Chapter Twenty-Two

This chapter was written by keppiehed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The sound of rumbling broke the silence in the Grand Salon. Draco blushed, embarrassed by the noise from his unruly stomach. Damn the absent Peachy!

Lucius didn't remark on it from his place across the coffee table, making Draco grateful for the small mercies of politeness.

"I can't help but note the time, Son. Weren't you supposed to be at work by now?" Lucius asked from behind the ever-present shield of his Daily Prophet.

"No, the staff meeting got pushed back an hour, and Luna gave us all a break this morning." Draco replied.

"How ... quaint of her," Lucius sniffed. "That's quite a different way to run a business, isn't it?"

"Yes, she's rather lenient with the staff. More so than I would expect, for one in charge," Draco mused. "She seems popular, at any rate."

"Popularity is hardly the most advantageous quality of a leader. No wonder the Prophet outsells The Quibbler at a nearly three-to-one ratio. The girl needs to focus on business strategy to succeed. Mark my words, Draco...you could be running that place in five years," Lucius asserted.

"Of course, Father." Draco ignored the sinking in his gut. It didn't matter that he didn't want to be running the place, not in five years or in twenty. He had been groomed for advancement, and that was his path...like it or not.

In fact, he was rather surprised that he was starting to enjoy just being a staff writer there. Luna had told him yesterday that he had earned a permanent position if he wanted it. Draco hadn't accepted it yet, but he was mulling it over. There was a lot that he hated about work, of course. It was, well ... work. He didn't like having to be there on time and stay all day. He hated having to talk to people and to get permission to do what he wanted to do. Everyone there was so stupid; their ideas were clearly inferior. Yet there was something undeniably satisfying about seeing his work turn out. At the end of the week, his words were there in print for anyone to read. It may be a tiny piece that he slaved over, but there they were. He felt a small flicker of pride, real and deserved, for the first time in his life, over something that he had accomplished. He couldn't deny that it felt ... well, kind of good. So maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. If he had the option to quit, he would, but since he had to stay, it wasn't such a bad gig, after all.

He just didn't want to be the boss. There, he wanted to just ... be. He didn't have the pressure of being Draco Malfoy, biggest wizard in the room. He was just another writer there, and it wasn't so bad. He needed to make his way, learn as he went.

Draco frowned as he realized that it was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to stay at The Quibbler and learn to write, get better at what he did. He thought that maybe he could make something of this job. The idea hit him like a Stunner.

"Oh, and I started a subscription yesterday. I don't know what took me so long, but the first edition is to come by owl post today, so I can see your work first-hand," Lucius said, finally flicking down a corner of the paper. "I am proud of you, Draco."

Draco coughed to hide both another errant rumbling of his stomach and his fool pride, which flushed forth onto his fair cheeks. He ducked his head. "Er, look at the time. I'd better be going."

"Draco?" Lucius put down the paper.

"Hm?" Draco froze. He recognized that tone. It didn't bode well.

"I was thinking that we could go over the latest edition of your paper tonight, together. When you get home. We could go over some strategies on what improvements could be made, suggestions for advertisements and layout that you could take back to Miss Lovegood."

Draco let out a breath that he had been holding. His father just wanted to spend time with him. Even if it was doing something he didn't want to do, a warm feeling filled out in his chest that Lucius would specifically seek him out. Why was he always so suspicious?

"Unless, of course, you are going to be with Mr. Potter. I completely understand." Lucius looked away.

The warm feelings got dashed by a shock of cold sick at his father's words. "Why would I be with Potter?" Draco demanded.

"Well, he didn't come home last night. I thought you might be concerned about his welfare ... or whereabouts." Lucius cleared his throat. "Not that I want to get involved in your affairs."

Draco's face flamed. Did his father have a suspicion about what had happened between him and Potter? No! There was no way! "Potter is free to come and go as he pleases," he choked out, hoping that he sounded more normal than he felt.

"Of course." Lucius nodded. "Draco, you know that I have a hard time talking about things of this nature, but I hope you know that you can always come to me if you ever need to discuss matters. I may not seem like I understand, but ... I do. More than you know." Lucius fixed him with a knowing stare.

Draco couldn't keep the look of horror off his face at the idea that his father could be referring to him ... and Potter ... ? Surely his father had the wrong end of the stick! He didn't know what he was saying. Mortification more acute than any he had ever felt rained down upon him until he felt drowned in it. Never in his life had Draco felt such burning humiliation as he did right now, at the thought that his own father could think that he was gay!

Draco's mind skittered back over all of the conversations that they'd had, all of the breakfasts and the teas, where Lucius had been so odd and stilted, and it suddenly made sense. The scenes clicked into place, and Draco felt sick that his own father had thought he was gay for so long. Before he had been, of course. Was it that obvious to everyone? Was Draco the only one not to have seen it? Er, he and Pansy, of course.

