Merely Players

Class Six - One Voice

‘’OK, chickadees, today begins our work on improvisation!’’ Taylor says ‘improvisation’ like it’s mystical and sparkling. Today, his hair is down and surprisingly vivacious, given how much time to date it’s spent in a bun or ponytail. ‘’We are going to start with the One Voice exercise, so I’ll sort you into groups of four.’’ He whips out his app, and Harry ends up in a group with Kam, Sara, and Mitch, listening sceptically as Taylor explains the exercise.

‘’Each group will take turns responding to prompts, all speaking as one. This exercise is about listening to your partners and communicating with them. You’ll need to find a balance between leading and following, to be,’’ Taylor clenches his hands into fists at his chest, closes his eyes, and inhales ecstatically, ‘’attuned to one another.’’

Well that was nonsense. Harry turns to his group, eyebrows raised. Sara looks similarly apprehensive. Kam looks bored and intimidating, as always, although today’s light purple, embroidered hijab is downright frivolous for Kam.

Harry sighs. ‘’OK, so if he asks, like, what we had for breakfast, we’d be like,’’ Harry pitches his voice deep and vibrating and intones, ‘’Weeee aaaaate–’’ 

Mitch cuts him off, ‘’We’re not the fucking Borg, man.’’

Taken aback, Harry replies, ‘’I have no idea what that means.’’ 

Mitch rolls his eyes. ‘’We’re not, like, answering as a group, because obviously we ’’ he gestures furiously between the four of them, ‘’did not all eat the same breakfast.’’ As an afterthought he adds, ‘’He probably won’t ask what we ate for breakfast.’’

‘’So,’’ Sara pipes up, ‘’what will he ask?’’

Mitch seems truly pained at having to explain this. ‘’We have to, like, all be the same person, like a character. We’ll respond as though we are just one person, who just happens to have four voices.’'

Fortunately for Harry, who still has absolutely no idea what this means – at least, in a muggle context – Draco’s group goes first.

Taylor has them all squeeze together, arms around each other’s shoulders. Draco is crammed between Richard and Lindsay. He looks uncomfortable, but Richard jostles him slightly, and Draco glances at him with a reluctant smile. 

The group stumbles their way through a brief interaction where they meet their date, Taylor – or Annika, as they decide by humming their way through cycles of syllables until they settle on a name – for dinner at a pizzeria.

Harry can’t help but laugh at what a difficult time they’re having finding words. No one seems to want to take the lead, so every word is a buzz of sounds, people trying to follow each other to the next syllable. It’s nonsense, but it’s…fun. It looks fun. Draco is pink with effort and suppressed laughter, his brow furrowed in focus, his eyes darting around all his teammates’ mouths. Next to him, Lindsay is shaking with giggles as she gamely tries to generate responses. Richard keeps coming in a beat later than everyone else, too dependent on reading Draco’s lips to really register what Lindsay and Asha are saying.

When the scene finally ends, with their character storming out of the restaurant – or, given the nature of the exercise, slowly buzzing their way out – the group bows clumsily as one, arms still around each other’s shoulders, as the rest of the class applauds.

Harry’s still a bit too wary to squeeze in the middle of a group of strangers, but he’s not as reluctant as he’d expected to sling one arm around Sara and turn in to face his group as they help an alien stay undercover at a shopping mall.

By the end of their scene, it’s really just he and Mitch following each other, as Sara and Kam have collapsed against each other in laughter. Even Mitch finds a smile as he and Harry finish explaining to the manager of a Primark that their green friend has measles and cannot be held responsible for licking all the fabrics.

Once everyone has had a turn at One Voice, and they’re all ‘nice and loose’, as Taylor says, they spend some time practising projection. Taylor talks a lot about controlling air flow, and the diaphragm, but Harry knows how to speak to a room without yelling, so he mostly tunes it out.

Draco, on the other hand, has always depended on already having attention on him. He can be loud, certainly, but his voice doesn’t carry.

After the third time Taylor cringes and gently tells him his voice is ‘a bit thin’, Draco clenches his jaw and mutters something, waving his hand at his side. Harry feels a twinge of magic, and when Draco next speaks, his voice is full and booming.

‘’Much better, Draco!’’ Taylor says. The rest of the class looks impressed at his progress. Harry is aghast. That sneaky little fucker cast a sonorus in a room full of muggles. Wandless! And to look better in an acting class , which cannot possibly be grounds for breaking the Statute.

Draco is preening under the attention, so Harry takes advantage of his distraction to send his own magic out into the room, feeling for Draco’s. He brushes up against it, waits til Draco speaks again, and pushes . The resulting bellow has the room wincing back. Panicked, Draco casts a quick finite , then glances around wildly.

