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bottom_dracoTitle: Glory and Tarnish: Remains of the Past
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crazyparakiss
Pairing: Harry/Draco (Eventual)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,750
Summary: Harry swears he can hear a voice coolly whisper within his mind, A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways – by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.
Warning(s): Whores, drag, angst, emotional suffering, hero complexes, AU(but still magical despite how it appears) slash, and eventual sex (if there are more later I will add them)
Beta: The amazingtari__sue!!
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
Prologue
Chapter One
1.
It is toward the end of the sixth month, when Harry finds Millie sprawled out on the sofa eating crisps for the fifth day in a row, that he becomes fed up.
He is barely across the threshold, stressed from all the crying kids in the clinic receiving their flu shots, and the sight of his living room in utter chaos is enough to send him over the edge.
Hanging his white coat up on a hook by the door and toeing his loafers off on the mat he breathes in, trying to calm himself before he starts a confrontation. Walking up behind the sofa he is able to see that she is still in the pyjamas she wore the night before and that her hair hasn’t been brushed. She is so absorbed in Spongebob Squarepants that she doesn’t take notice of his presence. The ridiculous characters on screen are playing out a ‘married squabble’, and it irks Harry more than it should. Both are obviously male and the stereotype he sees angers him more. The fact that Millie finds it amusing becomes the salt for his invisible wound.
Having had enough he grabs the remote from next to Millie and says, “We need to talk.” It is curt, and he knows that she is upset by his tone but at the moment he really couldn’t care less. He heads in the direction of the kitchen intent on a beer, his usual routine, and hears her shuffle in behind him moments later. Smoke wisps out of the top of the bottleneck when the lid comes off, and happily he inhales the unique scent. A quick swig, and a roll of his shoulders has him feeling much better. When he turns he makes sure that he appears friendly as well as stern.
A deep heaving sigh and he is saying, “What are we going to do with you?”
She looks fearful, shuffling one foot and then the other. Yet he admires the brave way she refuses to break eye contact and asks, “Is this where you throw me out?” Her tone is slightly accusing with the air of defiance.
Harry smiles his usual half grin, with its many mixed signals, and says, “Of course not.” She breathes a momentary sigh of relief before he continues, “But we are going to look into getting you into schooling of some sort.”
Millie frowns, “Yeah, okay, good luck with that, Harry.”
He scowls as well, “What the hell is that supposed to mean exactly?”
The dry look and sarcastic tone she uses then really irritates him, “You can’t exactly do that seeing as how I am a runaway and you are not my legal guardian.”
Conceding her point he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and reaching one of his broad hands up to move his glasses and massage his closed eyes. “Fucking wonderful.” He comments, “Well we can’t exactly have you lying about the house all day, now can we?”
Pouting she nods her agreement, and Harry can tell that she rather enjoys laying about doing nothing. Teenagers He thinks fondly, carefully ghosting over his horrible teenage years and ignoring that he had, most definitely, not been a normal adolescent.
“I could get a part-time job.” She shrugs.
Tilting his head left then right Harry feels as well as hears a satisfying ‘pop’ and thinks a moment before responding, “Or a hobby. I’d rather you not have to work, as that can be just as sticky as getting back into school.”
“Oh yeah…” She moves toward the adjoining dining area and looks out the large window facing the street, “I am used to seedy work I guess.”
“Well you can just forget that.” Harry snorts, “I am definitely not letting you go back to that.”
She smiles, “I love you too, big brother.”
“Tart.”
The sunny grin never leaves her face and Harry feels as if somehow he hasn’t won.
2.
Harry enrols Millie in a pottery class offered at the local Uni as a creative summer course with no prerequisites required. He is ever thankful that all they ask for is a home address and an emergency number. Millie on the other hand takes to brooding, and Harry can tell that she is more nervous than bitter about being forced into a hobby. He tells her she will do fine, as it is only a special-interest class and doesn’t require talent. “All you have to do is enjoy yourself and make some friends.”
