FIC: The Pure and Simple Truth, part 3
Author: ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lettered
Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, andtalekayler wrote Nunquam Securus
Previous
24 June, 2004
“Potter,” Malfoy said.
“Malfoy?” Harry looked up, surprised to see him. It had been a week since the epic drinking at the pub, but Malfoy wasn’t coming to the pub tonight. He’d mentioned to Harry a few days back that he was talking to Hermione to see if he could find out what was wrong. Yesterday, Hermione had told Harry she and Malfoy were going for a coffee instead of coming to the pub. Harry thought it must mean that Hermione might actually tell Malfoy what was going on with her and Ron.
“Hi,” Malfoy said. “I’m just―I’m on my way to go meet up with Hermione, and I wanted to say, sorry we’re not going to the pub. Next week, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m meeting Pansy there, though.”
“Oh.”
“I mean,” Harry said, “since you’re going out with Hermione.” He stopped himself before asking Malfoy if it was all right, because of course he didn’t need permission from Malfoy, and Malfoy would think he was being weird. Still, Harry felt strangely uncomfortable. It was the surprise on Malfoy’s face. “She said she might bring a friend,” Harry said instead. “She said―she said I should meet him.”
“Oh.” Malfoy looked down. “That’ll be Zabini.”
“Zabini?”
Sneering, Malfoy looked up. “You remember Zabini, don’t you, Potter?”
“Malfoy,” Harry said.
Malfoy sighed, pushing his hair back from his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . this mess with Hermione.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“I think . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek, and Harry tried to think of what to say.
He tried to think of what Malfoy had said, when Harry had told him last week that he thought there was something wrong between Hermione and Ron. Harry had felt perfectly comfortable then, and afterwards they’d gone and got really and completely sloshed, and Malfoy had gone to sleep on his shoulder, and Harry had been sore the next day because of how still he had been sitting.
“Do you want to go to the lounge?” Harry asked. “No one’s in there.” He started walking that way, and Malfoy followed him.
In the lounge, Harry got out his mug, washed it with a cleaning spell, filled it up with water, and tapped it with his wand to make it cold. “Here,” he told Malfoy.
Malfoy took it and sat down at the lounge table.
Harry sat down too, while Malfoy looked down at the water for a while.
“I think it’s something to do with Ron and Pansy,” Malfoy finally said.
“What?”
Malfoy looked miserable. “I think Hermione’s jealous.”
“Ron and Pansy?” Harry took the mug, because it wasn’t like Malfoy was drinking it, and because suddenly his mouth felt dry. “That can’t be right. If anything . . .”
“I know,” Malfoy said. “I thought it was going to be . . .”
“Ron getting jealous of you and Hermione.”
Nodding, Malfoy nicked the mug, drinking the water. “There’s no reason he should be. I’m . . . very gay, and Hermione has absolutely no interest in anyone but him. She never has had interest in anyone but him.”
“But Ron is the same way about Hermione,” Harry said. He thought about stealing Dawlish’s mug from the cupboard, but instead just snagged his own back and drank another sip. “He would never―not with Pansy.”
“Stop at ‘he would never’. Pansy is not the qualifier here. He would with Pansy, in a heartbeat, if it weren’t for Hermione.” Malfoy snagged the mug back, taking another sip.
Harry looked at Malfoy in confusion. “He and Pansy are just friends.”
“Sure, they are,” said Malfoy. “But if Hermione does something utterly stupid, such as break up with him, he’s going to be an utter arse, and do something stupid himself, and Pansy will go along with it because she thinks it’s funny, and she is such a cow, and sometimes she just really needs to―God, Potter.” He looked up, and saw Harry’s face. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You think,” Harry said, and then had to try again. “You think . . . Hermione’s going to break up with Ron?”
“No,” Malfoy said quickly. “I’m sorry. I just meant things could get―”
“You meant they might break up.”
“No. I’m going to see Hermione tonight. Things will be all right. I’ll talk to her. I only meant that I think she’s grossly thrown out of proportion―certain things. That’s all.”
Harry tilted his head, watching determination build in Malfoy’s face. Harry remembered that look from Hogwarts, especially during sixth year, when Malfoy had looked so drawn and pale, and he’d kept trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet by himself, and telling Snape he didn’t need any help.
“I can handle the truth, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly.
Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek.
Pulling the mug his way, Harry took another sip. “Tell me what you really think.”
Malfoy swallowed and looked down. “I don’t know.”
“Hermione’s not the jealous one.” Harry just felt the need to say it.
Malfoy shook his head. “She’s only human, Potter.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “But does she have any reason . . .”
“Pansy’s not like other girls.” Stealing back the mug, Malfoy drained the rest of the water.
“Okay,” Harry said again. “But I know Ron. He doesn’t stray. Not after―he’s never going to leave her,” he said. “And he’ll damn well do his best to never give her a reason to leave him.”
Malfoy nodded once, sharply. “I thought as much.” His thumb rubbed across the rim of the mug.
“All right,” Harry said. “You go and talk to Hermione. I’ll go have drinks with Pansy. It’ll all work out, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Malfoy took his hand off the mug, startled. “Are you . . . going to talk to Pansy, then?”
Harry’s brows went up. “Do you think it would be a good idea?”
Malfoy shook his head, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “No. She’s . . . difficult.”
“Yeah. I kind of figured.” Harry gave him a wry smile. “I might talk to Ron, though. See if I can help.”
“Potter?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Harry thought it was kind of ironic that Malfoy was thanking him, since Ron and Hermione were―well, he would always be closest to them, so Malfoy was helping him too, but maybe Malfoy wasn’t talking about that, anyway. He was holding out the mug.
Harry took it. “No problem,” he said. “We’re all friends, right?”
Malfoy looked startled again. “Yeah.”
“Next week,” Harry said, “same time, same place.”
Malfoy snorted. “You’re buying, Potter.”
Harry grinned.
*
Malfoy was right; it was Blaise Zabini Pansy had brought to the pub for Harry to meet.
“Here you are, Harry,” said Pansy. “Meet the most useless man in England.”
“I hope I’m useless in more countries than that,” said Zabini, putting out his hand.
“Er,” Harry said, shaking it. “We’ve actually met.”
“How good of you to remember,” Zabini said. They sat down, and Pansy pushed drinks in front of them.
Harry always thought of Malfoy as put together, but Zabini looked so perfect and well-dressed that he almost made Malfoy seem . . . sort of casual, just a little more careless than Harry had ever pictured Malfoy before. Harry wondered just how long it took for Zabini’s teeth to gleam that much, his eyebrows such a perfect shape, his clothes so perfectly pressed, and well cut. Not that it didn’t produce an effect.
Blaise Zabini was just about the best looking man Harry had ever seen.
Pansy waved a hand at them. “Talk. Amuse me. Draco’s been an absolute beast, lately.”
“You always ask so nicely,” Zabini said.
Harry looked at Pansy curiously. “Malfoy’s been a beast?” he asked, thinking about how Malfoy had said that Pansy could be a cow sometimes. Harry had thought they were pretty good friends.
He wondered whether they were fighting. Hermione and Ron were always fighting, but it just didn’t seem possible that Hermione was jealous of―
Pansy rolled her eyes. “He always is, when he’s recovering from a hang-over.”
“I try never to recover from anything,” said Zabini. “It saves time.”
“Blaise is mostly one-liners,” Pansy said.
Zabini ignored her, smiling at Harry. “How have you been since we last saw each other?”
Harry tried to remember the last time he had seen Zabini.
“It was when Pansy here suggested we turn you over to the Dark Lord,” Zabini said. “We were debating the benefits of offing you when we were herded to the dungeons. Some say you did off it.” He looked at Harry encouragingly.
“Oh,” Harry said. “I got better.”
“Excellent,” said Zabini. “Death is unpleasant to me. I’m determined to avoid it.”
“That’s going to be difficult,” Harry said.
“Life is a sexually transmitted disease that is, in the end, fatal.” Zabini said. “I plan to have as little to do with it as possible.”
Harry was startled into laughing. Resolving not to think about Hermione and Ron, he said, “What do you do?”
“I warned you,” Pansy told Zabini, in her bored tone. “He’s not very quick.”
“Nothing at all, if I can possibly help it,” said Zabini.
When Harry continued to look confused, Pansy smirked. “He’s a professional gentleman, Harry.”
Harry looked at Zabini in surprise. “You’re a hooker?”
Zabini burst out laughing, a rich deep sound.
Pansy just smirked. “Don’t you just wish,” she said.
“I have no profession,” Zabini said, still smiling a brilliant smile. “I am a landowner. I live with my mother. I practise ennui.”
Harry frowned. “It’s not hard.”
Zabini laughed again. “I don’t suppose it is, but I would venture to say that you haven’t mastered it.”
“Blaise is arrogant,” Pansy said. “And he’s an arse. I like him very much.”
Zabini looked at Harry guilelessly. “I’ve asked her to marry me, and she’s refused.”
“I would die of boredom,” Pansy said.
“It would be completely unromantic,” Zabini agreed. “Pansy, darling, please reconsider.”
Hermione and Ron still talked about getting married.
Usually it turned into an argument.
Ron wanted to get married, because he wanted children. Hermione didn’t want to, because she wanted a career. And then Hermione wanted to, because she wanted to be with him forever, and Ron didn’t want to, because his current job wasn’t good enough, he said. Molly wanted them to because she wanted them to be happy, and Ginny didn’t want them to because she wanted them to be happy. She kept warning Ron and Hermione both that it was important to explore.
Zabini turned to Harry. “I dislike romance, you see. It’s abhorrently messy.”
“He’s lying,” Pansy said.
“Oh,” Harry said.
“What do you think of romance?” Zabini asked him.
“I think it’s all right.” Harry wanted Hermione and Ron to be happy, and he also wanted them to get married. He didn't know if one necessarily resulted in the other, which was why he tried really really hard never to say anything about it either way.
“You’re a bachelor, then?” Zabini said.
“What?”
“If you believe in romance, you must be a bachelor.” Zabini smiled. “It’s quite all right. I’m a bachelor, too.” His smile curled wickedly. “Some say that is my profession.”
“He actually is a prostitute,” Pansy said. “It really depends on who you ask.”
“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean,” Harry said.
Zabini sipped his figtini. “What happened to Miss Weasley?”
“Ginny?” Harry rubbed his forehead. “We broke up.”
“How succinct. When did this happen?”
“Three years ago,” Harry said.
“Is she unattached?”
“I don’t know.” Sometimes Ginny’s opinions about not just settling down were rather strongly worded. Sometimes Harry thought she took 'exploring' a little bit to the extreme, and then felt guilty, because he wanted Ginny to do anything she liked, and just because he wanted to 'settle down' didn’t mean she should. “She was seeing Dean Thomas. But she’s not any more.”
“Don’t dangle live bait in front of Blaise,” said Pansy.
Zabini looked shocked. “Pansy, you amaze me.” He turned to Harry with an appealing gaze. “My only desire is to free poor young things from the hooks society has driven into their soft underbellies.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Preferably before big bad fish propose to gobble them up, and the little fish say yes, get married, and live happily ever after as flotsam.”
“Marriage is boorish,” said Zabini. “Only fish get married.”