When his eyes settle on Harry, Harry holds his gaze, then smirks. Draco’s murderous glare is hindered by the fact that he obviously wants to laugh.

After class, Harry makes it a few metres down the sidewalk before Draco catches up with him.

‘’You absolute fucker,’’ Draco says. ‘’I cannot believe you did that.’’

‘’Me?’’ Harry keeps walking, and Draco falls into step beside him. ‘’After all that nonsense about, ‘oh, Harry, you simply must save me, I cannot break the Statute’,’’ Harry makes his voice high-pitched and breathless, then grins. ‘’That was cool, a wandless sonorus ,’’ he admits.

‘’I never imagined it would ever be useful,’’ Draco replies. ‘’Even when I was working on it, I was like, ‘in what world could this possibly be helpful?’’’ He waves an arm grandly, ‘’and here we are.’’

‘’Why did you work on it?’’ Harry asks. ‘’There are so many other spells I can think of that would be more use wandless.’’

Draco doesn’t answer for long enough that Harry looks over at him. They’re ambling more than walking now, giving Harry the chance to take in his profile, the way his chin juts out under his frown, his eyes glaring at the ground. Finally, not looking up, Draco mumbles, ‘’I just had a lot of time to work on wandless…stuff.’’

Harry is immediately flung into the sense-memory of Draco’s hawthorn wand in his hand, the magic of it familiar yet foreign. ‘’Ah,’’ he responds cleverly.

Draco dares a sideways glance. ‘’You can’t just do whatever spells you want, you know. You have to follow a path, get them down in an order that makes sense, so they build on each other. Sonorus was just…a step in the path.’’

Harry nods, lost in the idea of being trapped in the Manor with Voldemort and the Death Eaters without a wand, frantically learning as much wandless magic as he could to build up some kind of defense.

Draco has slowed, drawn in on himself. ‘’Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have–’’

‘’I was going to grab a coffee,’’ Harry interrupts.

Draco’s eyes snap to his. ‘’O…kay?’’

‘’Do you want to come?’’

‘’Oh. Oh!’’ Draco’s eyes are wide. ‘’I, ah, yes, sure, okay. Yes, let’s…get coffee.’’ He seems to gather some poise, and adds, ‘’are you planning to choose the place? Because, no offence, you seem more like a ‘cheapest and nearest coffee’ guy than one of, shall we say, discerning taste…’’ his mouth twists into a mocking smile.

Harry rolls his eyes, ‘’Sure, Draco, go ahead and find us a wildly overpriced cafe that will talk to me about where the beans are from and how they were roasted for half an hour before they give me my damn coffee.’’

‘’Excellent,’’ Draco beams, ‘’I will .’’

In the end, the half hour is actually spent with Draco whirling in and out of cafes as he checks their menus and sniffs the air in what he claims is ‘discernment’ but Harry argues is ‘pretension’. Finally, he pronounces one up to his standards and marches up to the counter.

‘’Oh, hi, Draco,’’ the barista greets him.

Harry stops in his tracks, and Draco throws a smirk over his shoulder. Harry shakes his head in admiration. That sneaky little fucker .

On the bright side, Draco orders for them both and includes what turns out to be an absolutely incredible raspberry and white chocolate scone for them to share.

Voice still wobbling a bit with laughter, Draco says, ‘’I came here two weeks before the first class. I was nervous about finding my way on muggle transportation, so I practised a bunch of times, and then I really liked it here, so I kept coming back.’’

‘’So this is where you recover from being a mushroom and describing people’s clothes and becoming attuned ?’’ Harry asks.

‘’Merlin, I forgot that we were mushrooms,’’ Draco groans. ‘’I cannot believe this is a six-week course. How can there be more acting exercises? Surely we know all the acting in all the world.’’

‘’You’d think six classes would be enough,’’ Harry agrees. ‘’I mean, we spoke in one voice ,’’ he says reverently, then chuckles. ‘’We are totally ready for this advert, might as well quit now.’’ Even as he says it, he realises…he doesn’t want to quit. He wants to keep attending this pointless acting class in its dingy studio and, he doesn’t know, see what happens.

‘’But,’’ he sighs dramatically, ‘’I learned a long time ago never to second guess Hermione Granger, so I guess we’re in it for the long haul.’’

Draco’s smile of agreement is bright, and Harry gazes into it and thinks, yeah, he could stand to wait and see what happens.

Draco Malfoy

Harry how did the Internet get this image of you?