She chews the inside of her lip as they go to a craft store early Saturday morning. “Yeah but, you know, how am I supposed to answer difficult questions?”
Harry pauses down an isle with glazes, clays, moulds, and other things he’s never seen before in his life. “Christ,” he mutters as he picks up a plastic bottle full of a rust-coloured glaze, and raises a sceptical brow, “How exactly does this turn bright turquoise?” It is meant to be a joke for Millie’s amusement but she merely glowers and his inquiry is instead answered by an unknown party.
“That happens when you fire it.” A pretty ash-blonde store assistant is beside him instantly, rather close if he does say so himself.
A blush burns the back of his neck and Harry glances sideways at Millie for help. She is too busy being vindictively amused to do anything, and he wants to kill the twat. So instead he has to stumble over a simple sentence, “Fi-fire, what exactly does that mean?”
The young woman takes the plastic jar from him and explains, “When you make a piece from clay you have to fire it in a kiln, then you glaze it with this,” She shakes the bottle which makes a disgusting glooping sound, “and fire it again. Then you have a lovely colourful piece.” Her beaming smile doesn’t settle his nerves any, if anything it makes him feel queasy.
“Sounds like a pain in the arse if you ask me.” He mutters, momentarily forgetting that all of these supplies are for Millie’s class. When he does remember he shoots her an apologetic smile to which she sticks her tongue out at him. Fuck her then Harry thinks as he rolls his eyes.
The assistant laughs at his words, the sound of nails on a chalkboard and Harry has to refrain himself from recoiling in pain. “Is there anything I can help you with Mister…?”
“Potter,” Millie answers curtly, when the girl’s casual flirting becomes more annoying than amusing to her, “And no we don’t need ya, if we do then we’ll ask.”
The acidic glare the sales girl gives Millie could scare a dragon, but Millie just smiles sweetly and waves the girl away. It is reminiscent of that time when Harry went with D-, but no he shakes his head. Best to leave everything buried, where it belongs.
“Retched cow,” Millie hisses when the young woman is far enough away. She turns to Harry with a teasing smile. “It’s a wonder you don’t have flaming ponce tattooed across your forehead. Or better yet a flashing neon sign that blinks it for everyone to see.”
He playfully boxes her ears, and she laughs, “Only you could say that to me and get away with it, you twat.”
“Ooooh lucky me then! Big bad Potty won’t unleash his deadly weapons on me ’cause I am the cutest thing ever!” She spins around once and playfully punches him in the arm, but he doesn’t notice. His mind went blank, and his body ached as soon as the word Potty left her mouth. It is like being transported to the past. Her tone, the way her eyes narrowed, and the playful yet cruel smirk on her pale pink lips took him to a different time, a different place. With a decidedly different person throwing that word at him. Cutting him, killing him, and leaving him hanging out to dry.
“Harry!” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, “I was just joking, so don’t look so down.”
He doesn’t respond.
3.
The first day of class comes and Harry drives Millie to the front steps of the university in his newest investment a VW Jetta, which happened to be Millie’s idea. She shakes in her seat, eyes fearful as they look up at the bland concrete walls of an unfriendly looking place. “You’ll do fine.” Harry assures her, patting her lightly on the back, “I’ll take a late lunch so that I can pick you up.”
“Promise?” Her demand is so forceful that it throws Harry off for a moment.
Yet he understands her fear, the constant nagging in her mind that he will one day abandon her, and so he pulls her to him by those awkwardly thin shoulders, “I love you, sis.” Instantly he feels her relax in his hold, and he knows that soon her courage will return. Millie is a fighter, she will survive this one little obstacle.
Work is slow, dreadfully so, causing Harry to sit in the lounge staring at the clock. The hands move so sluggishly that he almost convinces himself that they are in fact going counter clockwise. Eyelids feel heavy behind his spectacles, and Harry has to fight the overwhelming desire to take a nap at the hard table. In his uncomfortable chair.
“Having one of those days, eh?” Jim, or Justin, perhaps Jarred, asks him.