“I think it’s nice,” said Harry.
“I’m not a fish,” said Zabini. “I prefer to be . . . algae. There is nothing to do, if you are algae, but lie there all day long, floating in the sun, and slowly you are nibbled to pieces by a hundred different mouths.”
“That’s an image,” said Pansy.
Zabini looked at her sadly. “I would never recover from marriage.”
“Your mum recovered.” Pansy sipped her wine. “Quite a few times.”
Zabini looked at her even more sadly. “That’s why I would never recover.”
“Anyway,” said Harry, trying not to think about break ups, “you said you asked Pansy to marry you.”
“I know.” Zabini brightened considerably. “To my good fortune, Pansy is not a fish. She is a shark. Sharks are completely uninterested in algae. Ginerva Weasley however―she is precisely the kind of fish I wouldn’t mind nibbling me to pieces.”
“Ginny isn’t a fish,” said Harry.
“Of course she isn’t,” said Zabini. “She is a delightful young woman, and I have always been fond of her.”
“You didn’t seem to think so highly of her sixth year,” Harry said.
“On the contrary, I admired her greatly sixth year. Seventh year even more. She is quite the beauty, in a rage.”
“I heard you on the train,” Harry said. “After you got back from your first Slug Club meeting.”
Zabini’s brow knit. “Oh, of course. I remember Draco’s braggadocio about certain improvements he claimed to have made to your face. I hardly believed him.” He smiled pleasantly. “I have always found your face rather pleasing as it is.”
Harry frowned at him. “You didn’t find Ginny’s family pleasing, I think it was.”
“Ah.” Zabini leaned back, his long, elegant finger idly tracing the rim of his glass. “You’re referring to a time when ridiculing lineage was still somewhat in vogue.”
“In vogue,” said Harry.
“I have to admit, my attitude in that regard was one of the few times I did not predict the inevitable trend of fashion.” Zabini took a sip of his cocktail.
“Trend of fashion,” said Harry.
“Forgive me, Potter.” Zabini looked quite sincere. “I was gauche.”
“Gauche.”
“You keep repeating everything I say,” said Zabini. “Will you understand it another way? I was self-conscious and rather gangly at that age; I wished to be thought sophisticated and chic; I parroted things I heard dignitaries and elitists say. I didn’t take the trouble to understand them, and am still in the habit of saying things because they sound nobby or posh, but I will never be such an ignorant, filthy, block-headed cunt again.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “I guess I understand that.”
“I suppose you do,” said Zabini, “but you’ll think less of me when you learn that it won’t happen again less because I think it wrong, and rather more because I am so horribly embarrassed at having been so utterly crass. It pains me even to recall some of the things that I said, and it has nothing to do with how I made anyone feel, and everything to do with having made myself a fool.”
“Oh,” Harry said again. He thought about it. “Pansy said she wouldn’t save her folks from a burning building.”
“Pansy is vulgar,” said Zabini.
Pansy looked bored. “I try.”
“I would never say such a thing,” said Zabini. “It would be in bad taste.”
“But,” said Harry, “the thing is, would you save your parents from a burning building?”
“That is not the thing,” said Zabini. “And nor is it the point. The point is that my mother will never be in a burning building. I shall see to it that it never happens.”
“But what if it does?” said Harry.
Zabini sipped his cocktail. “It won’t.”
“But what if it does?”
Zabini sighed. “We’ll never know, will we? But this is my hypothesis: if there were a burning building, with my mother in it, and if it should occur to me, in the heat of the moment, that someone may perceive a decision that saves my own skin is uncouth, why then I should Apparate into that burning building directly, and die screaming, but accepted by society. There, does that answer your question?”
“I don’t know.” Harry thought about it some more. “That’s a really weird answer.”
“It’s a weird question,” said Pansy. “It’s really quite morbid.”
“I dislike morbidity,” said Zabini. “That’s why I disliked Death Eaters, though they were rather modish in the late nineties.”
“So, you weren’t a Death Eater?” Harry asked.
“Blaise?” Both of Pansy’s brows went up.
Harry had thought only Malfoy could make her do that.
“Of course I wasn’t a Death Eater,” said Zabini. “What did I just say about being uncouth?”
“And you weren’t for Voldemort?” Harry asked.
“Malfoy was right,” Pansy said. “You really do paint all the Slytherins with the same brush.”
Harry looked at Pansy. “Malfoy said that?”
“In eighth year,” Pansy said.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Does he . . . think that now?”
Pansy raised a brow. “You tell me.”
“Tom Riddle was a hooligan,” said Zabini. “Zabinis never side with hooligans.”
“Hooligan,” said Harry.
“There you go, repeating things I say again,” said Zabini. “Would you prefer that I tell you Voldemort was evil? Rotten to the core? Morally repugnant? He might have been all of those things, but if you want the truth―of course you do; you’re Harry Potter―I didn’t side with him, but only because I found him personally distasteful, and Mother didn’t approve.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “But you said Voldemort was a hooligan.”
“I thought it droll,” said Zabini. “Didn’t you?”
Harry thought about it. “I suppose.”
Zabini looked at him thoughtfully. “Why did you break up with Miss Weasley?”
“I’m gay,” said Harry, because it was the easy answer.
“Oh, is that all?” said Zabini.
“I told you not to dangle fresh bait,” said Pansy.
Zabini ignored her. “Miss Weasley could hardly blame you for being gay.”
“I’m not bait.” Harry turned to Zabini. “If you say something like, ‘all the cool kids are doing it these days,’ I’ll hit you.”
“I would hardly be so predictable.” Zabini was looking thoughtful again. When he spoke, his voice was a little less bright than it was generally. It was almost gentle. “It isn’t a crime, Potter.”
“I know,” Harry said. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Harry’s not ashamed of anything,” Pansy said.
Harry looked at her. “Yes, I am.”
Pansy’s shiny black eyes didn’t flicker. “Do tell.”
“For one,” said Harry, “Malfoy was right. I did paint all Slytherins with the same brush, and I’m sorry for that. I’m ashamed of it, and I should have . . . I don’t know. I should have made more of an effort to . . . get to know some of you. Or, I don’t know. Understand.”
“We didn’t exactly make it easy.” Zabini was still using that softer voice.
Harry pushed his glasses up. “You can call me Harry.”
“We didn’t exactly make it easy, Harry,” said Zabini.
“None of us did.” Harry looked up at Zabini, who was looking at him in that calm and placid way, and was really, very attractive. “But it’s easier now.”
“Thanks be to Merlin,” said Zabini. “I do so love things that are easy.”
“I would venture to say that Harry is rather difficult,” said Pansy.
“I do so love a challenge,” said Zabini.
Rolling her eyes, Pansy said, “You contradict yourself.”
Zabini smiled affably. “I’m vast. I contain multitudes.”
“I’m still not bait,” said Harry.
“That’s all right.” Zabini’s smile grew warmer by degrees. “I’ll just stretch out and photosynthesise. If we happen to cross paths, then it is as the water wills.”
“One-liners,” Pansy said, “and ridiculously extended metaphors.”
“Zabini contains multitudes,” Harry said.
Zabini’s smile was lazy and bright. “Call me Blaise.”
* * *
22 July, 2004
“Nice scarf,” Malfoy said.
Harry was just getting ready to leave his desk, grabbing his coat and a purple swath of cloth. “It’s Pansy’s.”
Malfoy raised a brow.
“She left it at my flat.” Malfoy’s other brow went up, and Harry realized how it might have sounded. “She and Blaise and I went to a horror movie. We had drinks at my flat after.” It had been several weeks since he met Blaise. Harry liked him―he was interesting, for one thing, and seemed to be completely lacking in malice, for another.
“Oh.”
For some reason, Harry still felt like he hadn’t explained it enough. “Pansy said you didn’t like horror movies.”
“Pansy isn’t coming.”
“Oh.” Harry looked down at the silky purple thing.
Malfoy had been right. Hermione and Ron were fighting about Pansy. A little after Malfoy and Hermione had met for coffee instead of coming to the pub, Hermione had explained.
It had started when Ron and Pansy ended up going to The Cashmere Labyrinth in Wales alone. Ron had asked Hermione if she really wanted to go, seeing as how she didn’t really care for the band, and Hermione―well, she said she might have sort of suggested that Ron just wanted to be alone with Pansy, and Ron had got angry, and she had got angry, and they had fought. So Ron had gone with Pansy alone, and Hermione had been jealous.
She said she knew she was being ridiculous. Yet, for some reason, she and Ron still hadn’t made up. It was going on for longer than usual, this time.
“I can take it,” Malfoy said.
“What? Oh. Okay.” Harry gave him the scarf.
While Malfoy folded it and put it in his bag, Harry figured it was time they went to the pub. When he made to leave, Malfoy didn’t move.
“I like Muggle movies,” Malfoy said suddenly.
“I didn’t think you didn’t, Malfoy.”
“They’re a great way to understand Muggles, and I think some of them are really good. I like the historical ones.”
“Mostly I like the ones Hermione tells me to watch,” said Harry.
“I don’t only like the films Hermione likes.”
Harry looked at him curiously. “Well, I also like sci-fi.”
“I just mean, I’ve made an independent effort to understand Muggle culture, and literature. And football. I might not have thought so before, but now I realize that it’s very important. We share a world with them.”
Malfoy was tall. He was even taller than Harry, but he was slighter than Harry, so he seemed to take up a little less space. He still dressed just as neatly as he always had―mostly in creams and greys, though sometime he wore black, and Harry wished he wouldn’t. Malfoy looked stark in black and the effect was very striking.
His shirt was black today and his suit charcoal grey, which wasn’t much better.
“Are you saying you like horror?” Harry said finally, because if he didn’t say something soon he was probably going to comment on Malfoy’s choice of clothing.
“No.” Malfoy turned to leave Harry’s cubicle. “I’m saying Pansy is a cow.”
Harry caught up. “Why?”
“Nothing. She’s just been a right bint, lately.”
“She hasn’t been a bint to me,” Harry said.
Malfoy just snorted softly. When he reached the lift, he stopped and turned around. “Ron isn’t coming.”
“I know,” Harry said.
Ron and Hermione had a lot to work out, and some of it was Hermione and Ron just being . . . Hermione and Ron, stubborn and blind and stupid, but some of it wasn’t. Ron liked Quidditch and music and chess, and Hermione liked advocacy, academia, and organizing shelves. Ron didn’t like his job, and Hermione understood why he stayed with George, she truly did, but it was hard on her, loving her own jobs as she did, and hearing him complain, and wanting just to tell him to do something different. Especially when he couldn’t just put up with Crookshanks, for Merlin’s sake.
Hermione had told Harry all of it in a bit of a mess, shortly after she’d talked to Malfoy. There had been a lot of tears and mucous, and she kept apologizing for shutting him out. She hadn’t wanted to make things difficult with Pansy, she had said―or with Malfoy, or Harry and Malfoy, or Harry and Pansy, or Harry, Pansy, and Malfoy. Harry hadn’t even really tried working out what she meant by that, exactly. Mostly he’d just hugged her.
After all, things seemed to be going all right with Malfoy so far.
“I wondered if I . . . I thought I might invite Greg instead,” Malfoy said. “But only if you . . . I understand why you wouldn’t.” His hand was tight on his strap.