Harry

wut?

draco that’s like….some random white guy

in a tie

i have literally never worn a tie

…..

gdi i just clicked on it and saw the text

Draco Malfoy

🤣🤣🤣

Friday night, Harry tosses and turns with nightmares. They don’t even offer the dignity of being about the horrors of war; they’re all mundane shit like running late to catch a train or trying to dodge light jinxes, but they’re steeped in terror.

Around 3am, he gives up on sleep entirely and shuffles down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. He considers doing some cleaning – might as well make use of this time – but a look around at the dingy room makes him reconsider. He cups his warm mug in both hands and shuffles in sock feet through the house, blinking away the grit of exhaustion.

Each room seems more depressing than the last: the doxy-eaten curtains, the cobwebbed corners, the weight of generations of pureblood bigotry. As he turns from the sitting room to the corridor, he barks his shin on the ornate, uncomfortable settee that he is certain had been shoved against the far wall. His tea sloshes out of his mug, scalding his hand, as he hops about in agony. When he clatters into the troll leg umbrella stand – the bane of his existence, why is it even still here – he gives up on the tea and flings the mug to the floor, crashing down among the umbrellas and swearing loudly.

He lays on the floor, considering. It hadn’t felt this oppressive when Ron and Hermione had lived here. It had still been dingy and dark and cursed as hell, but it had felt…theirs. It had felt like they could reclaim Grimmauld Place, and the entire magical world, and make it all their own. Together.

But, of course, Harry reflected bitterly, they aren’t really together. Not the way Ron and Hermione are together. They’re building a new life, without him. They’ve moved in together; they’re both working full-time; they’re probably going to get married ; and where will he be? Still in this dusty old tomb of a house – a house that loathes him – doing fucking…fucking acting classes with Draco fucking Malfoy for lack of anything better.

He lays there, stewing, amidst the umbrellas and the cooling tea and the shards of mug, staring up at the shadowed ceiling of a house that he hates and that hates him right back, until sunlight creeps in through the windows. He watches the sun move farther and farther into the room, tallying the hours and wondering how many he can waste before the light reaches him.

Then, because he has to, he forces himself up, vanishes the mess, and kicks the umbrellas and their gruesome stand underneath the settee that had ambushed him. He makes himself some toast, and he takes a shower. He does all of the things he is supposed to do, a functional adult who can take care of himself, and then...what. 

He settles on the overstuffed armchair and glares at the settee. What is the fucking point ? After a minute, he stomps over to the cupboard and grabs a beer. It’s late enough for a beer. It’s not like he’s got anything else to do.

Eventually, he levers himself off the armchair and snags another beer on his way to the kitchen. Grimly, he prepares his sad little chicken and veg for one, because he’d bought the ingredients and he’s hungry.

He knows he should turn in early, but his unmade bed seems so unappealing, and he doesn’t want to spend another night twisted up in his sheets, or staring at his bedroom walls as he counts breaths to slow his racing heart. At some point, he drifts off on the godforsaken settee.

The next morning, he feels absolutely foul. His head is clogged, his eyes are still gritty and dry, and there is a crick in his neck where it was propped up against the arm of the settee. His mouth doesn’t bear thinking about, and while he knows he should brush his teeth, upstairs is so far. He’ll have some tea first, get started on the carrots Molly had helped him with, then go upstairs and–

Bollocks. His mug. He’d shattered his favourite mug yesterday. Harry clenches his jaw and grabs one of the mugs left there by the Order – a set of thin, navy mugs with a flared lip. He feels faintly ridiculous for being in such a sulk about a cup, but at the same time, what a useless mug shape. He should throw them out; they’re the sort of thing someone picks up without even thinking about it, not intending for them to be used all these years later. They’re not meant to make a home.

He pulls out the carrots and starts peeling as he waits for the kettle to boil. Molly had taught him the spells, but he usually finds it grounding to do the prep with his hands. Today being what it is, and his sleep-dulled reflexes being what they are, he nicks his knuckles twice. The carrots are peeled and chopped by the time the tea is ready, so he sips it for a while and stares dully at the oil and honey and thyme he’s pulled out for seasoning. Once he’s finished his tea, he tosses it all together, throws it in the oven, and drags himself upstairs to shower and shave. 

He’s exhausted enough that he drowses a bit in the hot shower, then flops onto his bed in his towel and dozes off.

He wakes to the smell of smoke, with his sheets uncomfortably damp under him. He races down the stairs to pull the carrots out of the oven – they’re a worrying combination of charred and caramelised – then pounds back up the stairs to throw on some clothes. There is no time to shave. He shoves the ruined carrots into the sink and apparates to the Burrow.