“I should have slept in.” He comments blandly, saying the things that keep people at a distance but that satisfy them enough to believe that he is a normal member of society.
The other man chuckles, “Me too.”
Silence lapses between them, and once more Harry is dozing when Jim/Justin/Jarred speaks. “England are playing Spain this weekend.” His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Who’re you going to put your money on?”
Harry shrugs, sport isn’t his thing. It hasn’t been a part of his new life mostly because he finds the friendly debate too painful to handle. Reminding him of the sport he so misses, warm wind caressing his face, freshly mown grass, and a cool golden ball with wings. Honestly, he doesn’t know if it was the actual sport or the time he spent being welcomed and adored that he misses most.
“Not really into sport,” he says casually, brushing the crumbs from some other person’s food onto the non-padded industrial blue carpet.
“Really?” The J-named man asks in a surprised tone, his thick light brown brows rising towards his hairline, “I’d have pegged you for a rugby player, you look like you’ve played a match or two in your day. I assumed that’s where you might have got that scar on your forehead.”
Harry’s brows furrow, as he touches the dreaded remnants of his youth. “This old thing, nah, got it in a car wreck when I was about a year old.” It was a lie he told often enough, that on some days he could almost believe it.
“Shame I bet you’d have been hell on a rugby field.” The man goes over to the community coffee pot and pours himself an eight-ounce Styrofoam cup of the stuff. “I hate when Mary makes a pot.” He says after he takes a drink, “She puts too much grounds in and it always tastes like sludge.”
“Hmmm.” Harry hums all the while wondering just who in God’s name Mary is, perhaps they’d got a new intern.
The silence is awkward and uncomfortable to Harry, who desperately wants to escape back to his small office. However he feels as if it would be blatantly rude to get up and leave while the man was trying to make small talk.
“You’re not a man of many words are you Harry?”
He laughs at the inquiry, “You’ve found me out.”
The other man laughs, “I like you Harry, you seem rather honest.”
“Uh thanks.”
“Maybe one night we could go out for a couple of pints, what you say mate?”
“I’ll have to see. My sister recently moved in with me and I’ve been trying to adjust to the hectic life of a teenager.” Harry tries his best to seem sincerely apologetic.
“Wait till you have to battle off a boyfriend.” His bright teeth catch the fluorescent lighting above them, and yet despite the light heartedness of Jim/Justin/Jerrad’s words Harry feels an uneasy weight settle in his stomach.
4.
Millie’s first day cures her of her irrational fears about class. After which Harry doesn’t have to persuade her with jam toast or treacle tart to go, and in a way he is a little saddened by that fact. As they enter her third week their night-time dinners are less quiet as her tireless stories fill the room.
“Scott said that Shelly is just jealous that I seem to have a natural knack for throwing pottery. She can’t seem to gets hers to take shape and it is annoying the hell out of her.” Millie rolls her eyes, elbow on table top, fork pointing lazily at her plate as she continues, “Apparently she is one of those know-it-alls that can do anything. Scott likes that she is being brought down a peg by not being the best in class.”
“Are you the best then?” Harry asks with a friendly dose of sarcasm.
Pompously Millie turns her nose up, “Why of course I am. I was born to throw pots better than any other lowly mortal! It’s in my blood Mister Potter!” Not for the first time Harry notices the subtle similarities between her and a person he once knew. Cheek is a major contributor to their similarities, but instead of being annoyed Harry finds it endearing.
“So, these twins and you get along despite all the rivalry?” This time his question is more serious, and she smiles at him gratefully.
“Yeah, in fact, they asked if I wanted to go with them on a trip to Brighton beach in a couple weeks.” She is beaming, and Harry can tell that she is excited by the prospect.
He however is a bit sceptical. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Her face falls a bit. “Of course I won’t go if you forbid me, but it was going to be a weekend holiday with their parents.”
Harry can’t stand to see her disappointed. “Well if I can meet with their mum and dad I will consider it.”
Once more she is beaming, “Of course you can! I doubt they’d let us all go to their beach house alone.”
Shaking his head Harry fondly reminds himself of Millie’s innocence.
