Unofficial Portkey Archive

Chapter Three.
The Past and the Pitfalls therein.

"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."

-Leslie Poles Hartley

London. 1997.
Ron slammed the door, the sound of it startling Harry from the couch. Ron stormed into the living room and dropped onto the couch next to the spot where Harry had sat back down. Harry looked over at the spot on Ron's neck where a vein was fit to burst from the skin.
"Rough night?" Harry asked.
Without turning his head Ron spat out, "I can't be in this fucking city anymore."
"So, yeah. That sounds kind of rough." Harry scratched his neck nervously, "Wasn't tonight the big anniversary date?"
"Let's-" Ron sighed, "Harry, can we just not talk about this."
Harry shifted on the couch. They sat awkwardly until Harry got up to grab a bag of crisps from the kitchen. Once there he stood in the kitchen, gripping the crisps bag and staring into space. Thoughts fought themselves in his head the whole time. On one hand he had been in this flat with Ron for months, watching as Ron's world collapsed around him, helping his mate where he could. On the other hand there was a strange thing happening every day following one of his best friends fights.
"If you want to talk about it later, I'll be around." Harry said silently.
Harry wasn't watching Ron walk down the hall, but he heard him stop. He heard the silence that meant that Ron was standing still, thinking of what to say, and finally he heard as his best friend in the world stormed back out, finger pointing at him.
"You know what I want, Harry?" He shouted.
"What? What do you want?"
"I want you to just fuck her like she wants so I can be rid of her, that's what I want!"
Harry eyed his best friend carefully, "You don't mean that."
"How in the world would you ever begin to know what I mean?"
"What?"
Ron took four steps closer, so that he was almost nose to nose with Harry, "What do you think your little lunch dates with her are, anyway? You think she wants to see you so often because she appreciates your opinions about the world or something?"
"We're old friends, Ron. She needs someone to talk to about all the fighting between the two of you. For Christ sakes, man! Her only other friend in the world is your sister!"
Harry..." Ron stopped and stared at him, a mixture of pity and anguish fighting for dominance over his expression, "What is it that she tells you we're fighting about?"
For several minutes an uneasy silence punctuated every ambient noise in the flat. Harry had his suspicions about how Hermione felt about him, he even had his knowledge of how he felt about her. Their frequent lunchtime dates had been a constant source of guilt in his life. But for all the time they had spent, the good time, they had never gotten into the specifics of the deterioration of Ron and Hermione's relationship. Finally, with nothing else to say, he told the truth.
"She doesn't talk about it."
"Then what does she talk about?" Ron asked.
"Mostly that you two are having trouble, that she doesn't think it's your fault. I don't know. What do you want me to say?"
"Do you love her?" He spoke so softly that Harry could barely hear him.
"Of course I do." He answered, "She's one of my oldest friends."
"Fuck you. Do you love her?"
Harry cast his eyes to the floor, shame working it's way into every cell in his body. Ron reached forward, grabbed him by the chin and yanked his face forward.
"Do. You. Love. Her."
"I... I don't know." He answered lamely.
"Well, mate, she loves you." Ron said darkly, "And that is what we fight about."
Ron stormed out of the room, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Harry stood in shock, after some time he found himself sitting on the couch again, unsure of how or when he had gotten back to it. He shook his head until he was certain that he was functioning and slowly crept past Ron's door toward his room. Afraid that any sound he made would upset his friend.
When Harry made it to his room he found an owl waiting with a letter for him. It was from Hermione, but of course it was. It always was. It had one sentence, "I need to see you tomorrow." Harry sighed, wrote a hasty response to the letter, giving her a place to meet him and a time. He rolled it up, strapped it to the owl's leg, and lay in bed unable to sleep for several hours.