“Sure,” Harry said.
“You don’t . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “He’s . . . thanks, Potter.” He didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes.
“Sure,” Harry said. “Why don’t you owl him now?”
“All right,” Malfoy said, and they went to send the owl.
*
When they got to the pub, Hermione and Goyle were there talking.
Goyle barely looked up. “Heya, Potter, Draco.” He turned back to Hermione. “But what about Gringotts? They had one.”
“They had it chained in a dungeon!” Hermione said.
“Yeah, and it was bloody useful, wasn’t it? Or, I guess it wasn’t that useful, seeing as how you and Potter here stole it. Though just how you managed, with Potter’s history of almost getting char-broiled, that’s a mystery.” Goyle thought about it. “That was the best part of the Triwizard Tournament.” He glanced at Harry. “Sorry, Potter.”
“That’s okay,” said Harry. “I stripped you and put you in a cupboard.”
Goyle just turned back to Hermione. “See, if I tamed dragons, I could still char-broil him. I could even have him extra crispy.”
“Remember how we talked about not killing Potter,” Malfoy said, with a notable lack of concern.
“I meant to say I’m sorry,” said Harry, “about the cupboard.”
“Better be quicker next time,” said Goyle. “Or I’ll char-broil you.”
Harry raised his brow. “You and what dragon?”
“Me and the dragon I’m going to tame, only Hermione here says dragon taming is unethical.” Goyle frowned and turned to Malfoy. “Draco, are we still being ethical?”
Malfoy nicked Goyle’s pint and sat back. “We’re still being ethical.”
“Maybe you are.” Goyle turned to Harry to explain. “Draco’s been soppy, ever since he’s started being ethical.”
Malfoy just went on drinking Goyle’s pint. Goyle didn’t seem to mind. “Remember how much fun we’ve had since we’ve become ethical?”
“What fun?” Goyle grunted. “I mean, besides not going to gaol and getting Kissed, I suppose. That’s just a pack of laughs, innit.”
Malfoy put down Goyle’s pint. “Remember that manticore?”
“That wasn’t ethical,” said Goyle. “That was just the right thing to do.”
“You saw a manticore?” Harry asked. He hadn’t known anyone but Hagrid who’d met any manticores.
“Caught one,” said Goyle, proudly. “But I let it go, on account of he talked a lot, and was smarter than me.”
“He tricked you?” Harry said.
“How could he do that?” Goyle sipped his stout. “I had him tied but good.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, you said―”
“Oh, that. I just don’t like if there are too many people around who are smarter than me. I’ve got a threshold.” Goyle glared at Malfoy, who grinned.
“You’re not going to like Hermione at all,” said Harry.
Goyle scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Um.” Harry glanced at Hermione. “I just think she’s quite sharp, that’s all.”
Goyle shook his head. “She’s a dunce about dragons.”
“I know plenty about dragons,” said Hermione, piqued. “My boyfriend’s brother―”
“My sister’s best friend raised a dragon,” said Goyle. “Top that.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “One of my best friends mostly raised a dragon, except Malfoy got frightened and reported him.”
“You were such a girl,” Goyle told Malfoy. He turned back to Harry. “I was always telling him, he was such a girl.”
“I’m pretty sure you helped him,” said Hermione.
“Also,” said Harry, “I’m pretty sure you were a girl in sixth year. Under Polyjuice, but still.”
“What is this,” said Goyle, “pick on Greg day?”
Malfoy smirked. “Is it a day ending in y? Anyway, I don’t mind being a girl. Girls are hot.”
Harry wished he’d ordered a drink at the bar before he’d sat down.
“Malfoy,” said Goyle, “you’re a poof. I keep telling him he’s a poof,” he told Harry and Hermione, “but he keeps forgetting.”
You forget you’re a poof? Harry wanted to say, but somehow couldn’t. He couldn’t even really look in that direction. Luckily Hermione said, “Um, Greg, I don’t think being gay is something you forget. I mean, people can be confused. Or bisexual, or―”
“Oh, no,” said Goyle. “You’re thinking of Blaise.”
“Blaise is bisexual,” said Malfoy. “He’s not confused. He always knows exactly what he wants.”
Harry didn’t know what expression Malfoy was making, because he still wasn’t looking over there.
“That’s why Malfoy’s such a pissant about Blaise,” said Goyle. “Malfoy never knows what he wants.”
Malfoy was silent.
“Anyway,” said Goyle, “like I was saying, they used a dragon in Gringotts. Bloody useful, it was.”
Hermione put her nose in the air. “They didn’t need to use a dragon. There are other kinds of security.”
Goyle shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t. But that would’ve been way less cool.”
“Cool is not the point,” said Hermione.
“Cool is so the point,” said Goyle. “I’d make Draco tell you cool is very much the bloody point, but he wouldn’t back me up, just like the big sodding wanker he’s let himself become. He would be lying, though, because he thinks that mucking about doing the right thing is cool these days.”
“What do you think doing the right thing is?” said Hermione.
“Dead boring,” Goyle said promptly.
“I don’t know.” Hermione smirked. “I think it’s kind of hot.”
Goyle rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s saggy tits, just make out already.”
“I thought Draco was a poof?” Hermione looked innocent, while Malfoy smirked as well.
“Greg reminds me that I am,” said Malfoy.
“You’re a bloody disgrace, you are,” said Goyle. “Potter, what do you think about it?”
“What?” Harry looked away from Hermione, who was batting her eyelashes at Malfoy, laughing.
Goyle grunted impatiently. “About doing the right thing?”
“Um,” said Harry, because he didn’t want to say what he really thought, in case Goyle would tell him to snog someone too.
It wouldn’t be a good idea, with Malfoy wearing black, and everything.
“I think you should try it,” Harry said instead. “You might like it.”
“Speaking of doing the right thing,” Malfoy said, “is Meagre seriously going to stamp out that bill?”
“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I think he’s wavering.”
“Wavering?” said Malfoy. “What’s there to waver on? He should’ve signed it last week.”
Hermione smiled. “It only went up yesterday.”
“I know.” Malfoy drank more of Goyle’s pint. “He should be run out on a rail.”
“I think his supporters are getting disillusioned,” said Hermione.
Malfoy raised a brow. “Think he’ll pay for it next election?”
“Let’s hope so. With Wang breathing down his neck, he doesn’t look pretty.”
“It's not Wang making him look bad. She's starting to come off as mental as he is.”
“Mental?” Hermione looked appalled. “You mean, saying Beings who are perfectly capable of rational thought deserve―”
“Here they go,” said Goyle.
Goyle was right, actually. Hermione went on talking, even though it wasn’t like Goyle had turned down his voice to have a separate conversation. When Hermione and Malfoy got going, they really got going.
“Does she ever talk anything but politics?” Goyle said.
Harry looked at him, startled. “Were you talking politics before we got here?”
“Not really,” said Goyle. “I don’t talk politics. But usually she does.”
“Usually?” Harry frowned. “You mean, you’ve met Hermione before today?”
Goyle laughed. He laughed and laughed, and then looked at Harry. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were making a joke. Malfoy says you’re funny.”
Harry glanced at Malfoy. He was deep in conversation with Hermione. “He does?”
“He also says you’re smarter than we thought. I think he’s off his nut, personally. Potter,” Goyle said very slowly, “I met Hermione when I was eleven.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I just meant, since Hogwarts. It wasn’t like she talked a lot of politics back then.”
Goyle just kept talking very slowly. “You might not have noticed, but Draco and Hermione are sort of chummy. It’s like they’re mates, or something.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “I get it. Never mind.”
It made sense. Hermione and Malfoy were friends, so Hermione was friends with Malfoy’s friends. Harry didn’t know why they wouldn’t be.
Just, it hadn’t occurred to him, when Malfoy had said he was bringing Goyle to the pub, that Malfoy brought Goyle everywhere else but the pub. And yet, that made sense too. Malfoy always used to bring Goyle everywhere. Malfoy may have changed a lot, but he was the same person.
“I just mean,” Malfoy was saying, “she could buy into the conservative crowd, if she made more of an effort.”
Hermione snorted. “You mean, if she was more moderate.”
They were still talking about Natasha Wang. Natasha Wang was a member of the Wizengamot, directly opposed to Meagre and his ilk. She came out strongly in support of some of Hermione’s statements, but Malfoy and Hermione argued about her a lot. She caused big stirs in the press, because she was kind of sensational.
“You’re not moderate,” Malfoy pointed out.
“And look where that’s got me.”
Malfoy just shrugged. “You’ve got me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “And Harry, and . . .” Frowning, Hermione looked down, stirring her drink. “Anyway, that wasn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about―”
“But that is what we’re talking about.” Malfoy shook the hair out of his eyes. “I’m not Muggle-born. I’m not―I wasn’t raised with the idea that―with the ideas you have. You and I, we don’t think the same, but I’m saying, you’ve got me on your side.”
Hermione’s smile was soft. “You did that on your own.”
It was Malfoy who rolled his eyes then. “Yes, I’m a very special snowflake. But I don’t have to be. Someone could make the others―others like me, I mean―could make them see, but Wang’s just so full of righteous indignation. She doesn’t care what people like me think, because if we’re not with her, we’re against her.”
Hermione frowned. “Maybe. But I’m not sure there’s―”
“You could do it.”
Hermione looked up, startled. “What? No, I―”
“You could do it, and I should know.”
“How?” said Hermione.
Malfoy just smiled. “Because, I’m a very special snowflake.”
Hermione began, “But I’m not―”
“Usually when the go off like this,” said Goyle, “Ron and I just talk about Quidditch.”
“Ron?” Harry asked, startled.
“Ron. Ginger? Completely barmy when it comes to Quidditch.” Goyle shook his head. “You know, Pansy used to say you didn’t pay any attention to us at all in school. Draco said you did, and I believed Draco, because he’s devilishly clever, and Pansy is sort of a bitch. But now I’m more inclined to believe Pansy. I did go to Hogwarts, you know.”
“I know,” said Harry. “It’s just, you were so busy at Hogwarts cheering when I almost got char-broiled; it’s just . . . this is weird, that’s all.”
“Don’t think I won’t still cheer.” Goyle nicked his pint back from Malfoy and drained the rest. “I’m gonna go to the bar,” he said, standing up.
“Okay.” Harry stood up too. He hadn’t got a drink to begin with. Neither had Malfoy. Malfoy mostly just got fizzy water anyway, when he wasn’t nicking other people’s pints, so Harry thought he’d order.
Malfoy caught Goyle’s wrist. “Fizzy water?”
Rolling his eyes, Goyle shook off Malfoy’s grip. “Yes, your excellentness.”
Malfoy just smirked at him, and turned back to Hermione.
The pub had poor service. Someone would eventually come around and ask what you wanted, but it was best to just go up to the bar. The bar was a big tree, cut in half length-wise and then jointed in an “L”. Harry stood beside it with Goyle, waiting to catch the bartender’s attention.
“So,” Harry said, in order not to be awkward, “you’re going to tame a dragon?”
Goyle shrugged. “Maybe two or three.”
“Why does Hermione think it’s unethical?”
“She says dragons are thinking creatures. I don’t know why she always gets her shorts in such a twist. Horses are thinking creatures, aren’t they? What, we can’t ride horses, now?”