5.
A couple of weeks pass and there she is in the back of Mr and Mrs Dunbar’s black Mercedes Benz, waving at him as the car pulls down the street. His heart aches as he watches her go, missing her terribly even though she hasn’t really gone yet. The twins’ parents seem decent enough. Mr Dunbar really isn’t going to be home with the wife and children much, only at dinner and in the early morning; he is going for business purposes only. Harry knows that most likely she will be away for a week rather than a weekend, and having no real hold on her he gave his permission.
It’s Mrs Dunbar he is truly sold on; gentle, mid-forties, with a true “mother’s smile”, she gives Harry the confidence that nothing awful will befall his precious “sister”. The twins, Scott and Shelly, were perfectly polite. Even during their friendly banter. Harry despises them a little; not because he thought they were horrid, had that been the case he would have said no without question. It has more to do with the fact that Millie, his delightful distraction has been whisked away from him. Gone off to live her own life with her own friends in a world without Harry.
He hits the gin hard that night. Skipping the beer and diving for the liquor has never been a smart option in the past but Harry isn’t one for delving too deeply there.
6.
Harry hasn’t heard this mournful wail in a long time. Hasn’t tasted as well as smelled the musky lust and tonic clinging to the plush velvet lined chairs facing the polished stage. A phantom ghost of memory tickles his senses, déjà-vu calls to him and he watches in drunken fascination as the pale man on stage writhes in his ever-present sea of crimson silk. An arm snakes gently around his torso, but Harry ignores it in favour of watching his muse. Wet breath tickles his ear and he tries to shrug the offending brute away. He pushes clumsily at the firm body besides him, and luckily the brothel boy takes the hint. When he gazes back blearily at the stage, pale ghostly grey eyes bore into his soul.
They captivate him, and Harry swears he can hear a voice coolly whisper within his mind, A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways – by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.
Before his eyes completely shut to refuse the intimate intrusion of a knowing gaze Harry feels a momentary stab of anguish, a brief shimmer of hope, and a dying echo of rage.
Author:
crazyparakissPairing: Harry/Draco (Eventual)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,750
Summary: Harry swears he can hear a voice coolly whisper within his mind, A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways – by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.
Warning(s): Whores, drag, angst, emotional suffering, hero complexes, AU(but still magical despite how it appears) slash, and eventual sex (if there are more later I will add them)
Beta: The amazing
tari__sue!!Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
Prologue
Chapter One
1.
It is toward the end of the sixth month, when Harry finds Millie sprawled out on the sofa eating crisps for the fifth day in a row, that he becomes fed up.
He is barely across the threshold, stressed from all the crying kids in the clinic receiving their flu shots, and the sight of his living room in utter chaos is enough to send him over the edge.
Hanging his white coat up on a hook by the door and toeing his loafers off on the mat he breathes in, trying to calm himself before he starts a confrontation. Walking up behind the sofa he is able to see that she is still in the pyjamas she wore the night before and that her hair hasn’t been brushed. She is so absorbed in Spongebob Squarepants that she doesn’t take notice of his presence. The ridiculous characters on screen are playing out a ‘married squabble’, and it irks Harry more than it should. Both are obviously male and the stereotype he sees angers him more. The fact that Millie finds it amusing becomes the salt for his invisible wound.
Having had enough he grabs the remote from next to Millie and says, “We need to talk.” It is curt, and he knows that she is upset by his tone but at the moment he really couldn’t care less. He heads in the direction of the kitchen intent on a beer, his usual routine, and hears her shuffle in behind him moments later. Smoke wisps out of the top of the bottleneck when the lid comes off, and happily he inhales the unique scent. A quick swig, and a roll of his shoulders has him feeling much better. When he turns he makes sure that he appears friendly as well as stern.
A deep heaving sigh and he is saying, “What are we going to do with you?”
She looks fearful, shuffling one foot and then the other. Yet he admires the brave way she refuses to break eye contact and asks, “Is this where you throw me out?” Her tone is slightly accusing with the air of defiance.
