Chapter 2
2
Harry is not a happy man these days.
For one, he had the misfortune of being considered the man who had corrupted Draco by the entire Malfoy clan and all their auxiliaries, and what a horrifyingly huge network that turned out to be. There was a Malfoy, Pseudo-Malfoy, wannabes or bootlickers in every restaurant he walked into and every Quiditch game he attended. There was a Malfoy connection in every hierarchy of every organization he joined, even the muggle ones, by some default or other. If had he thought however, that life after Draco would be become any easier, well, Harry had found himself very much mistaken.
Thus it was quite the usual sight to see him slouching around London with a certain dissatisfied mug, and picked upon by her delighted inhabitants as he went around his sundry errands.
One such establishment that Harry unavoidably had to frequent was his grocer, and the typical conversation between them usually went like this:
“Oi, its that scoundrel who left my poor godson! How dare you show your face here!”
“Good day to you too, madam shopkeeper,” Harry glowered. He yanked a couple of jars from the shelves without really looking to see what they were and grabbed a loaf of bread.
“You work of the devil! I saw you there today, pretending to be there for him! Oh I saw, you!”
“Did you enjoy the service?” Harry said politely though gritted teeth. “Pity about the thunderstorm, and the church roof caving in like that.”
“A sign sure from the almighty above for your contaminating presence in His holy eyes!” howled the shopkeeper, getting worked up.
Harry dumped the goods on her counter. “Good god, woman, will you sell your wares already?”
“You are a sinner, you are, screwing my poor godson the wrong way and then leaving him in such a state! Tis’ you who turned him into –that-”
Harry as usual, could never keep a lid on his substantial temper. “AS I KEEP TELLING EVERY BARMY OLD BAT LIKE YOU WHO HARRASES ME, DRACO WAS QUEER BEFORE WE HOOKED UP!!”
She stared at him, as if shocked by the suggestion that somebody like Draco could ever be queer on his own accord, then said slowly- “You leave my godson alone. He’s a good boy. He’s a poor homeless orphan, and easy to be preyed upon by likes of you.”
“Madam, your poor homeless orphan is the decadent, playboy heir to half of bloody London, and that’s theonly reason why he’s your precious, cuddly goodson!” Harry shouted, yanking open the door. “Good day!” Plaster bits and cement trickled out of the doorsill when he slammed it violently on his way out, and stalked back to his apartment with an armful of jars and flattened bread.
By the time he arrived back at his muggle apartment, there were eleven answering machine messages he'd forgotten to look at, and the smell of expired coffee pervading the house. His boots squelched even on the rug, liberally pumping out muddy street water on the sable rug Draco purchased before he moved out and likely forgotten all about. Rainwater dripped from his jacket sleeves, plastered his hair into a black skullcap, and dripped into his eyes.
He goes into the kitchen, lights a cigarette; and moves it from one corner of his mouth to the other. He shoved the jars into the nearest cabinet. The dripping bread is tossed into the garbage bag, there is no bin.
He walked into the bathroom, looking for towels, but the only ones available lied in a decomposing heap under the sink that even he knew better than to touch. The toilet paper role because a makeshift sponge for his dripping head, and got discarded into the sink along with his clothes and shoes. He stared at the mirror, picking out the bits of toilet paper that stuck in his face and hair. He knew he wasn’t very good looking, even less photogenic, and coupled with his bad temper and propensity to snap at old shopkeepers where he brought his bread, there wasn’t much to endear him to the London crowd than when he had been a gangly fresh faced lad at Hogwarts, exploring the magical world he just inherited. His nose had been broken once- by the man who’s funeral he was coerced into attending today- and Lucius was not a man to mince just words when it concerned the issue of his only son and heir declaring hat he was in love with another man.
Naturally, Draco enjoyed all the controversy, and Harry reaped all the consequences.
Their relationship had lasted all of six years, which surprised everyone- especially the people involved in it, and ended amicably enough a few months ago. Draco had screamed, shouted, cried, and threw every priceless and irreplaceable heirloom within Allohomara, but seeing that that wasn’t anymore different from one of his usual passion-spurred moments, Harry was initially inclined to think that he’d gotten off lightly.
Of course, he had to revise that opinion when a four page bill arrived for the blonde’s ‘recuperation package’ at the Germanium’s Pure-Blood Ultra Transcendence Gay Spa & Retreat- when quizzed, Draco had told him that the masseuse also specialised in crystal healing, tarot cards, and made a mean Lemongrass cocktail.
On hindsight, Harry realised they had been steadily becoming friends all along, although with Draco, it was hard to tell what his definition of ‘friend’ was. So far he was beginning to suspect that being in a relationship with Draco was only slightly worse than being friends, especially since he still found himself running the blonde’s errands and putting up with his hysterical, larger-than-life and often irritating personality quirks.
Plus, now there was no more sex. He was really getting the shorter end of the stick here.
He shrugs and wonders idly if he should make a fresh pot of coffee or check his messages, but it all seemed so pointless, so he strips and crawls into bed instead.
He didn’t know what time the yelling at the door woke him up, but he did realise that his bed sheets needed washing when the first drawn gasp of air as he came awake left him choking in stale smoke and sweat. He yanked the untucked bedsheet out and wrapped it into a makeshift towel; it was a lot faster than hunting for a clean pair of shorts.
There was nothing in his doorway, and he was about to utter a few choice phrases when a discreet cough directed his attention below, to the snootiest looking house elf he ever saw wearing a familiar and unwelcomed silver dragon crest on his pillowcase: which was saying something, considering the amount of times he’s been to Draco’s place.
“Master Harry’s presence is commanded at once by Master Malfoy,” announced the elf as he snapped to attention, pillowcase tassels jiggling on both sides like silent chimes.
“Is that so?” Harry drawled. “Well you can tell Master Malfoy that he can bloody sod off.”
Harry never thought he’d see the day where even a house elf would look at him as if he was something vile under their fingernails, but life apparently thought he was ripe for it, at age the tender age of twenty three.
“Master Malfoy…” the house elf actually blanched, as if it was costing him something vital to continue. “Requires your help most urgently.”
“What, did he break another nail? Brought the wrong brand of face power?”
“Stupid Harry Potter!” screamed the house elf. “You must come now, with Slinker, before its too late!”
Harry’s face darkened. “Look buddy. I’ve had a really bad day here and I’m just itching to use you as a punching bag. Now tell me what the fuck Draco wants.”
“Does Harry Potter think that Slinker will go to him unless he has no choice?” Slinker spat on the floor, indicating exactly what he thought of his master’s choice of partners.
Harry was just about to grab his scrawny neck and break it when the elf wrung his hand, then tumbled forward and bawled into the bedsheet that Harry was wrapped up in. “Master is being HAUNTED!”
“By what?” Harry asked, eyeing Slinker’s dribble snoot and tears all over his only clean bedsheet with no small amount of disgust. He had been hoping to squeeze another nights use out of it.
“A terrible ghost,” Slinker said, sniffing. “Master is beside himself.”
“Master is always beside himself,” Harry muttered with mutinous resignation. “Let me get into some clothes first.’