“Maybe dragons are different.” Harry thought Hermione would probably know. Charlie said they were smart as humans, but Charlie couldn’t really be trusted not to exaggerate when it came to dragons.
The bartender was serving three witches down on the other end. It was sort of busy, tonight. Harry turned back to Goyle. “What are you going to do with a tamed dragon?” he asked.
“Dunno. Read it poetry. What do you think, Potter? I’m going to terrorize villages and such. No one’s going to mess with me, if I have a dragon.”
Harry felt his eyebrows rise. “Do people mess with you now?”
Goyle rolled his eyes. “You sound just like Draco.”
“Malfoy would probably tell you that terrorizing villages is unethical.”
“Merlin’s balls, we can’t do anything any more.” Goyle put his forearms on the bar. “Mostly, I just think it’d be cool, having a dragon. I’d ride it around, and people would think I was tough. They’d say, ‘we can’t do anything to Greg. He has a dragon.’ And I’d only feed it rabbits and cats and things―you know, useless animals no one wants. It’d probably really like me, a dragon would.”
“Oh,” said Harry, because suddenly, he thought he understood.
“Yeah.” Goyle started tapping the bar restlessly. “That’s why I’m going to be a dragon tamer.”
“When did you first get the idea?”
“The Triwizard Tournament,” Goyle said immediately, “when that Weasley brought the dragons.”
“Charlie,” said Harry.
“Yeah, that Weasley. I wanted to be him. Draco told me I couldn’t, seeing as how I wasn’t freckled or ginger or poor or a disgrace or nearly as fit, but mostly I think he was upset because he wanted to be that Weasley, too.”
“Malfoy wanted to be Charlie?”
Goyle snorted. “Don’t be daft, Potter. Everyone wanted to be that Weasley. He handles dragons.” He drummed his hands. “With Draco, though, mostly he wanted to have an earring.”
“Um.” Harry’s mind sort of went blank.
“I know,” said Goyle. “That’s what I thought too.”
Harry was pretty sure Goyle hadn’t thought what Harry was thinking right now. In fact, Harry was sure of it.
“Luckily, he got over it. Hey, can I get a Scallywag Stout?” Goyle asked the bartender, who had just come up. “Oh. And get me some of those cheesy pepper crisps. The ones with the wavy lines.”
“Don’t forget Malfoy’s fizzy water,” said Harry.
Goyle rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s saggy balls. And a fizzy water.”
“I’ll have a Mermaid Blonde,” Harry said. The bartender left to pull their drinks, and Harry turned back to Goyle. “You work for the Ministry too, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Goyle. “I’m a Creatures Collector. Hermione wants to get my job changed.”
“She wants you to get a new job, or she wants to change what your job is?”
“The second one. She thinks impounding creatures is cruel.”
“Do you?”
Goyle shrugged. “I don’t like how we don’t get to keep them. Maybe she should change that. But really, I want to be a Magizoologist.”
“A Magizoologist?” Harry had to ask, because Goyle had fumbled the pronunciation, a bit.
Goyle didn't seemed disturbed by it. “You know, like Luna.”
Harry just looked at him. “Luna. Luna Lovegood?”
“Are you sure you're not mental?” Goyle frowned. “Draco used to say you might be.”
“But how do you know Luna? Besides Hogwarts, obviously,” Harry added, as Goyle rolled his eyes.
Goyle shrugged. “Luna and me, sometimes we go on hikes and stuff. I think nature hikes are stupid, but we see some pretty neat things. Once we saw a roc. I don’t mean like a rock on the ground. I mean like one of those great big birds. It was awesome. Luna wouldn’t let me cast fireballs at it, though.”
“I imagine she wouldn’t,” Harry said, still trying to figure out why Luna had chosen to hang out with Gregory Goyle.
Then again, Luna chose to hang out with Thestrals. Harry guessed he really shouldn't be shocked.
“I wouldn’t have really hurt it anyway,” Goyle was saying, “maybe just got it to land. And then I could have ridden it around. And if I did hurt it, then maybe I could keep its skull.”
Harry leaned on the bar as well. “How did you get interested in Magizoology?”
“Care of Magical Creatures was my favourite class.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah. Draco hated it. I think mostly he just didn’t like going outside. I did hate those Blast-Ended Skrewts. And those Flobberworms. What an utter pile of complete sodding shite. But Hagrid didn’t make us do tests the way the other teachers did. He didn’t make us learn big words either and he didn’t make us write things down. I think that secretly that’s really why Draco didn’t like him. Draco likes to be clever.”
“He did say he likes big words,” Harry said.
“In a kinky way. Is that nasty, or what? You should’ve seen the way he used to get around Blaise. He’d get so worked up, he’d’ve done anything Blaise asked. Then Blaise would laugh at him and Draco would fly off the handle.”
Harry looked around for the bartender. It had been a while. But he didn’t look like he was coming, and Harry didn’t know how else to distract himself from asking, “So, Malfoy and Blaise?”
“Well, not any more,” said Goyle. “Draco says it’s way more important to get at the heart of matters than having a big vocabulary.” He drummed his hand some more. “Maybe that’s why Draco and me, we’ve always been friends. Even if he is a little princess.”
Harry looked around for the bartender again, mostly because he didn’t want to think any more about Malfoy, who was still wearing black. “So,” he said, turning back to Goyle. “You thought Hagrid was all right?”
Goyle just grunted. “He had a motorbike, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “I guess.”
“I’m going to get me a motorbike.”
Harry smiled. “Is that before or after you get a dragon?”
“Maybe before. You really are just like Draco.”
“What?”
Goyle grimaced. “You’re humouring me. You think I don’t know when people are humouring me? Draco does it all the time.”
Harry watched him drum his fingers for a while. Goyle dressed as impeccably as Pansy, but he was still a great deal overweight. He might have had an appealing face, with his rich brown hair and large, rather bovine eyes, if he didn't also pretty much wear a perpetual scowl. Just then, he didn’t look any more unhappy than usually, but then again, Harry wasn’t well versed in reading Goyle. “You know,” he said finally, “I don’t know that Hagrid’s using that motorbike over in France. You might be able to buy it off him.”
“What?” Goyle looked at him suspiciously. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” Harry said, trying to look as earnest as he could. He could look pretty earnest. Usually he didn’t try to be otherwise. “I can put you in touch with him.”
“That’s bloody fantastic, Potter.”
Harry grinned. “You can call me Harry.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to call me Goyle?”
“I will if you want me to,” Harry said, surprised.
“What? No. I bloody hate that name. Do you know just how many people have called me gargoyle? They all think they’re so bloody clever. They think they made it up! Like it’s really that witty.”
“Sorry,” said Harry.
“I guess this means I can’t call you Potty, though. Draco’d probably hex me six ways to Sunday. He really doesn’t like when people make fun of you nowadays.”
“Oh.” Harry looked for the bartender again. “Well, I’ll just call you Greg, then.”
“Unless it’s him making fun of you,” said Greg. “Draco is such a ponce.”
The bartender came and gave them their drinks and Greg’s crisps; they paid and they took them back to the table. When they sat down, Hermione was saying, “She has no―”
“You can’t believe her, when she says things like that,” Malfoy said.
“Right.” Hermione grimaced. “So, she lies.”
“No,” said Malfoy.
“Here’s your fizzy water,” said Greg.
“Okay, yes,” said Malfoy, “she lies, but she just says those things to―to be provocative.”
“She’s always being provocative,” Hermione said. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“Also I got those cheesy crisps you like,” said Greg. “You know, the ones with the pepper.”
“That’s just her nature,” said Malfoy.
“That’s not actually an excuse!” Hermione didn’t yell, but she sounded really, really angry.
It was around then that Harry realized they weren’t actually talking about politics any more.
“What do you want her to do,” said Malfoy, “be someone she isn’t?”
“I want her to stop propositioning my boyfriend!”
“There’s not a chance he would ever say yes,” which wasn’t what Malfoy had told Harry, “so why does it matter? Ron doesn’t have a problem with it, anyway. He knows Pansy is just being Pansy.”
“She is just being Pansy,” Hermione said, “and that’s the problem. Draco, she has no remorse. She said so herself. She doesn’t care about anything.”
“She cares about me!”
“You told me to warn you when you get excited,” Greg told Malfoy, taking a handful of crisps. “You’re getting excited.”
“This is between Hermione and me,” Malfoy said.
Greg shrugged and ate his crisps.
“You can’t be someone’s conscience, Draco,” Hermione said. “That’s not how it works.”
“I’m not her conscience.” Colour was high in Malfoy’s face. “I’m her friend. And some day you’re going to wake up and realize that you don’t know how everything works.”
“She said she didn’t care about the world. She said she didn’t care about―”
“I don’t care what she said! You don’t know anything about her. You don’t know what she’s been through―what we’ve been through, together.”
“I know you care about her,” said Hermione. “And she cares about you, in her own way. But caring about someone isn’t enough to tell you right from wrong, and I think―”
“No,” said Malfoy. “They need you to do that for them, is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
“It is, though. You come in with this idea that everyone should love and understand each other, and if they don’t understand that philosophy, by God, you’ll make them understand it―instead of trying to understand theirs.”
“That’s not fair. I only want you to see―”
“There you go again.”
“You’re one to talk. You go on and on about understanding your point of view. I’m trying. I’ve always tried. It’s not like you can say the same.”
Greg was reaching for his pint, and Malfoy’s hand clamped down on Greg’s wrist suddenly.
“Steady on, mate,” Greg said.
Malfoy wasn’t even looking at him, but he didn’t let go. His face was livid. “You walked into our world already knowing exactly what you thought of it,” he told Hermione. “You and your little friends. So clever, so heroic, so good.”
Greg tried to pull his arm away from Malfoy, but Malfoy held him fast, his knuckles pale, his eyes very bright. Shrugging, Greg reached around with his left hand to liberate the pint his right one had been reaching for, and drank more stout.
“We weren’t always right,” said Hermione, “but no, we weren’t the ones condemning people based on who their parents were, or―”
“Hermione.” Harry’s voice was quiet. “Don’t.”
Hermione looked at him. “I’m just . . .”
“You’re just.” Malfoy sneered. “You’re just right. You’ve just always been right. You’ve always known right from wrong. You came in knowing it. And when we weren’t doing it your way, you knew we were wrong.”
“Well,” Hermione said, “you were wrong, then―”
Malfoy stood, chair scraping back, hand still tight on Greg’s arm. “You don’t understand us. You’re never did understand us, and you’re never going to, because you’re just a―”
Malfoy cut off abruptly. Then he went white as a sheet.
“Come on,” he said to Greg.
“No,” said Greg. “This is between Hermione and you.”
“Draco,” said Hermione.
Malfoy tugged Greg’s arm. “We’re going.”
“I haven’t finished my pint,” said Greg.
“Now,” Malfoy said, and tugged again.
“Fine.” Greg chugged the remaining two inches of his stout, grabbing a handful of crisps before letting Malfoy drag him away.
Hermione watched them go, then collapsed into her chair. “Oh, Harry,” she said, burying her head in her hands. Then she burst into tears.
Harry touched her on the shoulder, awkwardly petting her hair, and told her that everything would be okay.