Harry smiles his usual half grin, with its many mixed signals, and says, “Of course not.” She breathes a momentary sigh of relief before he continues, “But we are going to look into getting you into schooling of some sort.”
Millie frowns, “Yeah, okay, good luck with that, Harry.”
He scowls as well, “What the hell is that supposed to mean exactly?”
The dry look and sarcastic tone she uses then really irritates him, “You can’t exactly do that seeing as how I am a runaway and you are not my legal guardian.”
Conceding her point he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and reaching one of his broad hands up to move his glasses and massage his closed eyes. “Fucking wonderful.” He comments, “Well we can’t exactly have you lying about the house all day, now can we?”
Pouting she nods her agreement, and Harry can tell that she rather enjoys laying about doing nothing. Teenagers He thinks fondly, carefully ghosting over his horrible teenage years and ignoring that he had, most definitely, not been a normal adolescent.
“I could get a part-time job.” She shrugs.
Tilting his head left then right Harry feels as well as hears a satisfying ‘pop’ and thinks a moment before responding, “Or a hobby. I’d rather you not have to work, as that can be just as sticky as getting back into school.”
“Oh yeah…” She moves toward the adjoining dining area and looks out the large window facing the street, “I am used to seedy work I guess.”
“Well you can just forget that.” Harry snorts, “I am definitely not letting you go back to that.”
She smiles, “I love you too, big brother.”
“Tart.”
The sunny grin never leaves her face and Harry feels as if somehow he hasn’t won.
2.
Harry enrols Millie in a pottery class offered at the local Uni as a creative summer course with no prerequisites required. He is ever thankful that all they ask for is a home address and an emergency number. Millie on the other hand takes to brooding, and Harry can tell that she is more nervous than bitter about being forced into a hobby. He tells her she will do fine, as it is only a special-interest class and doesn’t require talent. “All you have to do is enjoy yourself and make some friends.”
She chews the inside of her lip as they go to a craft store early Saturday morning. “Yeah but, you know, how am I supposed to answer difficult questions?”
Harry pauses down an isle with glazes, clays, moulds, and other things he’s never seen before in his life. “Christ,” he mutters as he picks up a plastic bottle full of a rust-coloured glaze, and raises a sceptical brow, “How exactly does this turn bright turquoise?” It is meant to be a joke for Millie’s amusement but she merely glowers and his inquiry is instead answered by an unknown party.
“That happens when you fire it.” A pretty ash-blonde store assistant is beside him instantly, rather close if he does say so himself.
A blush burns the back of his neck and Harry glances sideways at Millie for help. She is too busy being vindictively amused to do anything, and he wants to kill the twat. So instead he has to stumble over a simple sentence, “Fi-fire, what exactly does that mean?”
The young woman takes the plastic jar from him and explains, “When you make a piece from clay you have to fire it in a kiln, then you glaze it with this,” She shakes the bottle which makes a disgusting glooping sound, “and fire it again. Then you have a lovely colourful piece.” Her beaming smile doesn’t settle his nerves any, if anything it makes him feel queasy.
“Sounds like a pain in the arse if you ask me.” He mutters, momentarily forgetting that all of these supplies are for Millie’s class. When he does remember he shoots her an apologetic smile to which she sticks her tongue out at him. Fuck her then Harry thinks as he rolls his eyes.
The assistant laughs at his words, the sound of nails on a chalkboard and Harry has to refrain himself from recoiling in pain. “Is there anything I can help you with Mister…?”
“Potter,” Millie answers curtly, when the girl’s casual flirting becomes more annoying than amusing to her, “And no we don’t need ya, if we do then we’ll ask.”
The acidic glare the sales girl gives Millie could scare a dragon, but Millie just smiles sweetly and waves the girl away. It is reminiscent of that time when Harry went with D-, but no he shakes his head. Best to leave everything buried, where it belongs.
“Retched cow,” Millie hisses when the young woman is far enough away. She turns to Harry with a teasing smile. “It’s a wonder you don’t have flaming ponce tattooed across your forehead. Or better yet a flashing neon sign that blinks it for everyone to see.”