The air in the room didn't feel sufficient to keep breathing; he thought he might collapse. It was only the idea that it was the gayest thing he could do, to actually faint in front of his father, that kept Draco on his feet. He stumbled blindly for his briefcase, and hoped he was headed for the door. Why was the Grand Salon so damned huge? He made...or thought he made...some weak excuse or goodbye, but he couldn't be sure. He heard his father calling to him, but he couldn't make out the words, nor did he care to. Everything was a swimming muddle, words and images were too much to comprehend, and he just wanted out. He felt as though his world had been suspended in motion, that everything was encased in a fluid film for him to view through a filter of surreality. Why was this happening to him?

Draco shut the front door behind him and breathed until his heart rate returned to normal. Beads of sweat...sweat! The indignity!...dotted his forehead, and he was forced to blot himself with a handkerchief. It wasn't even nine in the morning, and he was already soiled for the day. Draco smoothed his hair back, the strands wet against his palms. He just wanted to get to work, where he could focus on something that didn't involve anything personal. He laughed bitterly. The day he thought he would yearn to go to work was as pathetic a day as it was unforeseen. Draco pulled himself together and made ready to start his day and work on forgetting it all.

*

The whispers had started as soon as he had entered the building. Draco hadn't taken three steps before he had become aware of the buzz surrounding his appearance. He held his head high and ignored it, accustomed to creating a stir wherever he went...he was a Malfoy, after all...but this sort of attention seemed of a different calibre than the celebrity he had enjoyed in the past. He had always fallen into one of two categories before: reviled villain or pursued status symbol. Draco was uncomfortably aware of a change in tone, and he clenched his teeth to keep from showing his distress. He had never been an object of foolishness before. He didn't know what was going on, but he was about to find out.

By the time he got to his own floor in the building, the stares and whispers had turned to outright laughs, and Draco's already frayed nerves were about to give. Just before the thread snapped, a wizard he recognized from Accounts Receivables chuckled a little too audaciously for Draco's taste, and Draco felt his temper slip. He dropped his briefcase and lunged at the wizard, pushing him against the wall.

The office went silent, all eyes on the exchange.

"Care to let me in on your little joke?" Draco snarled.

The wizard smirked. "Little, indeed. Nice choice of words for the man who can't keep it hard for a witch."

Draco blanched and reeled, the whole world tilting. He clutched at the wizard's robes even tighter. "What's that supposed to mean?" He could only see the other man's face through a long tunnel of red mist, and for the first time ever, he thought he might have it in him to kill someone.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough. Pansy-boy." The wizard winked and jerked away.

Draco could hear laughter all around. His fists clenched the air, grasping at nothing.

"Draco, please, come with me."

Draco felt himself being steered into an empty office. He didn't know how long he stood there before he realized he and Luna were alone, away from prying eyes ... and ears.

"It's a shock to you, a terrible shock. I can't help but feel responsible. This ad came into the office yesterday, and it was leaked." Luna handed the crumpled paper over to him. "Of course, you know she sent an edited version this morning for publication, just in time for press. The damage is done, Draco. I'm so sorry. I knew it was going to be a bad day when I got a double yolk in my egg; a very inauspicious sign!"

Draco read the words with trembling hands, the vitriol in Pansy's heart making him sick. Their Slytherin ways had never before troubled him; hell, he had always been party to it before. Retribution, elitism, self-promotion ... those had always been the causes of the day. Now that he was on the receiving end of some of that, he wasn't so sure it was the way to go. Flaming poof ... could not maintain his arousal ... gay ... homosexual ... those people ... who made Draco this way ... He closed his eyes and let the paper flutter to the ground.

Draco felt a hand on his arm. "Listen, there is going to be a meeting about harassment. I have a zero-tolerance policy for this ..."

Could not maintain his arousal ... Draco swallowed over the lump in his throat. "My father is a subscriber. He is going to get a copy today."

Luna bowed her head. "Draco, I am so sorry. There is nothing I can do about the ad. But I'll do everything I can to support you here, you have to know that. I'm so glad that you're going to be writing for us..."

"Writing for you?" Draco laughed. "I wouldn't work here if you were the last place to give me a job! I don't need you to give me charity employment. I quit!"

"Draco, please don't..."

who made Draco that way ... Draco shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought and Luna's concern at the same time. None of it was real. ... who made Draco that way ... Why was that phrase from the letter stuck in his brain? "Potter! Where is he?"

Luna wrung her hands. "The Black Bear. A bar on the south side. You'd better go now. He needs you."

Draco was running before the scoff was finished forming and out of his mouth.

*

The taxi dropped him off in a section of Muggle London Draco had never been before. When he stepped through the bar door, he knew why. It was a place you only went for one reason: to forget about where you were, or who you were.