* * *
Next
lettered Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, and
talekayler wrote Nunquam SecurusPrevious
24 June, 2004
“Potter,” Malfoy said.
“Malfoy?” Harry looked up, surprised to see him. It had been a week since the epic drinking at the pub, but Malfoy wasn’t coming to the pub tonight. He’d mentioned to Harry a few days back that he was talking to Hermione to see if he could find out what was wrong. Yesterday, Hermione had told Harry she and Malfoy were going for a coffee instead of coming to the pub. Harry thought it must mean that Hermione might actually tell Malfoy what was going on with her and Ron.
“Hi,” Malfoy said. “I’m just―I’m on my way to go meet up with Hermione, and I wanted to say, sorry we’re not going to the pub. Next week, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m meeting Pansy there, though.”
“Oh.”
“I mean,” Harry said, “since you’re going out with Hermione.” He stopped himself before asking Malfoy if it was all right, because of course he didn’t need permission from Malfoy, and Malfoy would think he was being weird. Still, Harry felt strangely uncomfortable. It was the surprise on Malfoy’s face. “She said she might bring a friend,” Harry said instead. “She said―she said I should meet him.”
“Oh.” Malfoy looked down. “That’ll be Zabini.”
“Zabini?”
Sneering, Malfoy looked up. “You remember Zabini, don’t you, Potter?”
“Malfoy,” Harry said.
Malfoy sighed, pushing his hair back from his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . this mess with Hermione.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“I think . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek, and Harry tried to think of what to say.
He tried to think of what Malfoy had said, when Harry had told him last week that he thought there was something wrong between Hermione and Ron. Harry had felt perfectly comfortable then, and afterwards they’d gone and got really and completely sloshed, and Malfoy had gone to sleep on his shoulder, and Harry had been sore the next day because of how still he had been sitting.
“Do you want to go to the lounge?” Harry asked. “No one’s in there.” He started walking that way, and Malfoy followed him.
In the lounge, Harry got out his mug, washed it with a cleaning spell, filled it up with water, and tapped it with his wand to make it cold. “Here,” he told Malfoy.
Malfoy took it and sat down at the lounge table.
Harry sat down too, while Malfoy looked down at the water for a while.
“I think it’s something to do with Ron and Pansy,” Malfoy finally said.
“What?”
Malfoy looked miserable. “I think Hermione’s jealous.”
“Ron and Pansy?” Harry took the mug, because it wasn’t like Malfoy was drinking it, and because suddenly his mouth felt dry. “That can’t be right. If anything . . .”
“I know,” Malfoy said. “I thought it was going to be . . .”
“Ron getting jealous of you and Hermione.”
Nodding, Malfoy nicked the mug, drinking the water. “There’s no reason he should be. I’m . . . very gay, and Hermione has absolutely no interest in anyone but him. She never has had interest in anyone but him.”
“But Ron is the same way about Hermione,” Harry said. He thought about stealing Dawlish’s mug from the cupboard, but instead just snagged his own back and drank another sip. “He would never―not with Pansy.”
“Stop at ‘he would never’. Pansy is not the qualifier here. He would with Pansy, in a heartbeat, if it weren’t for Hermione.” Malfoy snagged the mug back, taking another sip.
Harry looked at Malfoy in confusion. “He and Pansy are just friends.”
“Sure, they are,” said Malfoy. “But if Hermione does something utterly stupid, such as break up with him, he’s going to be an utter arse, and do something stupid himself, and Pansy will go along with it because she thinks it’s funny, and she is such a cow, and sometimes she just really needs to―God, Potter.” He looked up, and saw Harry’s face. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You think,” Harry said, and then had to try again. “You think . . . Hermione’s going to break up with Ron?”
“No,” Malfoy said quickly. “I’m sorry. I just meant things could get―”
“You meant they might break up.”
“No. I’m going to see Hermione tonight. Things will be all right. I’ll talk to her. I only meant that I think she’s grossly thrown out of proportion―certain things. That’s all.”
Harry tilted his head, watching determination build in Malfoy’s face. Harry remembered that look from Hogwarts, especially during sixth year, when Malfoy had looked so drawn and pale, and he’d kept trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet by himself, and telling Snape he didn’t need any help.
“I can handle the truth, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly.
Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek.
Pulling the mug his way, Harry took another sip. “Tell me what you really think.”
Malfoy swallowed and looked down. “I don’t know.”
“Hermione’s not the jealous one.” Harry just felt the need to say it.
Malfoy shook his head. “She’s only human, Potter.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “But does she have any reason . . .”
“Pansy’s not like other girls.” Stealing back the mug, Malfoy drained the rest of the water.
“Okay,” Harry said again. “But I know Ron. He doesn’t stray. Not after―he’s never going to leave her,” he said. “And he’ll damn well do his best to never give her a reason to leave him.”
Malfoy nodded once, sharply. “I thought as much.” His thumb rubbed across the rim of the mug.
“All right,” Harry said. “You go and talk to Hermione. I’ll go have drinks with Pansy. It’ll all work out, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Malfoy took his hand off the mug, startled. “Are you . . . going to talk to Pansy, then?”
Harry’s brows went up. “Do you think it would be a good idea?”
Malfoy shook his head, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “No. She’s . . . difficult.”
“Yeah. I kind of figured.” Harry gave him a wry smile. “I might talk to Ron, though. See if I can help.”
“Potter?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Harry thought it was kind of ironic that Malfoy was thanking him, since Ron and Hermione were―well, he would always be closest to them, so Malfoy was helping him too, but maybe Malfoy wasn’t talking about that, anyway. He was holding out the mug.
Harry took it. “No problem,” he said. “We’re all friends, right?”
Malfoy looked startled again. “Yeah.”
“Next week,” Harry said, “same time, same place.”
Malfoy snorted. “You’re buying, Potter.”
Harry grinned.
*
Malfoy was right; it was Blaise Zabini Pansy had brought to the pub for Harry to meet.
“Here you are, Harry,” said Pansy. “Meet the most useless man in England.”
“I hope I’m useless in more countries than that,” said Zabini, putting out his hand.
“Er,” Harry said, shaking it. “We’ve actually met.”
“How good of you to remember,” Zabini said. They sat down, and Pansy pushed drinks in front of them.
Harry always thought of Malfoy as put together, but Zabini looked so perfect and well-dressed that he almost made Malfoy seem . . . sort of casual, just a little more careless than Harry had ever pictured Malfoy before. Harry wondered just how long it took for Zabini’s teeth to gleam that much, his eyebrows such a perfect shape, his clothes so perfectly pressed, and well cut. Not that it didn’t produce an effect.
Blaise Zabini was just about the best looking man Harry had ever seen.
Pansy waved a hand at them. “Talk. Amuse me. Draco’s been an absolute beast, lately.”
“You always ask so nicely,” Zabini said.
Harry looked at Pansy curiously. “Malfoy’s been a beast?” he asked, thinking about how Malfoy had said that Pansy could be a cow sometimes. Harry had thought they were pretty good friends.
He wondered whether they were fighting. Hermione and Ron were always fighting, but it just didn’t seem possible that Hermione was jealous of―
Pansy rolled her eyes. “He always is, when he’s recovering from a hang-over.”
“I try never to recover from anything,” said Zabini. “It saves time.”
“Blaise is mostly one-liners,” Pansy said.
Zabini ignored her, smiling at Harry. “How have you been since we last saw each other?”
Harry tried to remember the last time he had seen Zabini.
“It was when Pansy here suggested we turn you over to the Dark Lord,” Zabini said. “We were debating the benefits of offing you when we were herded to the dungeons. Some say you did off it.” He looked at Harry encouragingly.
“Oh,” Harry said. “I got better.”
“Excellent,” said Zabini. “Death is unpleasant to me. I’m determined to avoid it.”
“That’s going to be difficult,” Harry said.
“Life is a sexually transmitted disease that is, in the end, fatal.” Zabini said. “I plan to have as little to do with it as possible.”
Harry was startled into laughing. Resolving not to think about Hermione and Ron, he said, “What do you do?”
“I warned you,” Pansy told Zabini, in her bored tone. “He’s not very quick.”
“Nothing at all, if I can possibly help it,” said Zabini.
When Harry continued to look confused, Pansy smirked. “He’s a professional gentleman, Harry.”
Harry looked at Zabini in surprise. “You’re a hooker?”
Zabini burst out laughing, a rich deep sound.
Pansy just smirked. “Don’t you just wish,” she said.
“I have no profession,” Zabini said, still smiling a brilliant smile. “I am a landowner. I live with my mother. I practise ennui.”
Harry frowned. “It’s not hard.”
Zabini laughed again. “I don’t suppose it is, but I would venture to say that you haven’t mastered it.”
“Blaise is arrogant,” Pansy said. “And he’s an arse. I like him very much.”
Zabini looked at Harry guilelessly. “I’ve asked her to marry me, and she’s refused.”
“I would die of boredom,” Pansy said.
“It would be completely unromantic,” Zabini agreed. “Pansy, darling, please reconsider.”
Hermione and Ron still talked about getting married.
Usually it turned into an argument.
Ron wanted to get married, because he wanted children. Hermione didn’t want to, because she wanted a career. And then Hermione wanted to, because she wanted to be with him forever, and Ron didn’t want to, because his current job wasn’t good enough, he said. Molly wanted them to because she wanted them to be happy, and Ginny didn’t want them to because she wanted them to be happy. She kept warning Ron and Hermione both that it was important to explore.
Zabini turned to Harry. “I dislike romance, you see. It’s abhorrently messy.”
“He’s lying,” Pansy said.
“Oh,” Harry said.
“What do you think of romance?” Zabini asked him.
“I think it’s all right.” Harry wanted Hermione and Ron to be happy, and he also wanted them to get married. He didn't know if one necessarily resulted in the other, which was why he tried really really hard never to say anything about it either way.
“You’re a bachelor, then?” Zabini said.
“What?”
“If you believe in romance, you must be a bachelor.” Zabini smiled. “It’s quite all right. I’m a bachelor, too.” His smile curled wickedly. “Some say that is my profession.”
“He actually is a prostitute,” Pansy said. “It really depends on who you ask.”
“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean,” Harry said.
Zabini sipped his figtini. “What happened to Miss Weasley?”
“Ginny?” Harry rubbed his forehead. “We broke up.”
“How succinct. When did this happen?”
“Three years ago,” Harry said.
“Is she unattached?”
“I don’t know.” Sometimes Ginny’s opinions about not just settling down were rather strongly worded. Sometimes Harry thought she took 'exploring' a little bit to the extreme, and then felt guilty, because he wanted Ginny to do anything she liked, and just because he wanted to 'settle down' didn’t mean she should. “She was seeing Dean Thomas. But she’s not any more.”
“Don’t dangle live bait in front of Blaise,” said Pansy.
Zabini looked shocked. “Pansy, you amaze me.” He turned to Harry with an appealing gaze. “My only desire is to free poor young things from the hooks society has driven into their soft underbellies.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Preferably before big bad fish propose to gobble them up, and the little fish say yes, get married, and live happily ever after as flotsam.”
“Marriage is boorish,” said Zabini. “Only fish get married.”
“I think it’s nice,” said Harry.