Teddy is the first to greet him on his arrival. Even on such a shit day, Harry can summon a smile for his godson. Molly hugs him tightly and waves off his apologies over the carrots – ‘’your first batch was wonderful, Harry; I’m sure this was a fluke’’ – and Bill ropes him into an argument about the new Comet Burst – ‘’Why would a broom even need a flaming tail?’’ Harry asks, exasperated – and by the time the food is served, Harry is able to enjoy it.

After lunch, Harry sits with Ron and Hermione as they listen, amused, to Teddy’s life updates. After detailing who among his classmates is his friend and who is naughty, Teddy eagerly adds, ‘’And in school, we learned about comedy helpers!’’

‘’Comedy…helpers?’’ Harry asks dubiously, picturing a man in a spangled suit handing a comedian a rubber chicken.

‘’Community,’’ Andromeda mouths from where she is chatting to Molly and Fleur.

‘’Yeah,’’ Teddy continues, ‘’like Uncle Ron is an Auror, and he helps keep people safe! And Aunt Hermione, she is writing rules to help people not get mad about doing different things in the war. Because that’s all over now.’’ Teddy nods to himself in satisfaction at this pat summary. ‘’And that’s called oo-maty .’’

From Harry’s other side, George snorts. ‘’Oh, that’s all over now, is it?’’ he asks bitterly.

‘’George,’’ Ron cautions wearily.

George raises his hands in surrender, ‘’No, you’re right, of course.’’ He looks meaningfully at Harry. ‘’It’s all behind us.’’

‘’What do YOU do, Uncle Harry?’’ Teddy continues blithely. ‘’Are you a comedy helper?’’

‘’Oh, I, ah…not really, Teddy,’’ Harry responds.

‘’Why not?’’

George cuts in, saving him. ‘’I am, Teddy. I am a comedy helper AND a community helper. In fact, I have some community comedy I could use some help with right now; want to come with me?’’

The last time Teddy had gotten to help his Uncle George, he’d emitted sparks for three days. He scrambles eagerly to his feet. ‘’Let’s go!’’

‘’Should we…stop them?’’ Hermione asks halfheartedly. Harry and Ron don’t respond. ‘’I mean, we should ,’’ she says, settling back into her chair. After a moment of silence, she turns to Harry.

‘’So. Harry,’’ she begins, so casually that there is no possibility it is. ‘’What DO you want to do to be a comedy helper?’’

‘’Subtle, Hermione.’’

‘’The Aurors would still take you in a minute, mate,’’ Ron adds. 

‘’And the United Civic Reconciliation Action Project could always use your support,’’ Hermione adds eagerly.

Harry’s head still feels wooly, and his eyes are burning, and the two of them have clearly planned this out in their cosy little home, sat there together and discussed how they are going to talk to Harry about how he is fucking up his life.

‘’How is good old UCRAP going, Hermione?’’ Harry asks snidely. ‘’Got all that bothersome war stuff stitched up yet?’’

‘’Well, no one has been cursed in the street this week; that’s certainly an improvement,’’ she replies, bristling. ‘’And you know we prefer not to use acronyms.’’

‘’Oh, excellent,’’ Harry can feel the blood pounding in his ears. ‘’Thank god all the Death Eaters are safe to do their bloody shopping.’’

‘’Oi,’’ Ron interjects.

‘’No, I know,’’ Harry can’t seem to stop himself. ‘’You’re there, too, keeping everyone safe. Never mind that magical humans are still engaging in literal slavery , which I think you used to have some thoughts about, Hermione? But no, no one can stop jinxing each other in the street long enough for you to do anything about that , can they?’’

‘’At least I’m doing something ,’’ Hermione whispers angrily. ‘’At least I’m not sulking around all day, rotting away in Grimmauld Place like I’m trying to turn into another Sirius Black.’’

Harry rears his head back as though he’s been struck. Ron’s eyes go wide, and he puts a hand of caution on Hermine’s arm, but she shakes it off.

‘’No, you know what? I’m sick of this. I’m sick to death of coddling you, Harry James Potter. Fine, I don’t mean to work on the United Civic Reconciliation Action Project for the rest of my life, but right now, it’s what I can do, and I won’t accept criticism from a– a– from a layabout !’’

Ron mouths, ‘’Layabout?’’ to Harry, then remembers that they’re in an argument. ‘’Look, can we all just–’’ he begins, conciliatory, but Harry stands abruptly.

‘’I’ve got to go. You two can continue this at home.’’ He makes the last two words as scathing as he can manage.

Class 7 - What About Wands

Harry’s dark, miserable mood is still hovering over him in acting class the next day. He glowers through Taylor’s explanation of the improv work they’ll be doing; it’s not like it matters ; it’s all part of Hermione and Ron’s ra-ra unity plan to save the world with adverts and togetherness and hugs.

