t been together for four years.

Or, maybe, Draco stared at him as if he was seeing the real Harry for the first time.

The Harry who scared away every foster family he had.

The Harry who always yelled and ran his mouth until his uncle snapped and took a swing at him.

The Harry who couldn’t hold a job before he met Pansy.

The Harry that Harry tried to kill with every pill he took.

Draco stepped over to Harry and put his hand on Harry’s chest, his fingers curled over Harry’s collar and he leaned in close. “I don’t want to leave,” he whispered. “Let’s go to our room.”

Harry let out a startled laugh. He’d never been sober while Draco flew in the clouds without him.

Is this how it always went?

From hate to sex?

“No,” Harry said. He stared down in to the silver eyes that he imagined every time he closed his eyes. “Let’s get you a shower and we can talk, alright? Maybe find a meeting?”

Draco’s eyes shuttered and turned to steel and he shoved Harry again. “I don’t want one of those pathetic fucking meetings,” he snarled. “I want to get fucked, you pretentious prick.”

“I said don’t fucking push me,” Harry said. He could feel his temper boiling to the point where he wished that Draco would just take a swing at him just so Harry had an excuse to hit him back.

It was easier to fight when it was just their fists doing the talking. Harry would rather Draco cut his skin with a knife than use his words to cut his heart.

Draco was deadlier with his words. He knew what to say to make Harry bleed until there was nothing left inside of him.

Harry looked around the trashed apartment and wondered how he’d gotten there.

How had he sunk so low to end up here with Draco, arguing over having sex or going to a fucking addicts meeting?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I’m leaving,” Harry snapped. He grabbed his car keys and his jacket. He sent Ron a quick text, telling him he was headed to his place. “I want you fucking gone when I get back, Draco, I mean it. I fucking hate you, I’m sick of this shit!”

They both knew Harry didn’t want him gone, but Harry had to leave or he’d give in and his thirty-nine hours and seventeen minutes of sobriety would be for nothing.

Harry stormed out of the door.

And the next time he saw Draco, he’d been dead.

“I got home the next morning and Draco and that blonde guy were both dead in our bed,” Harry told the members enthralled by his horror story. “The doctors said that whatever batch Draco got from his friend that night had been laced with fentanyl. They told me he died quickly, ‘he wasn’t in pain’ they said. But I googled it.” Harry swallowed and tried to talk around the lump in his throat. “It says it’s a painful way to go. So Draco died, with a stranger beside him, in pain, thinking I hated him.”

Harry cleared his throat and tried to sound nonchalant. “And if I don’t get clean, then it’ll be me next. And… and sometimes I want that.” Harry looked up for a moment to stare sightlessly at the wall across from him. “Sometimes I want it so fucking bad,” he whispered. “It could be so easy, you know? Dead men don’t have anyone to disappoint. There’s no problems when you’re dead, you’re just dead…”

The group leader, the same hazel eyed woman from nearly a year ago, Minnie, spoke up. “But?” she asked. When Harry raised a confused brow at her, she smiled gently at him. “There must be a reason why you’re still here, why you’re still fighting and trying.”

Harry nodded and looked back down to his sunglasses. He bent the arm back and forward. “But there’s no music when you’re dead,” he said. “And all my life the one thing I had through the foster homes, through the shitty jobs and the partners who treated me like crap, was always music. I can’t give it up.” He laughed and it sounded as hollow as he felt as he offered all these strangers his deepest fears and most carefully guarded secrets. “That’s so fucking stupid, isn’t it?” he said. He saw in his reflection that he was crying and he saw the first tear drip from his cheek to the mirrored lenses, blurring his reflection and making him unrecognizable. “I’ve got one fucking reason to live, one reason to be sober, and it’s just fucking music.”

“Mister Potter,” Minnie waited until Harry glanced back up at her. Her eyes were warm and they promised the truth as they held Harry’s grieving gaze evenly. “One reason is enough for now if it keeps you alive.”

When the meeting ended, Harry accepted the card from Minnie with the name of a sponsor she thought he would work well with.

He played with the card as he walked slowly toward the diner a few blocks away.

He hesitated outside the door and pulled his phone out.

Six months, three weeks, one day, and ten hours.

Minnie gave me your number, she said that you were a good sponsor. Can we set up a time to meet and talk about it? I’ve never had a sponsor before.

Severus was a stupid name for an ex-junkie and current sponsor, but he responded before Harry even made it to his booth in the affirmative and told Harry to just let him know when he was free to meet up and talk.

For the first time in years, Harry thought he could finally breathe a little easier.