“I’m not a fish,” said Zabini. “I prefer to be . . . algae. There is nothing to do, if you are algae, but lie there all day long, floating in the sun, and slowly you are nibbled to pieces by a hundred different mouths.”
“That’s an image,” said Pansy.
Zabini looked at her sadly. “I would never recover from marriage.”
“Your mum recovered.” Pansy sipped her wine. “Quite a few times.”
Zabini looked at her even more sadly. “That’s why I would never recover.”
“Anyway,” said Harry, trying not to think about break ups, “you said you asked Pansy to marry you.”
“I know.” Zabini brightened considerably. “To my good fortune, Pansy is not a fish. She is a shark. Sharks are completely uninterested in algae. Ginerva Weasley however―she is precisely the kind of fish I wouldn’t mind nibbling me to pieces.”
“Ginny isn’t a fish,” said Harry.
“Of course she isn’t,” said Zabini. “She is a delightful young woman, and I have always been fond of her.”
“You didn’t seem to think so highly of her sixth year,” Harry said.
“On the contrary, I admired her greatly sixth year. Seventh year even more. She is quite the beauty, in a rage.”
“I heard you on the train,” Harry said. “After you got back from your first Slug Club meeting.”
Zabini’s brow knit. “Oh, of course. I remember Draco’s braggadocio about certain improvements he claimed to have made to your face. I hardly believed him.” He smiled pleasantly. “I have always found your face rather pleasing as it is.”
Harry frowned at him. “You didn’t find Ginny’s family pleasing, I think it was.”
“Ah.” Zabini leaned back, his long, elegant finger idly tracing the rim of his glass. “You’re referring to a time when ridiculing lineage was still somewhat in vogue.”
“In vogue,” said Harry.
“I have to admit, my attitude in that regard was one of the few times I did not predict the inevitable trend of fashion.” Zabini took a sip of his cocktail.
“Trend of fashion,” said Harry.
“Forgive me, Potter.” Zabini looked quite sincere. “I was gauche.”
“Gauche.”
“You keep repeating everything I say,” said Zabini. “Will you understand it another way? I was self-conscious and rather gangly at that age; I wished to be thought sophisticated and chic; I parroted things I heard dignitaries and elitists say. I didn’t take the trouble to understand them, and am still in the habit of saying things because they sound nobby or posh, but I will never be such an ignorant, filthy, block-headed cunt again.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “I guess I understand that.”
“I suppose you do,” said Zabini, “but you’ll think less of me when you learn that it won’t happen again less because I think it wrong, and rather more because I am so horribly embarrassed at having been so utterly crass. It pains me even to recall some of the things that I said, and it has nothing to do with how I made anyone feel, and everything to do with having made myself a fool.”
“Oh,” Harry said again. He thought about it. “Pansy said she wouldn’t save her folks from a burning building.”
“Pansy is vulgar,” said Zabini.
Pansy looked bored. “I try.”
“I would never say such a thing,” said Zabini. “It would be in bad taste.”
“But,” said Harry, “the thing is, would you save your parents from a burning building?”
“That is not the thing,” said Zabini. “And nor is it the point. The point is that my mother will never be in a burning building. I shall see to it that it never happens.”
“But what if it does?” said Harry.
Zabini sipped his cocktail. “It won’t.”
“But what if it does?”
Zabini sighed. “We’ll never know, will we? But this is my hypothesis: if there were a burning building, with my mother in it, and if it should occur to me, in the heat of the moment, that someone may perceive a decision that saves my own skin is uncouth, why then I should Apparate into that burning building directly, and die screaming, but accepted by society. There, does that answer your question?”
“I don’t know.” Harry thought about it some more. “That’s a really weird answer.”
“It’s a weird question,” said Pansy. “It’s really quite morbid.”
“I dislike morbidity,” said Zabini. “That’s why I disliked Death Eaters, though they were rather modish in the late nineties.”
“So, you weren’t a Death Eater?” Harry asked.
“Blaise?” Both of Pansy’s brows went up.
Harry had thought only Malfoy could make her do that.
“Of course I wasn’t a Death Eater,” said Zabini. “What did I just say about being uncouth?”
“And you weren’t for Voldemort?” Harry asked.
“Malfoy was right,” Pansy said. “You really do paint all the Slytherins with the same brush.”
Harry looked at Pansy. “Malfoy said that?”
“In eighth year,” Pansy said.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Does he . . . think that now?”
Pansy raised a brow. “You tell me.”
“Tom Riddle was a hooligan,” said Zabini. “Zabinis never side with hooligans.”
“Hooligan,” said Harry.
“There you go, repeating things I say again,” said Zabini. “Would you prefer that I tell you Voldemort was evil? Rotten to the core? Morally repugnant? He might have been all of those things, but if you want the truth―of course you do; you’re Harry Potter―I didn’t side with him, but only because I found him personally distasteful, and Mother didn’t approve.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “But you said Voldemort was a hooligan.”
“I thought it droll,” said Zabini. “Didn’t you?”
Harry thought about it. “I suppose.”
Zabini looked at him thoughtfully. “Why did you break up with Miss Weasley?”
“I’m gay,” said Harry, because it was the easy answer.
“Oh, is that all?” said Zabini.
“I told you not to dangle fresh bait,” said Pansy.
Zabini ignored her. “Miss Weasley could hardly blame you for being gay.”
“I’m not bait.” Harry turned to Zabini. “If you say something like, ‘all the cool kids are doing it these days,’ I’ll hit you.”
“I would hardly be so predictable.” Zabini was looking thoughtful again. When he spoke, his voice was a little less bright than it was generally. It was almost gentle. “It isn’t a crime, Potter.”
“I know,” Harry said. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Harry’s not ashamed of anything,” Pansy said.
Harry looked at her. “Yes, I am.”
Pansy’s shiny black eyes didn’t flicker. “Do tell.”
“For one,” said Harry, “Malfoy was right. I did paint all Slytherins with the same brush, and I’m sorry for that. I’m ashamed of it, and I should have . . . I don’t know. I should have made more of an effort to . . . get to know some of you. Or, I don’t know. Understand.”
“We didn’t exactly make it easy.” Zabini was still using that softer voice.
Harry pushed his glasses up. “You can call me Harry.”
“We didn’t exactly make it easy, Harry,” said Zabini.
“None of us did.” Harry looked up at Zabini, who was looking at him in that calm and placid way, and was really, very attractive. “But it’s easier now.”
“Thanks be to Merlin,” said Zabini. “I do so love things that are easy.”
“I would venture to say that Harry is rather difficult,” said Pansy.
“I do so love a challenge,” said Zabini.
Rolling her eyes, Pansy said, “You contradict yourself.”
Zabini smiled affably. “I’m vast. I contain multitudes.”
“I’m still not bait,” said Harry.
“That’s all right.” Zabini’s smile grew warmer by degrees. “I’ll just stretch out and photosynthesise. If we happen to cross paths, then it is as the water wills.”
“One-liners,” Pansy said, “and ridiculously extended metaphors.”
“Zabini contains multitudes,” Harry said.
Zabini’s smile was lazy and bright. “Call me Blaise.”
* * *
22 July, 2004
“Nice scarf,” Malfoy said.
Harry was just getting ready to leave his desk, grabbing his coat and a purple swath of cloth. “It’s Pansy’s.”
Malfoy raised a brow.
“She left it at my flat.” Malfoy’s other brow went up, and Harry realized how it might have sounded. “She and Blaise and I went to a horror movie. We had drinks at my flat after.” It had been several weeks since he met Blaise. Harry liked him―he was interesting, for one thing, and seemed to be completely lacking in malice, for another.
“Oh.”
For some reason, Harry still felt like he hadn’t explained it enough. “Pansy said you didn’t like horror movies.”
“Pansy isn’t coming.”
“Oh.” Harry looked down at the silky purple thing.
Malfoy had been right. Hermione and Ron were fighting about Pansy. A little after Malfoy and Hermione had met for coffee instead of coming to the pub, Hermione had explained.
It had started when Ron and Pansy ended up going to The Cashmere Labyrinth in Wales alone. Ron had asked Hermione if she really wanted to go, seeing as how she didn’t really care for the band, and Hermione―well, she said she might have sort of suggested that Ron just wanted to be alone with Pansy, and Ron had got angry, and she had got angry, and they had fought. So Ron had gone with Pansy alone, and Hermione had been jealous.
She said she knew she was being ridiculous. Yet, for some reason, she and Ron still hadn’t made up. It was going on for longer than usual, this time.
“I can take it,” Malfoy said.
“What? Oh. Okay.” Harry gave him the scarf.
While Malfoy folded it and put it in his bag, Harry figured it was time they went to the pub. When he made to leave, Malfoy didn’t move.
“I like Muggle movies,” Malfoy said suddenly.
“I didn’t think you didn’t, Malfoy.”
“They’re a great way to understand Muggles, and I think some of them are really good. I like the historical ones.”
“Mostly I like the ones Hermione tells me to watch,” said Harry.
“I don’t only like the films Hermione likes.”
Harry looked at him curiously. “Well, I also like sci-fi.”
“I just mean, I’ve made an independent effort to understand Muggle culture, and literature. And football. I might not have thought so before, but now I realize that it’s very important. We share a world with them.”
Malfoy was tall. He was even taller than Harry, but he was slighter than Harry, so he seemed to take up a little less space. He still dressed just as neatly as he always had―mostly in creams and greys, though sometime he wore black, and Harry wished he wouldn’t. Malfoy looked stark in black and the effect was very striking.
His shirt was black today and his suit charcoal grey, which wasn’t much better.
“Are you saying you like horror?” Harry said finally, because if he didn’t say something soon he was probably going to comment on Malfoy’s choice of clothing.
“No.” Malfoy turned to leave Harry’s cubicle. “I’m saying Pansy is a cow.”
Harry caught up. “Why?”
“Nothing. She’s just been a right bint, lately.”
“She hasn’t been a bint to me,” Harry said.
Malfoy just snorted softly. When he reached the lift, he stopped and turned around. “Ron isn’t coming.”
“I know,” Harry said.
Ron and Hermione had a lot to work out, and some of it was Hermione and Ron just being . . . Hermione and Ron, stubborn and blind and stupid, but some of it wasn’t. Ron liked Quidditch and music and chess, and Hermione liked advocacy, academia, and organizing shelves. Ron didn’t like his job, and Hermione understood why he stayed with George, she truly did, but it was hard on her, loving her own jobs as she did, and hearing him complain, and wanting just to tell him to do something different. Especially when he couldn’t just put up with Crookshanks, for Merlin’s sake.
Hermione had told Harry all of it in a bit of a mess, shortly after she’d talked to Malfoy. There had been a lot of tears and mucous, and she kept apologizing for shutting him out. She hadn’t wanted to make things difficult with Pansy, she had said―or with Malfoy, or Harry and Malfoy, or Harry and Pansy, or Harry, Pansy, and Malfoy. Harry hadn’t even really tried working out what she meant by that, exactly. Mostly he’d just hugged her.
After all, things seemed to be going all right with Malfoy so far.
“I wondered if I . . . I thought I might invite Greg instead,” Malfoy said. “But only if you . . . I understand why you wouldn’t.” His hand was tight on his strap.