The place was worse than any seedy tavern he could've conjured up in his worst imaginings. And Draco had some pretty strong stereotypical ideas, so that was saying a lot, he thought. It had the requisite sticky floor, the dank air and the overwhelming gloom of a place that was there for the business of breaking dreams ... one drink at a time. When Draco opened up the door, he provided the only stir of fresh air the place had doubtless seen since the last blurry drunk had stumbled in the night before. The reek was putrid. A man would have to be deep in his cups to bother with this place. Draco figured that Luna had given him the wrong name when he caught sight of a familiar shag of dark hair in a corner booth.

Draco stepped fully into the bar and frowned. Potter was here, getting soused. Or had been. He appeared to be passed out on the table, drink still clutched in his hand. Draco walked to him. Potter didn't move. No one did, not one of the passed-out patrons, nor anyone minding the bar. It was an empty shell of a place, somewhere that provided the poison for a price. Draco's lip curled back in disdain. He needed to get Potter out of here and take him home.

He shook his shoulder, but Potter didn't stir. Draco furrowed his brow. Potter needed help, it was clear. This day had been a spectacular failure. He had to do something right. He leaned down and slid Potter's arm around his own and started to lift. Merlin, Potter was heavier than he looked!

Just as Draco had him out of the booth and was about to take his full weight, Potter jerked to awareness. "Wha ... ? What's going ... Draco?" He seemed confused. "Put me down!" His voice was too loud in the dingy bar.

Draco winced, sympathetic to the headache that Potter surely had, but he let Potter slump back into the booth. "It's okay. We're going home." He couldn't help but feel awkward. He wasn't used to comforting anyone.

Potter laughed. "Home? Like you would know anything about what that means, you bastard. If you think I am going anywhere with you, you've got another thing coming." Potter slid bonelessly into the booth. "Go back to Daddy, Draco."

Draco frowned. "What's your problem, Potter? Had too much to drink? Becoming a bit of a problem for you?"

"Actually, I haven't had enough to drink, not by a long shot." Potter picked up the half-empty mug and took a swig.

"Potter!" Draco was actually shocked. He knocked the mug away, shattering it against the wall. "You're a mess. Stop it...can't you see yourself? Where are your friends? Why did they let you get like this?"

The hatred in Potter's green eyes was so intense that Draco took a step back. He had never seen that look on Potter's face before. "You like being brutal, don't you? Shoving people, telling them what to do?" Potter stood up and took a step forward. "Well, your days of ordering me around, of getting to tell me what to do are over, do you get it?" He leaned into Draco's face, the stale fumes spilling over. "I'm not yours anymore. And as far as friends go, you don't have a single friend in the world, so don't talk to me about friends and how they act!"

Draco felt a stirring in his groin at the suggestion that Potter might have been his, now or ever. "What's the problem, Potter? What has changed since yesterday?" He cleared his throat, the admission so big it almost choked him. "Maybe we could ... make something work?" He couldn't look at Potter. His shame was too great. By Merlin, he was a flaming poof!

Potter stepped away, a little unsteady. "I wouldn't have you if you were the last man in England."

Shock hit Draco at his flat rejection. "What?"

"You heard me," Potter spit, the venom glittering in his eyes.

"But ... why?" Draco couldn't understand it. Well, he might be able to guess, if he really thought about it, but he didn't want to think that even Potter knew about the article in The Quibbler.

"For fuck's sake, Draco, if I have to tell you, then you are even more of a lost cause than I thought you were," Potter bit out in disgust.

Fury and desperation and grief ... yes, grief ... roiled together in the pit of Draco's gut to create an infected mix that threatened to burst forth from every pore in his being. After this day, with every blow, it was all he could do not to fall to his knees.

Draco watched Potter run a hand through his hair, and that gesture, that simple motion that was so Potter ... it triggered something in him, and he felt a dam burst inside of him. He just wanted to disappear, right now. He had let everyone down, had made such an irreparable muddle of everything he had ever touched. He couldn't face knowing that he was a constant failure. His magic swelled up and burst forth. The force of his bitter disappointment turned inwards, his magic picking up on his wish to obliterate himself. It was conflicted, and in the confusion the only emotion that came through was negativity. The air in his lungs turned poison, and he couldn't get his breath. Once the action was started, he was powerless to reverse it, and he could only curse himself and his rashness once again. Could he do nothing right? He couldn't harness his magic, he couldn't save Potter ... he couldn't even keep his dignity at the end of things.

Draco was aware that he was on his knees in a filthy Muggle bar, of all places, and then he panicked. He couldn't clear the foam from his lips, couldn't get free of the fog of venom in his chest. A vice was tightening across his sight, and the last thing he saw before he went down was Potter's back. He didn't even turn to watch Draco fall, and Draco didn't know whether to be glad or whether to mourn the fact that Potter really didn't seem to care at all.