‘’So basically, ‘yes and’ means that you don’t ever block what someone else is doing; instead, you respond to anything your partner contributes to the scene, and then you build upon it,’’ Taylor explains. ‘’Blocking can also include things like introducing imbalance into a scene – for example, we try not to use guns in improv, because it gives the character wielding it too much power over other characters. That and, you know, Chekhov’s gun,’’ Taylor waves a hand like they all, of course, know what he means by that.

‘’Harry and Draco, you’re up first.’’

Draco flashes Harry a smile, but Harry ignores it. He’s here to fucking learn how to fucking act so he can be in Hermione’s fucking UCRAP bullshit campaign advert because apparently that’s all that matters in the fucking world.

‘’So there’s no guns,’’ Harry clarifies, ‘’but I could do like…knives? How is that any better?’’

Taylor nods. ‘’The gun is just an example of the type of thing. Try to avoid guns and knives, Harry, in improv and in life.’’

Harry sneers at him. ‘’OK, so what about….wands.’’

Draco flashes a warning look, but Harry’s blood is pumping in his ears and he refuses to take note.

Taylor looks at him in confusion. ‘’Like…magic wands?’’ He chuckles lightly, ‘’ Magic wands aren’t really in the same category as guns and knives, are they?’’ Harry feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. ‘’Go right ahead.’’

‘’So how do we…start?’’ Draco asks nervously.

‘’That’s up to you,’’ Taylor smiles, as though that is any kind of answer at all.

Draco’s eyes flick to Harry’s once more, but Harry doesn’t need Draco Malfoy to confirm how annoying Taylor is being. He keeps his gaze forward.

After a moment, Draco walks onstage. ‘’Gosh, this is a lot of cabbages,’’ he says, holding his arms out like a hug.

Harry whips out his (pretend) wand. ‘’accio cabbages,’’ he calls.

Draco pretends to let go of all of his cabbages, then clearly realises he shouldn’t have known what accio means. 

‘’I don’t…erm…how did you get all my cabbages?’’ Draco flails.

Harry pretends to spell them to the side. Draco swallows visibly, then kneels as though rummaging in a box on the floor and hopelessly says, ‘’Well I have some lovely aubergine…’’

Harry stalks toward Draco, stopping a few feet away. He has no idea what to say. He hates this. He hates this, and he’s crap at it. He hates that Draco is going along with this, like cabbages matter, like pretending to have cabbages will fix how fucked-up the magical world is.

‘’He is coming,’’ Harry hears himself say.

Draco breathes in, then asks, ‘’Who is coming? The aubergine man?’’

On some level, Harry knows that Draco’s not who he’s angry at. Draco didn’t break his mug. Draco didn’t move out on him. Draco did kind of fuck things up, but mostly, Draco’s sitting there with a gormless, open expression, and Harry wants someone to hurt.

‘’The Dark Lord.’’

Draco falters, looks up at Harry desperately. ‘Don’t break the Statute,’ the look says. ‘Don’t bring Voldemort into this muggle room,’ it says. ‘Please don’t.’ 

‘’Is…’’ Draco takes another breath. ‘’Is the Dark Lord going to buy my aubergines?’’

‘’The Dark Lord,’’ Harry stalks toward him, ‘’Is going to destroy your aubergines, and then he is going to kill you.’’

Draco glances around the room. Harry remembers Taylor telling them not to lose focus and leans in closer. His toes are less than a foot from Draco’s knees. He curls down, almost tender:

‘’He is going to ruin you.’’

Draco’s eyes snap to Harry’s, still pleading. ‘’Please,’’ he says. Nothing more, nothing for the scene.

Pitilessly, Harry sneers, ‘’Please him .’’

Draco’s eyes flicker shut. ‘’Please. Don’t make me.’’

‘’No one is making you,’’ Harry snarls. ‘’You do it to yourself.’’

Draco’s gaze snaps back up to Harry’s. ‘’I don’t…Harry. Please. Please, Harry.’’

Harry raises his pretend wand. ‘’Crucio !’’ he cries.

Draco rears back, falling out of his kneeling position so he is lying back on his elbows. He skitters until he is standing again, and takes a moment to gather himself,

His eyes are wide with hurt and betrayal. He turns and flees the room.

As he leaves, Harry feels victorious. Of course he feels victorious. He didn’t do anything wrong. Draco was a Death Eater. Who knows how many cruciati he cast, and these were pretend. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out; isn’t that the saying?