He playfully boxes her ears, and she laughs, “Only you could say that to me and get away with it, you twat.”
“Ooooh lucky me then! Big bad Potty won’t unleash his deadly weapons on me ’cause I am the cutest thing ever!” She spins around once and playfully punches him in the arm, but he doesn’t notice. His mind went blank, and his body ached as soon as the word Potty left her mouth. It is like being transported to the past. Her tone, the way her eyes narrowed, and the playful yet cruel smirk on her pale pink lips took him to a different time, a different place. With a decidedly different person throwing that word at him. Cutting him, killing him, and leaving him hanging out to dry.
“Harry!” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, “I was just joking, so don’t look so down.”
He doesn’t respond.
3.
The first day of class comes and Harry drives Millie to the front steps of the university in his newest investment a VW Jetta, which happened to be Millie’s idea. She shakes in her seat, eyes fearful as they look up at the bland concrete walls of an unfriendly looking place. “You’ll do fine.” Harry assures her, patting her lightly on the back, “I’ll take a late lunch so that I can pick you up.”
“Promise?” Her demand is so forceful that it throws Harry off for a moment.
Yet he understands her fear, the constant nagging in her mind that he will one day abandon her, and so he pulls her to him by those awkwardly thin shoulders, “I love you, sis.” Instantly he feels her relax in his hold, and he knows that soon her courage will return. Millie is a fighter, she will survive this one little obstacle.
Work is slow, dreadfully so, causing Harry to sit in the lounge staring at the clock. The hands move so sluggishly that he almost convinces himself that they are in fact going counter clockwise. Eyelids feel heavy behind his spectacles, and Harry has to fight the overwhelming desire to take a nap at the hard table. In his uncomfortable chair.
“Having one of those days, eh?” Jim, or Justin, perhaps Jarred, asks him.
“I should have slept in.” He comments blandly, saying the things that keep people at a distance but that satisfy them enough to believe that he is a normal member of society.
The other man chuckles, “Me too.”
Silence lapses between them, and once more Harry is dozing when Jim/Justin/Jarred speaks. “England are playing Spain this weekend.” His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Who’re you going to put your money on?”
Harry shrugs, sport isn’t his thing. It hasn’t been a part of his new life mostly because he finds the friendly debate too painful to handle. Reminding him of the sport he so misses, warm wind caressing his face, freshly mown grass, and a cool golden ball with wings. Honestly, he doesn’t know if it was the actual sport or the time he spent being welcomed and adored that he misses most.
“Not really into sport,” he says casually, brushing the crumbs from some other person’s food onto the non-padded industrial blue carpet.
“Really?” The J-named man asks in a surprised tone, his thick light brown brows rising towards his hairline, “I’d have pegged you for a rugby player, you look like you’ve played a match or two in your day. I assumed that’s where you might have got that scar on your forehead.”
Harry’s brows furrow, as he touches the dreaded remnants of his youth. “This old thing, nah, got it in a car wreck when I was about a year old.” It was a lie he told often enough, that on some days he could almost believe it.
“Shame I bet you’d have been hell on a rugby field.” The man goes over to the community coffee pot and pours himself an eight-ounce Styrofoam cup of the stuff. “I hate when Mary makes a pot.” He says after he takes a drink, “She puts too much grounds in and it always tastes like sludge.”
“Hmmm.” Harry hums all the while wondering just who in God’s name Mary is, perhaps they’d got a new intern.
The silence is awkward and uncomfortable to Harry, who desperately wants to escape back to his small office. However he feels as if it would be blatantly rude to get up and leave while the man was trying to make small talk.
“You’re not a man of many words are you Harry?”
He laughs at the inquiry, “You’ve found me out.”
The other man laughs, “I like you Harry, you seem rather honest.”
“Uh thanks.”
“Maybe one night we could go out for a couple of pints, what you say mate?”