* * *

London. 2003.
Harry shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable, and the movement of it dislodged him and he found himself a mess on the floor. His wrist watch read 8:14am. He sniffed the air and caught the very familiar smell of coffee brewing. He sat up and followed the aroma to his kitchen where he found Hermione standing in one of his tee shirts. She was standing in front of the coffee pot, the early morning sunlight hitting her like that was the purpose in it's rising that morning.
"That smells great." Harry mumbled, "I hope you made enough for two."
Hermione swirled around, a smile on her face, "It's all for you. I'm far too British for coffee."
"Don't you bullshit me." He smiled back.
"You're right, but I don't need it." She wrapped her arms around her back, "I took the day off at the office."
"Well, isn't that something."
"Don't you dare say that something is going to happen, Harry Potter."
"You mean like pigs flying?"
"I mean like, yes."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Hermione pointed to the counter where a very small stack of letters was sitting, "You got some owls this morning."
Harry walked over and picked up the mail, saying his thanks along the way. There were two letters. The first was on parchment style paper and read in this way;

Harry,
We heard that you were back in London! How wonderful. My husband and I will be coming down to see you this afternoon, if you have the time to see us. Please send us an owl back with the time and place which would work for you. Can't wait to see you!
From,
Ron and Luna Weasly.

The second letter was written on regular muggle printer paper and was far more brief,

Harr-bear,
How are things going back in the home country? Are you eating? Getting laid? You never write, Harr-bear. You never write.
See you when you get back, buddy.
- Draco Malfoy.

Harry smiled to himself as he read over the letters. He turned both over and wrote out responses on the back of each before he sent them out with his owl. By the time he was done Hermione had stuck a mug of coffee in his hand and sat down with him at the kitchen table.
"Did you pick up food for the flat?" He asked.
"Not too much. Enough if you want to eat for a few days." The she added to explain herself, "I got up a bit before you.

Well... Thank you." He scratched his chin, that mornings stubble against his fingernails, "I was going to have to do that at some point. Glad I can check it off the list.

"Did you sleep well?"
Harry sipped his coffee, "No, not really. I don't sleep well much these days."
"Something wrong?"
"No. Just insomnia." He paused to gather his thoughts, "You ever get tired of how much of our lives seem to revolve around how well I sleep?"
"Some times, very much so." She bite her lip, "I'm so accustomed to worry about you that I'm not certain that I know how to turn it off. I know it must be terrible for you, everyone so worried all the time."
"Actually, having been away for so long..." Harry shrugged his shoulders, "My mates stateside don't worry that much. Just about the usual stuff."
"Usual stuff?"
"Yeah, Malfoy was dedicated to getting me laid a few years ago."
"Was he now?" Her eyebrow shot up, "Much success with that?"
"Not really." Harry sipped his coffee, "I had this one girlfriend for awhile in New York, but we didn't last that long. Malfoy, and Amber thought that it was damned odd that a single man my age wasn't out in the streets chasing women around."
"Who is Amber?"
"Malfoy's wife. He got married. I told you that, didn't I?"
"Yes, I suppose you did. I didn't know her name." Hermione blushed, " I should have expected that she was his wife."
"No big."
They sat in silence for awhile as Harry sipped his coffee and Hermione played with the tangled ends of her hair. The awkward moments that seeped in to their conversations had become something of an excepted terror. So much history was caught up between them, so many things that were painful or uncomfortable doors to open that they themselves didn't always realize when one had been opened. Finally Hermione sat up and checked her watch.
"So, we've got the day ahead of us. Any business that you need to attend to?"
Harry glanced at the window, noting to himself that his post was on it's way, "I told Ron and Luna that I would meet them for lunch. Are you welcome?"
"I don't know?" She smiled and raised an eyebrow, "Am I?"
"Well, I just thought that since you're his former girlfriend that it might... I don't even know if you guys are comfortable..." Harry sighed, "I'm not good at group drama anymore. Maybe I never was. You're welcome as far as I'm concerned."

* * *

London. 2003.
Ginny moved around her flat like a woman on a mission. Every movement of her arms and legs almost as though they had been planned months in advance. Sweat beading on her brow. She was not a big home maker but when she worried, she cleaned. It was a habit she had inherited from her mother.