Breathing heavily, he straightens up to a bunch of confused faces. Harry stares around at all of them until finally, Taylor says, ‘’ooooookay?’’ from the side of the room, then, ‘’okay,’’ more firmly, ‘’that was…er…improv can certainly be intense, and it’s hard to know what’s going on between the actors on stage.’’ Warming to this idea, he continues, ‘’Harry and Draco obviously had a strong connection in that scene, and the next thing to work on, for them, is communicating understanding of that narrative to the audience.’’ He looks around the room. ‘’Who wants to go next?’’

A cluster of terrified expressions greet him.

What follows is the nicest, kindest, most banal series of improv sketches Harry can imagine. Granted, he isn’t an improv expert, but Taylor keeps going on about ‘pushing the envelope,’ and Harry has to assume there is more to it than polite offers of tea and enthusiastic well wishes. It seems like no one is prepared to risk what had happened with Draco.

Harry participates in a few more scenes, each very careful and gentle. Draco doesn’t come back.

Tuesday, 15.32

Harry

ok i might have taken that a bit too far

i had a crap weekend

Class 8 -Monologues

Harry shows up to Thursday’s class feeling an odd mix of anxious and self-righteous. He gets to the studio ten minutes early and hovers anxiously around the corner, not creeping, just quietly gathering himself and watching his classmates arrive.

Eventually, he has to slump into the studio. He’s a few minutes late, so Taylor has already begun corralling everyone to begin the warmup.

‘’Harry!’’ he enthuses, ‘’good to see you. Today, we are going to warm up our voices and then get our monologues .’’ He is breathless with excitement, which is odd given that he must have known what they’d be doing.

Harry meanders through the vocal warmups in a fog, one eye on the door. It doesn’t open. Taylor hauls a massive sheaf of papers from his bag and opens his trusty app to randomly assign them monologues, and Harry can’t stand it anymore. 

‘’Is Draco not coming today?’’ Everyone turns to look at him, and Harry falters a bit. ‘’Only– well, he’s not here, so…won’t there be an extra monologue? How will he know which one he’s doing?’’

Taylor tosses his hair and assures Harry that he has more than enough monologues. ‘’And don’t worry about your classmate. Like the rest of you, Draco is on his own dramatic journey.’’

‘’Now, let’s see…’’

Harry’s assigned monologue is greeted with smiles of recognition: ‘Aragorn at the Black Gate.’ He takes one look at it and feels his anxiety rising; he’s had more than enough of battles and rousing his friends to fight. When Sara enviously remarks that she’d love to get a chance to do something like that – ‘’I’m so little; no one ever thinks to give me big battle speeches’’ – Harry swaps her with eager relief.

He’s never heard of the play the new monologue from – and good lord, what an unwieldy title – but it’s quiet and unlikely to drive anyone to their death.

‘’Once you familiarise yourself with your monologues,’’ Taylor says, ‘’I want you to consider Stanislavski’s challenge of ‘the Magic If’. Find whatever context you can for your character in the material you have, then fill in the blanks by asking, ‘...what if?’’’

What if what ? Harry wonders. He can’t even make frustrated eye contact with Draco. What’s more, he bets there actually IS a ‘magic If’ in the actually magical sense, and he bets Draco would text him about it later. If he were here. Which he is not.

Harry glares down at his monologue. 

Probably they would have revealed you as the fool you are.

Unfit for human understanding. Unfit for human conversation. Unfit for human anything.

Well, he doesn’t have to wonder ‘what if?’ about that.

Harry tries to beg off from joining the group for drinks that night, but he can’t really think of an excuse – “I feel weird that Draco wasn’t here” doesn’t seem like it will cut it – so he tags along, nurses a lager for about 40 minutes, and ducks out as soon as he reasonably can. Which basically means as soon as Sara and Brent are both away from the table and won’t convince him to stay. 

He waves at Kam – she gives him a sardonic nod and says, ‘’Let Draco know we missed him,’’ which Harry has to assume is sarcastic – finds an alley, and apparates home.

Thursday 18.44

Harry

hey draco

r u ok?

u werent in class today

Thursday 20.51

Harry

im sorry about the other day

that was rly out of line

Harry finds himself a bit at loose ends on Friday. It’s not like he’d been expecting to hang out with Draco or anything, just…well, he’s at loose ends. Looser than usual, which is saying something, since at this point, his days sort of slide one into the next, with periodic appointments.

Harry owes a lot of apologies, right now, is the thing, and that can’t be a good sign. He had a quick call with Hermione on Wednesday, and she seemed mollified if still annoyed. She’d passed the phone to Ron, but Harry never knows if Ron hears anything said over the phone. So while he’s officially on good terms with his best friends, he won’t feel settled until he spends some time with them in person on Saturday.