“Sure,” Harry said.
“You don’t . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “He’s . . . thanks, Potter.” He didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes.
“Sure,” Harry said. “Why don’t you owl him now?”
“All right,” Malfoy said, and they went to send the owl.
*
When they got to the pub, Hermione and Goyle were there talking.
Goyle barely looked up. “Heya, Potter, Draco.” He turned back to Hermione. “But what about Gringotts? They had one.”
“They had it chained in a dungeon!” Hermione said.
“Yeah, and it was bloody useful, wasn’t it? Or, I guess it wasn’t that useful, seeing as how you and Potter here stole it. Though just how you managed, with Potter’s history of almost getting char-broiled, that’s a mystery.” Goyle thought about it. “That was the best part of the Triwizard Tournament.” He glanced at Harry. “Sorry, Potter.”
“That’s okay,” said Harry. “I stripped you and put you in a cupboard.”
Goyle just turned back to Hermione. “See, if I tamed dragons, I could still char-broil him. I could even have him extra crispy.”
“Remember how we talked about not killing Potter,” Malfoy said, with a notable lack of concern.
“I meant to say I’m sorry,” said Harry, “about the cupboard.”
“Better be quicker next time,” said Goyle. “Or I’ll char-broil you.”
Harry raised his brow. “You and what dragon?”
“Me and the dragon I’m going to tame, only Hermione here says dragon taming is unethical.” Goyle frowned and turned to Malfoy. “Draco, are we still being ethical?”
Malfoy nicked Goyle’s pint and sat back. “We’re still being ethical.”
“Maybe you are.” Goyle turned to Harry to explain. “Draco’s been soppy, ever since he’s started being ethical.”
Malfoy just went on drinking Goyle’s pint. Goyle didn’t seem to mind. “Remember how much fun we’ve had since we’ve become ethical?”
“What fun?” Goyle grunted. “I mean, besides not going to gaol and getting Kissed, I suppose. That’s just a pack of laughs, innit.”
Malfoy put down Goyle’s pint. “Remember that manticore?”
“That wasn’t ethical,” said Goyle. “That was just the right thing to do.”
“You saw a manticore?” Harry asked. He hadn’t known anyone but Hagrid who’d met any manticores.
“Caught one,” said Goyle, proudly. “But I let it go, on account of he talked a lot, and was smarter than me.”
“He tricked you?” Harry said.
“How could he do that?” Goyle sipped his stout. “I had him tied but good.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, you said―”
“Oh, that. I just don’t like if there are too many people around who are smarter than me. I’ve got a threshold.” Goyle glared at Malfoy, who grinned.
“You’re not going to like Hermione at all,” said Harry.
Goyle scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Um.” Harry glanced at Hermione. “I just think she’s quite sharp, that’s all.”
Goyle shook his head. “She’s a dunce about dragons.”
“I know plenty about dragons,” said Hermione, piqued. “My boyfriend’s brother―”
“My sister’s best friend raised a dragon,” said Goyle. “Top that.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “One of my best friends mostly raised a dragon, except Malfoy got frightened and reported him.”
“You were such a girl,” Goyle told Malfoy. He turned back to Harry. “I was always telling him, he was such a girl.”
“I’m pretty sure you helped him,” said Hermione.
“Also,” said Harry, “I’m pretty sure you were a girl in sixth year. Under Polyjuice, but still.”
“What is this,” said Goyle, “pick on Greg day?”
Malfoy smirked. “Is it a day ending in y? Anyway, I don’t mind being a girl. Girls are hot.”
Harry wished he’d ordered a drink at the bar before he’d sat down.
“Malfoy,” said Goyle, “you’re a poof. I keep telling him he’s a poof,” he told Harry and Hermione, “but he keeps forgetting.”
You forget you’re a poof? Harry wanted to say, but somehow couldn’t. He couldn’t even really look in that direction. Luckily Hermione said, “Um, Greg, I don’t think being gay is something you forget. I mean, people can be confused. Or bisexual, or―”
“Oh, no,” said Goyle. “You’re thinking of Blaise.”
“Blaise is bisexual,” said Malfoy. “He’s not confused. He always knows exactly what he wants.”
Harry didn’t know what expression Malfoy was making, because he still wasn’t looking over there.
“That’s why Malfoy’s such a pissant about Blaise,” said Goyle. “Malfoy never knows what he wants.”
Malfoy was silent.
“Anyway,” said Goyle, “like I was saying, they used a dragon in Gringotts. Bloody useful, it was.”
Hermione put her nose in the air. “They didn’t need to use a dragon. There are other kinds of security.”
Goyle shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t. But that would’ve been way less cool.”
“Cool is not the point,” said Hermione.
“Cool is so the point,” said Goyle. “I’d make Draco tell you cool is very much the bloody point, but he wouldn’t back me up, just like the big sodding wanker he’s let himself become. He would be lying, though, because he thinks that mucking about doing the right thing is cool these days.”
“What do you think doing the right thing is?” said Hermione.
“Dead boring,” Goyle said promptly.
“I don’t know.” Hermione smirked. “I think it’s kind of hot.”
Goyle rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s saggy tits, just make out already.”
“I thought Draco was a poof?” Hermione looked innocent, while Malfoy smirked as well.
“Greg reminds me that I am,” said Malfoy.
“You’re a bloody disgrace, you are,” said Goyle. “Potter, what do you think about it?”
“What?” Harry looked away from Hermione, who was batting her eyelashes at Malfoy, laughing.
Goyle grunted impatiently. “About doing the right thing?”
“Um,” said Harry, because he didn’t want to say what he really thought, in case Goyle would tell him to snog someone too.
It wouldn’t be a good idea, with Malfoy wearing black, and everything.
“I think you should try it,” Harry said instead. “You might like it.”
“Speaking of doing the right thing,” Malfoy said, “is Meagre seriously going to stamp out that bill?”
“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I think he’s wavering.”
“Wavering?” said Malfoy. “What’s there to waver on? He should’ve signed it last week.”
Hermione smiled. “It only went up yesterday.”
“I know.” Malfoy drank more of Goyle’s pint. “He should be run out on a rail.”
“I think his supporters are getting disillusioned,” said Hermione.
Malfoy raised a brow. “Think he’ll pay for it next election?”
“Let’s hope so. With Wang breathing down his neck, he doesn’t look pretty.”
“It's not Wang making him look bad. She's starting to come off as mental as he is.”
“Mental?” Hermione looked appalled. “You mean, saying Beings who are perfectly capable of rational thought deserve―”
“Here they go,” said Goyle.
Goyle was right, actually. Hermione went on talking, even though it wasn’t like Goyle had turned down his voice to have a separate conversation. When Hermione and Malfoy got going, they really got going.
“Does she ever talk anything but politics?” Goyle said.
Harry looked at him, startled. “Were you talking politics before we got here?”
“Not really,” said Goyle. “I don’t talk politics. But usually she does.”
“Usually?” Harry frowned. “You mean, you’ve met Hermione before today?”
Goyle laughed. He laughed and laughed, and then looked at Harry. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were making a joke. Malfoy says you’re funny.”
Harry glanced at Malfoy. He was deep in conversation with Hermione. “He does?”
“He also says you’re smarter than we thought. I think he’s off his nut, personally. Potter,” Goyle said very slowly, “I met Hermione when I was eleven.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I just meant, since Hogwarts. It wasn’t like she talked a lot of politics back then.”
Goyle just kept talking very slowly. “You might not have noticed, but Draco and Hermione are sort of chummy. It’s like they’re mates, or something.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “I get it. Never mind.”
It made sense. Hermione and Malfoy were friends, so Hermione was friends with Malfoy’s friends. Harry didn’t know why they wouldn’t be.
Just, it hadn’t occurred to him, when Malfoy had said he was bringing Goyle to the pub, that Malfoy brought Goyle everywhere else but the pub. And yet, that made sense too. Malfoy always used to bring Goyle everywhere. Malfoy may have changed a lot, but he was the same person.
“I just mean,” Malfoy was saying, “she could buy into the conservative crowd, if she made more of an effort.”
Hermione snorted. “You mean, if she was more moderate.”
They were still talking about Natasha Wang. Natasha Wang was a member of the Wizengamot, directly opposed to Meagre and his ilk. She came out strongly in support of some of Hermione’s statements, but Malfoy and Hermione argued about her a lot. She caused big stirs in the press, because she was kind of sensational.
“You’re not moderate,” Malfoy pointed out.
“And look where that’s got me.”
Malfoy just shrugged. “You’ve got me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “And Harry, and . . .” Frowning, Hermione looked down, stirring her drink. “Anyway, that wasn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about―”
“But that is what we’re talking about.” Malfoy shook the hair out of his eyes. “I’m not Muggle-born. I’m not―I wasn’t raised with the idea that―with the ideas you have. You and I, we don’t think the same, but I’m saying, you’ve got me on your side.”
Hermione’s smile was soft. “You did that on your own.”
It was Malfoy who rolled his eyes then. “Yes, I’m a very special snowflake. But I don’t have to be. Someone could make the others―others like me, I mean―could make them see, but Wang’s just so full of righteous indignation. She doesn’t care what people like me think, because if we’re not with her, we’re against her.”
Hermione frowned. “Maybe. But I’m not sure there’s―”
“You could do it.”
Hermione looked up, startled. “What? No, I―”
“You could do it, and I should know.”
“How?” said Hermione.
Malfoy just smiled. “Because, I’m a very special snowflake.”
Hermione began, “But I’m not―”
“Usually when the go off like this,” said Goyle, “Ron and I just talk about Quidditch.”
“Ron?” Harry asked, startled.
“Ron. Ginger? Completely barmy when it comes to Quidditch.” Goyle shook his head. “You know, Pansy used to say you didn’t pay any attention to us at all in school. Draco said you did, and I believed Draco, because he’s devilishly clever, and Pansy is sort of a bitch. But now I’m more inclined to believe Pansy. I did go to Hogwarts, you know.”
“I know,” said Harry. “It’s just, you were so busy at Hogwarts cheering when I almost got char-broiled; it’s just . . . this is weird, that’s all.”
“Don’t think I won’t still cheer.” Goyle nicked his pint back from Malfoy and drained the rest. “I’m gonna go to the bar,” he said, standing up.
“Okay.” Harry stood up too. He hadn’t got a drink to begin with. Neither had Malfoy. Malfoy mostly just got fizzy water anyway, when he wasn’t nicking other people’s pints, so Harry thought he’d order.
Malfoy caught Goyle’s wrist. “Fizzy water?”
Rolling his eyes, Goyle shook off Malfoy’s grip. “Yes, your excellentness.”
Malfoy just smirked at him, and turned back to Hermione.
The pub had poor service. Someone would eventually come around and ask what you wanted, but it was best to just go up to the bar. The bar was a big tree, cut in half length-wise and then jointed in an “L”. Harry stood beside it with Goyle, waiting to catch the bartender’s attention.
“So,” Harry said, in order not to be awkward, “you’re going to tame a dragon?”
Goyle shrugged. “Maybe two or three.”
“Why does Hermione think it’s unethical?”
“She says dragons are thinking creatures. I don’t know why she always gets her shorts in such a twist. Horses are thinking creatures, aren’t they? What, we can’t ride horses, now?”