There was little enjoyment in the act, it had a perfunctory, almost ritual like quality to it. It was easy to lose herself in the smell of disinfectant and the feel of grim building up under her nails. The motion of her arms carrying her from room to room in a trance state. The unknowing feeling of being without embracing that being. She knew only the difficult spot behind the microwave, the tip toe reach to dust the ceiling fan blades, the day to day routine of thoughtless motion.

In this way she didn't have to find herself dwelling on the fact that her roommate didn't come home the night before. That Harry Potter had walked back into her life, without a greeting or an apology or even so much as an acknowledgment of her existence. She didn't have to think about how easy it would be to connect his reemergence with Hermione's disappearance the night before. She didn't have to let the unimagined grief of unresolved feelings, unanswered jealousy and gut wrenching fear consume her.

But all things can only be cleaned so much. She was fast approaching the moment when rag would be useless, floors would be reflective and dust would be an endangered entity. She would find herself in the emotional equivalent of a no man's land in her flat. Which she did, as she always knew she would have to eventually. She wrapped herself in a pain so profound that affected her limbs. It quaked her from follicle to finger tip. Her lip quivered unexpectedly. She felt the moist heat choking her from her stomach to the back of her throat.

She steeled herself. Forced herself to concentrate on the fraying edges of a throw rug. Trying to make her mind concentrate itself. Driving the rising tears back into herself.

Not again, She said to herself, I won't waste anymore tears on Harry Potter.

* * *

London. 1997.
"How do you..." She sniffled, her tears dried to her face. It felt like a mask, like a skin that didn't belong to her, "This isn't fair? How do you justify this?"

Harry stood staring out his window, watching the London drizzle fog the window, "I don't know where you heard that life was fair, but you were misinformed."

Ginny blinked away her shock, "What?"

Harry didn't move. Didn't turn to look at her. His reflection, distorted by the fogged window, showed no sign of change. He was utterly impassive, "Life isn't fair, little one. I don't know why I'm the one that has to tell you that."

Ginny stood, throwing her purse across the room, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He didn't move so she went on, "How can you stand over there and feel nothing? How can you treat me like this? Say these things to me and not even care? Did I mean nothing to you?"

"You meant everything to me."

"Then what is all this? Why are you..." Her voice cracked, a fresh wave of tears welling up somewhere in her that stored water, "You're breaking my heart."

Harry didn't respond. He didn't even try to.

"Harry, please. I love you. If I mean everything to you, if I really do, why can't we be together?"

Harry sighed, "You meant. I said you MEANT everything to me."

"So I don't now?"

"No."

Ginny paused. The brutal honesty in his voice repellent to her, a kick in the chest delivered by a skilled opponent, "What do I mean to you now?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"How about the truth? How about why you suddenly want nothing to do with me?"

"You're my best friend's little sister, my ex girlfriend, and a valuable and capable soldier in a war I fought once."

"What was that?"

"Hmm?"

Ginny wanted to walk across the room and punch him. She wanted to see him bleed and she had no idea if she could prevent herself from making him, "That was a dossier. That was my dossier. Is that how you define people now?"

"How would you rather I put it?"

"What do you feel, Harry! What do you feel for me."

Harry cast his eyes at the cars moving in an out of rain slick London roads. He could almost be mistaken for thinking about his answer if not for his placid features. Finally he spoke, and with one word he ruined her life, in ways even he didn't understand completely at the time. He said only, "Nothing"

* * *

New York City. 2003.
Draco smiled when he got the post from Harry. It had been owled in that morning, and Draco had reveled slightly in the nostalgia of using owl post. He hadn't had much call for it in the last five years, he had almost totally cut himself off from the wizarding world. He had carved out a comfortable life for himself as a muggle. One he enjoyed thoroughly. He had his business, which was managing to thrive even in the early part of the recession, and a wife who knew him completely and loved every tiny bit of it.