And then there’s Draco. At this point, Harry can admit that he was horrible to Draco. He’d even admit it to Draco, quite gladly, but of course, Draco isn’t responding to his texts.

What he really needs, Harry thinks, marching over to the fireplace, is to talk some of this through with a friend he doesn’t owe an apology to.

‘’Hey, Nev?’’ Harry calls as he emerges from the floo. The flat is oddly quiet, given that the floo was open; he pauses, wondering if Ginny and Neville had forgotten to lock the floo before they left, in which case, he has kind of broken into their house.

Before he can begin to worry about what Weasley penalties he might be about to incur for accidental breaking and entering, Neville hustles into the living room, followed by a tiny Asian woman with a sharp bob, a rumpled dress, and a murderous glare.

‘’...Parkinson?’’ Harry says in disbelief.

‘’Potter,’’ she seems disgusted yet unsurprised to see him, which seems rather unfair given that this is his friends’ flat, and also she is the disgusting one.

Wordlessly, Harry turns to Neville in pursuit of an explanation. It is immediately obvious that he won’t be getting one. He turns back to Pansy fucking Parkinson , who asks, ‘’What do you want , Potter?’’ like she is the one being astounded and inconvenienced in this scenario.

Harry bristles. ‘’I want to talk to my friend, Neville. My friend that I wasn’t a dick to through all of school? Neville. I want to talk to him.’’

Neville has gained some equanimity and inserts himself between the two of them, which is unnecessary given that Pansy is still standing with one hand on her hip and a supercilious expression, and Harry is obviously not going to punch her.

He would hex her, and he could easily do that around Neville.

‘’Hey, Harry, what’s up?’’ Neville asks calmly, like there isn’t a traitorous, conniving Slytherin in his home .

‘’Neville,’’ Harry makes an effort to match his tone, ‘’I notice that there is a traitorous, conniving Slytherin in your home.’’

‘’Circe’s pig trough,’’ Pansy mutters.

‘’Is there?’’ Neville responds, still mild as anything, ‘’because the only person I see is Pansy, and while she is a Slytherin,’’ he pauses, casts her a fond look, ‘’and perhaps a smidge conniving, I don’t think she’s traitorous , Harry,’’ some exasperation seeps into the final words.

Harry deflates. ‘’No, fine, you’re right. Sorry, Parkinson. I’m sure you’re conniving in a very loyal way.’’ He turns toward the floo. ‘’I’ll head out now, and leave you to,’’ he makes a face, waving a hand to encompass what he now notices are some VERY rumpled clothes, ‘’it.’’

‘’Absolutely not,’’ Pansy shrills. Harry turns around, surprised – he notes that Neville is similarly surprised. 

Pansy glares, hand still on her hip – how has she held this pose the entire time? – and says, ‘’I’m not finished making you miserable.’’

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘’Oh, well great, then I’ll definitely stick around, ta.’’

‘’Why did you come here, Potter?’’ Pansy’s voice is suddenly syrupy sweet, which does not seem like a good sign.

‘’To…to talk to Neville?’’

‘’Mmm,’’ Pansy looks at her perfectly-manicured nails, testing her thumb against the point of her ring finger. ‘’About what?’’

Harry glares at her in disbelief. ‘’None of your business?’’

Pansy doesn’t look up. ‘’So you didn’t want someone to absolve you of having behaved monstrously toward my dear friend?’’

Fuck.

Harry had – unbelievably, Harry had kind of forgotten that Draco and Pansy are friends. Like, close friends. Like, probably she knows where he is and whether he is planning on coming back to acting class or responding to Harry’s texts.

Pansy’s looking at him now, that’s for sure. She still has one hand on her hip, the other held aloft, and her head has swivelled up from her examination of her nails, so it has an annoyed, unsettling tilt. 

Harry glances to Neville for assistance, but Neville is openly admiring Pansy’s theatrical pose. He is obviously compromised as a Gryffindor ally.

Harry has been gaping silently long enough that Pansy relaxes in dismay. ‘’Honestly,’’ she mumbles, ‘’entirely wasted on him.’’

She looks him in the eye. ‘’Are you sorry?’’ she asks.

‘’I, er…yes,’’ Harry admits shamefacedly. ‘’To him and to…other people. I was, er– I was not the best this week.’’

Pansy waves an impatient hand. ‘’I don’t care about that. I’m not asking if you’re sorry you were less-than-heroic or whatever.’’ She steps closer to him, eyes narrowed. ‘’Are you sorry you hurt Draco ?’’

Harry swallows. He is sorry he hurt Draco, but it feels like saying so would be admitting more than he’s ready to right now. 