“I’ll have to see. My sister recently moved in with me and I’ve been trying to adjust to the hectic life of a teenager.” Harry tries his best to seem sincerely apologetic.
“Wait till you have to battle off a boyfriend.” His bright teeth catch the fluorescent lighting above them, and yet despite the light heartedness of Jim/Justin/Jerrad’s words Harry feels an uneasy weight settle in his stomach.
4.
Millie’s first day cures her of her irrational fears about class. After which Harry doesn’t have to persuade her with jam toast or treacle tart to go, and in a way he is a little saddened by that fact. As they enter her third week their night-time dinners are less quiet as her tireless stories fill the room.
“Scott said that Shelly is just jealous that I seem to have a natural knack for throwing pottery. She can’t seem to gets hers to take shape and it is annoying the hell out of her.” Millie rolls her eyes, elbow on table top, fork pointing lazily at her plate as she continues, “Apparently she is one of those know-it-alls that can do anything. Scott likes that she is being brought down a peg by not being the best in class.”
“Are you the best then?” Harry asks with a friendly dose of sarcasm.
Pompously Millie turns her nose up, “Why of course I am. I was born to throw pots better than any other lowly mortal! It’s in my blood Mister Potter!” Not for the first time Harry notices the subtle similarities between her and a person he once knew. Cheek is a major contributor to their similarities, but instead of being annoyed Harry finds it endearing.
“So, these twins and you get along despite all the rivalry?” This time his question is more serious, and she smiles at him gratefully.
“Yeah, in fact, they asked if I wanted to go with them on a trip to Brighton beach in a couple weeks.” She is beaming, and Harry can tell that she is excited by the prospect.
He however is a bit sceptical. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Her face falls a bit. “Of course I won’t go if you forbid me, but it was going to be a weekend holiday with their parents.”
Harry can’t stand to see her disappointed. “Well if I can meet with their mum and dad I will consider it.”
Once more she is beaming, “Of course you can! I doubt they’d let us all go to their beach house alone.”
Shaking his head Harry fondly reminds himself of Millie’s innocence.
5.
A couple of weeks pass and there she is in the back of Mr and Mrs Dunbar’s black Mercedes Benz, waving at him as the car pulls down the street. His heart aches as he watches her go, missing her terribly even though she hasn’t really gone yet. The twins’ parents seem decent enough. Mr Dunbar really isn’t going to be home with the wife and children much, only at dinner and in the early morning; he is going for business purposes only. Harry knows that most likely she will be away for a week rather than a weekend, and having no real hold on her he gave his permission.
It’s Mrs Dunbar he is truly sold on; gentle, mid-forties, with a true “mother’s smile”, she gives Harry the confidence that nothing awful will befall his precious “sister”. The twins, Scott and Shelly, were perfectly polite. Even during their friendly banter. Harry despises them a little; not because he thought they were horrid, had that been the case he would have said no without question. It has more to do with the fact that Millie, his delightful distraction has been whisked away from him. Gone off to live her own life with her own friends in a world without Harry.
He hits the gin hard that night. Skipping the beer and diving for the liquor has never been a smart option in the past but Harry isn’t one for delving too deeply there.
6.
Harry hasn’t heard this mournful wail in a long time. Hasn’t tasted as well as smelled the musky lust and tonic clinging to the plush velvet lined chairs facing the polished stage. A phantom ghost of memory tickles his senses, déjà-vu calls to him and he watches in drunken fascination as the pale man on stage writhes in his ever-present sea of crimson silk. An arm snakes gently around his torso, but Harry ignores it in favour of watching his muse. Wet breath tickles his ear and he tries to shrug the offending brute away. He pushes clumsily at the firm body besides him, and luckily the brothel boy takes the hint. When he gazes back blearily at the stage, pale ghostly grey eyes bore into his soul.
They captivate him, and Harry swears he can hear a voice coolly whisper within his mind, A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways – by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.
Before his eyes completely shut to refuse the intimate intrusion of a knowing gaze Harry feels a momentary stab of anguish, a brief shimmer of hope, and a dying echo of rage.
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