“Maybe dragons are different.” Harry thought Hermione would probably know. Charlie said they were smart as humans, but Charlie couldn’t really be trusted not to exaggerate when it came to dragons.
The bartender was serving three witches down on the other end. It was sort of busy, tonight. Harry turned back to Goyle. “What are you going to do with a tamed dragon?” he asked.
“Dunno. Read it poetry. What do you think, Potter? I’m going to terrorize villages and such. No one’s going to mess with me, if I have a dragon.”
Harry felt his eyebrows rise. “Do people mess with you now?”
Goyle rolled his eyes. “You sound just like Draco.”
“Malfoy would probably tell you that terrorizing villages is unethical.”
“Merlin’s balls, we can’t do anything any more.” Goyle put his forearms on the bar. “Mostly, I just think it’d be cool, having a dragon. I’d ride it around, and people would think I was tough. They’d say, ‘we can’t do anything to Greg. He has a dragon.’ And I’d only feed it rabbits and cats and things―you know, useless animals no one wants. It’d probably really like me, a dragon would.”
“Oh,” said Harry, because suddenly, he thought he understood.
“Yeah.” Goyle started tapping the bar restlessly. “That’s why I’m going to be a dragon tamer.”
“When did you first get the idea?”
“The Triwizard Tournament,” Goyle said immediately, “when that Weasley brought the dragons.”
“Charlie,” said Harry.
“Yeah, that Weasley. I wanted to be him. Draco told me I couldn’t, seeing as how I wasn’t freckled or ginger or poor or a disgrace or nearly as fit, but mostly I think he was upset because he wanted to be that Weasley, too.”
“Malfoy wanted to be Charlie?”
Goyle snorted. “Don’t be daft, Potter. Everyone wanted to be that Weasley. He handles dragons.” He drummed his hands. “With Draco, though, mostly he wanted to have an earring.”
“Um.” Harry’s mind sort of went blank.
“I know,” said Goyle. “That’s what I thought too.”
Harry was pretty sure Goyle hadn’t thought what Harry was thinking right now. In fact, Harry was sure of it.
“Luckily, he got over it. Hey, can I get a Scallywag Stout?” Goyle asked the bartender, who had just come up. “Oh. And get me some of those cheesy pepper crisps. The ones with the wavy lines.”
“Don’t forget Malfoy’s fizzy water,” said Harry.
Goyle rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s saggy balls. And a fizzy water.”
“I’ll have a Mermaid Blonde,” Harry said. The bartender left to pull their drinks, and Harry turned back to Goyle. “You work for the Ministry too, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Goyle. “I’m a Creatures Collector. Hermione wants to get my job changed.”
“She wants you to get a new job, or she wants to change what your job is?”
“The second one. She thinks impounding creatures is cruel.”
“Do you?”
Goyle shrugged. “I don’t like how we don’t get to keep them. Maybe she should change that. But really, I want to be a Magizoologist.”
“A Magizoologist?” Harry had to ask, because Goyle had fumbled the pronunciation, a bit.
Goyle didn't seemed disturbed by it. “You know, like Luna.”
Harry just looked at him. “Luna. Luna Lovegood?”
“Are you sure you're not mental?” Goyle frowned. “Draco used to say you might be.”
“But how do you know Luna? Besides Hogwarts, obviously,” Harry added, as Goyle rolled his eyes.
Goyle shrugged. “Luna and me, sometimes we go on hikes and stuff. I think nature hikes are stupid, but we see some pretty neat things. Once we saw a roc. I don’t mean like a rock on the ground. I mean like one of those great big birds. It was awesome. Luna wouldn’t let me cast fireballs at it, though.”
“I imagine she wouldn’t,” Harry said, still trying to figure out why Luna had chosen to hang out with Gregory Goyle.
Then again, Luna chose to hang out with Thestrals. Harry guessed he really shouldn't be shocked.
“I wouldn’t have really hurt it anyway,” Goyle was saying, “maybe just got it to land. And then I could have ridden it around. And if I did hurt it, then maybe I could keep its skull.”
Harry leaned on the bar as well. “How did you get interested in Magizoology?”
“Care of Magical Creatures was my favourite class.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah. Draco hated it. I think mostly he just didn’t like going outside. I did hate those Blast-Ended Skrewts. And those Flobberworms. What an utter pile of complete sodding shite. But Hagrid didn’t make us do tests the way the other teachers did. He didn’t make us learn big words either and he didn’t make us write things down. I think that secretly that’s really why Draco didn’t like him. Draco likes to be clever.”
“He did say he likes big words,” Harry said.
“In a kinky way. Is that nasty, or what? You should’ve seen the way he used to get around Blaise. He’d get so worked up, he’d’ve done anything Blaise asked. Then Blaise would laugh at him and Draco would fly off the handle.”
Harry looked around for the bartender. It had been a while. But he didn’t look like he was coming, and Harry didn’t know how else to distract himself from asking, “So, Malfoy and Blaise?”
“Well, not any more,” said Goyle. “Draco says it’s way more important to get at the heart of matters than having a big vocabulary.” He drummed his hand some more. “Maybe that’s why Draco and me, we’ve always been friends. Even if he is a little princess.”
Harry looked around for the bartender again, mostly because he didn’t want to think any more about Malfoy, who was still wearing black. “So,” he said, turning back to Goyle. “You thought Hagrid was all right?”
Goyle just grunted. “He had a motorbike, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “I guess.”
“I’m going to get me a motorbike.”
Harry smiled. “Is that before or after you get a dragon?”
“Maybe before. You really are just like Draco.”
“What?”
Goyle grimaced. “You’re humouring me. You think I don’t know when people are humouring me? Draco does it all the time.”
Harry watched him drum his fingers for a while. Goyle dressed as impeccably as Pansy, but he was still a great deal overweight. He might have had an appealing face, with his rich brown hair and large, rather bovine eyes, if he didn't also pretty much wear a perpetual scowl. Just then, he didn’t look any more unhappy than usually, but then again, Harry wasn’t well versed in reading Goyle. “You know,” he said finally, “I don’t know that Hagrid’s using that motorbike over in France. You might be able to buy it off him.”
“What?” Goyle looked at him suspiciously. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” Harry said, trying to look as earnest as he could. He could look pretty earnest. Usually he didn’t try to be otherwise. “I can put you in touch with him.”
“That’s bloody fantastic, Potter.”
Harry grinned. “You can call me Harry.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to call me Goyle?”
“I will if you want me to,” Harry said, surprised.
“What? No. I bloody hate that name. Do you know just how many people have called me gargoyle? They all think they’re so bloody clever. They think they made it up! Like it’s really that witty.”
“Sorry,” said Harry.
“I guess this means I can’t call you Potty, though. Draco’d probably hex me six ways to Sunday. He really doesn’t like when people make fun of you nowadays.”
“Oh.” Harry looked for the bartender again. “Well, I’ll just call you Greg, then.”
“Unless it’s him making fun of you,” said Greg. “Draco is such a ponce.”
The bartender came and gave them their drinks and Greg’s crisps; they paid and they took them back to the table. When they sat down, Hermione was saying, “She has no―”
“You can’t believe her, when she says things like that,” Malfoy said.
“Right.” Hermione grimaced. “So, she lies.”
“No,” said Malfoy.
“Here’s your fizzy water,” said Greg.
“Okay, yes,” said Malfoy, “she lies, but she just says those things to―to be provocative.”
“She’s always being provocative,” Hermione said. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“Also I got those cheesy crisps you like,” said Greg. “You know, the ones with the pepper.”
“That’s just her nature,” said Malfoy.
“That’s not actually an excuse!” Hermione didn’t yell, but she sounded really, really angry.
It was around then that Harry realized they weren’t actually talking about politics any more.
“What do you want her to do,” said Malfoy, “be someone she isn’t?”
“I want her to stop propositioning my boyfriend!”
“There’s not a chance he would ever say yes,” which wasn’t what Malfoy had told Harry, “so why does it matter? Ron doesn’t have a problem with it, anyway. He knows Pansy is just being Pansy.”
“She is just being Pansy,” Hermione said, “and that’s the problem. Draco, she has no remorse. She said so herself. She doesn’t care about anything.”
“She cares about me!”
“You told me to warn you when you get excited,” Greg told Malfoy, taking a handful of crisps. “You’re getting excited.”
“This is between Hermione and me,” Malfoy said.
Greg shrugged and ate his crisps.
“You can’t be someone’s conscience, Draco,” Hermione said. “That’s not how it works.”
“I’m not her conscience.” Colour was high in Malfoy’s face. “I’m her friend. And some day you’re going to wake up and realize that you don’t know how everything works.”
“She said she didn’t care about the world. She said she didn’t care about―”
“I don’t care what she said! You don’t know anything about her. You don’t know what she’s been through―what we’ve been through, together.”
“I know you care about her,” said Hermione. “And she cares about you, in her own way. But caring about someone isn’t enough to tell you right from wrong, and I think―”
“No,” said Malfoy. “They need you to do that for them, is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
“It is, though. You come in with this idea that everyone should love and understand each other, and if they don’t understand that philosophy, by God, you’ll make them understand it―instead of trying to understand theirs.”
“That’s not fair. I only want you to see―”
“There you go again.”
“You’re one to talk. You go on and on about understanding your point of view. I’m trying. I’ve always tried. It’s not like you can say the same.”
Greg was reaching for his pint, and Malfoy’s hand clamped down on Greg’s wrist suddenly.
“Steady on, mate,” Greg said.
Malfoy wasn’t even looking at him, but he didn’t let go. His face was livid. “You walked into our world already knowing exactly what you thought of it,” he told Hermione. “You and your little friends. So clever, so heroic, so good.”
Greg tried to pull his arm away from Malfoy, but Malfoy held him fast, his knuckles pale, his eyes very bright. Shrugging, Greg reached around with his left hand to liberate the pint his right one had been reaching for, and drank more stout.
“We weren’t always right,” said Hermione, “but no, we weren’t the ones condemning people based on who their parents were, or―”
“Hermione.” Harry’s voice was quiet. “Don’t.”
Hermione looked at him. “I’m just . . .”
“You’re just.” Malfoy sneered. “You’re just right. You’ve just always been right. You’ve always known right from wrong. You came in knowing it. And when we weren’t doing it your way, you knew we were wrong.”
“Well,” Hermione said, “you were wrong, then―”
Malfoy stood, chair scraping back, hand still tight on Greg’s arm. “You don’t understand us. You’re never did understand us, and you’re never going to, because you’re just a―”
Malfoy cut off abruptly. Then he went white as a sheet.
“Come on,” he said to Greg.
“No,” said Greg. “This is between Hermione and you.”
“Draco,” said Hermione.
Malfoy tugged Greg’s arm. “We’re going.”
“I haven’t finished my pint,” said Greg.
“Now,” Malfoy said, and tugged again.
“Fine.” Greg chugged the remaining two inches of his stout, grabbing a handful of crisps before letting Malfoy drag him away.
Hermione watched them go, then collapsed into her chair. “Oh, Harry,” she said, burying her head in her hands. Then she burst into tears.
Harry touched her on the shoulder, awkwardly petting her hair, and told her that everything would be okay.
* * *
Next