Still, Pansy is losing patience, and it’s true, so, ‘’Yes,’’ Harry says quietly. 

Pansy nods, face still screwed up in scrutiny. ‘’That’s good to know.’’ She turns around and saunters back to Neville’s room, throwing one hand up in dismissal. ‘’Now get out of here; we’re busy.’’

Neville grins at Harry, then follows her, walking backwards, arms spread wide helplessly. ‘’We’re busy, Harry, what can you do?’’

Harry rolls his eyes and turns back to the floo.

Friday, 16.18

Harry

look its interhouse unity

all making toast

The next morning, Harry is overjoyed to get to continue his apology tour. 

He meets Hermione and Ron outside the British Museum. Hermione had recently gone on a tear about the lack of educational resources in the magical world, and now, somehow, museums and educational outreach have been folded into the United Civic Reconciliation Action Project mission – Harry assiduously avoids acronyms, even in his mind, given his current status of conscience-stricken penitent.

Hermione gives each of them a notebook to ‘record any thoughts’. 

‘’This is really only a scouting mission,’’ she explains. ‘’We’ll have to take a much more official approach to ascertaining what sorts of educational approaches we’ll want to implement, which aspects of magical history and culture to highlight, that sort of thing. Still, it’s good to have some basic ideas to start with.’’

She gives Harry a pointed look. ‘’That is, unless anyone would like to raise any objections about this being a pointless distraction?’’

Harry winces. ‘’No, this all seems…’’ he looks at Hermione, the bushy mass of her hair tied back with a colourful scarf; at Ron, lanky arms holding the pen and notebook ready in front of him like he might need to start scribbling at a moment’s notice.

‘’This all seems really good.’’

Hermione nods in satisfaction, then gestures toward a room off the Great Court. ‘’The Enlightenment Gallery seems like a good place to start,’’ she says. ‘’It grapples with some of the more complicated aspects of British muggle history – specifically, empire and slavery – and, well,’’ she gives Harry a wry look before turning to the first placard, ‘’maybe you weren’t entirely wrong about the fact that the United Civic Reconciliation Action Project has been missing a couple of crucial details.’’

Harry watches her reading every word of the very first placard, knowing that she fully intends to scrutinise the entire museum and is suffused with love for her and her nerdiness and her easy forgiveness.

‘’If it helps,’’ Harry offers, ‘’I wasn’t only a dick to the two of you.’’

‘’It does help, Harry, thank you,’’ Hermione replies seriously, still observing the placard. ‘’I always feel much better knowing you’re taking your one-man moody arsehole show to the world.’’

Harry grins. A Hermione who is swearing is a Hermione who has forgiven him. 

‘’I was thinking of taking it on tour, actually.’’

‘’Oh, can I open for you?’’ Ron asks eagerly. ‘’Hermione was complimenting my whinging earlier, said I really had something.’’

After a few hours, Ron insists that they take a break to eat lunch. Hermione agrees easily, as this will give them the opportunity to ‘compare notes and start fresh’.

They sit in a row along the low wall, eating their sandwiches and discussing everything they’ve seen. Ron, especially, is gobsmacked by all the objects and narratives on display. ‘’Why don’t we know anything about African magic?’’ he demands. ‘’I’ve always assumed it was the same, but why would they use Latin? And why do the wealthy pureblood families have all the cool artefacts?’’

He pauses, struck. ‘’Imagine how much easier it would have been to find all the horcruxes if they had just been in a museum !’’

Harry and Hermione nod in agreement, but Ron is so overcome by this observation that he stares vacantly ahead.

After a moment, Harry and Hermione lean around him, snickering, and pick up the rest of the conversation. Ron doesn’t speak again until Hermione is explaining,

‘’You know that’s the point of the ‘Bettering Engagement Legislation to Eliminate Normalised Distrust’. It’ll help people like Malfoy, sure, but especially younger Slytherins, or people who weren’t involved in the war but are tarred by the same brush.’’

‘’Speaking of Malfoy,’’ Ron puts in, eyes twinkling, ‘’how is that bellend handling acting classes?’’

Before Harry can really get into a panic at the idea of explaining all that , Hermione whips her head around to glare at Ron. ‘’Bellend has two L’s, Ronald. TWO.’’ She whips back around and marches off to the next exhibit, nose in the air. ‘’You’d think you, of all people, would know that.’’

Harry follows her, laughing. ‘’ Really , Ron, you can be so childish,’’ he says loudly, slinging an arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

‘’Suck-up,’’ Ron mutters, slouching after them.

Sunday, 22.11

Draco

This is 100% a transfiguration mistake, right?