No one had loved him so completely as Amber, and he himself had never loved another as much as he did her. He smiled as he looked around his new apartment. The first apartment he had owned himself in the city, bought with a combination of his vast wizard wealth and the money he and Amber made from their jobs.

It was a nice place. One bedroom, but with a massive living area, for a New York apartment anyway. The walls were decorated with art he loved and the 70's rock paraphernalia that Amber so treasured. There was an area just off the main living room that they had left empty. They planned to build a second room there, for the child they wished to have one day.

Draco sat down on his comfortable recliner, let his feet up and began to read Harry's response. It was simple and to the point, and spoke volumes about what was happening in Harry's life these days. It contained only one word, and that word was "Help."

* * *

New York City. 2000.

Harry was moping around the apartment. Reading two books at once, while doing very little productive besides. One novel was propped up on the sofa cushion he was laying on, the other tucked in away safely in his bedroom. Draco was still a little burnt out from a showing that had went well into the early hours of that morning. He was spacing out and soaking his feet. The two of them were basking in the comfortable silence that people develop after friendships and hardships have been endured and won.

"Malfoy?" Harry said, his voice almost echoing against the silence that had proceeded it.

"Yes?"

"I like her. Amber, I mean." He smiled, "She's good for you."

"Thank you." Draco smiled.

They returned to relaxing. Allowing several more minutes to pass. Finally Draco worked out in his head what he had wanted to say to Harry for some time.

"You saved my life."

"What?" Harry looked up from his book.

"You saved my life. Got me to move out here with you, got me to quit drinking. Encouraged me to set up my gallery." He paused, "I've never thanked you for that."

Harry smiled, "That's what friends are for, you big softie."

Draco chuckled, resigned himself to finish his thought and continued, "Why did you want to leave London anyway?"

Harry bookmarked his page and turned toward Draco, "The past is the part, mate. Why dwell?"

Draco gave him a knowing look, "You still love her."

Harry sat up and slumped his shoulders, "I don't follow."

"She stood up to me, no matter what I called her. She never bent or broke." He smiled, "She's good for you."

Harry returned to his prone position, opened his book and said simply, "Still don't follow."

Draco shrugged and allowed himself to slowly space out again. They continued on in this way until the time came to meet Amber for lunch. Harry was going to offer her a key to the apartment, he felt it important that she knew how welcome she was. How much a part of the family, they had built between each other, she was. Draco loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, but there wasn't a person in the world he respected more than the man whose simple act of compassion had lead to a friendship beyond anything that Draco had ever known or thought that he deserved. He only wished that he could make it up to him.

* * *

London. 2003.

Ron and Luna sat in the patio restaurant that Harry had asked them to meet him in. It was a pleasant day in London, sunny yet cool. Ron held Luna's hand as she flipped through a copy of the Quibbler warning the need for a through darning of socks as a way to prevent the pixie gust related foot diseases one could catch on holiday to Norway.

"Sweetie?" Ron said.

"Hmm?" She responded without looking up.

"It occurs to me that I haven't seen Harry since the wedding."

"Mmm." She agreed.

"I have no idea what I'll talk to him about."

"Ehmm."

"I wonder if this will get awkward. I hope not. Merlin that would be bad. I feel like a drowning man over here."

Luna put her paper down and patted his hand, her ethereal but warm smile lit her face up. He felt less anxious, he felt like reaching out and putting his hand on her face, the contact assuring him that she was real. That she was with him. He knew she would cup his hand in her own, lean into his palm and close her eyes. Soaking up his affection and assuring him that he mattered more than the sum of his last name and his best friend. That to her, he was the beginning, the end and the now. Because together they were everything, and apart so very lost.

"If we go to Norway on holiday this winter we have to be sure to pack sugar cakes. Pixies hate sugar cakes." She said.

He caressed her face with his hand, she sighed pleasantly at his touch, closing her eyes and kissing the warm skin of his hand, "I'll write it down so we don't forget." He answered.

"I love you, Ronald."

"I love you, too."