Who Wrote Im Blue Daba Dee Daba Die
Chapter Text
February 2009
Harry perched on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging his legs back and forth. He was sporting jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a tiger's face. Behind him, voices from the other end of the St. Mungo's wing drifted over and he caught a few words. Trauma was mentioned quite a few times. Catatonic and shock once or twice. Feral came out and then there were some shushing sounds before the Healers left the large private ward entirely.
It was strange to eavesdrop on people again. It seemed as if, since the dawn of time itself, he'd only ever heard two voices: his own screams, insults, and pleas, matched against his captor's wheedling attempts to break him.
"Mr. Potter?" The Healer from earlier was here again, but he didn't turn away from the window. The view was nothing special - just the side of a Muggle shopping center - but he thought the clouds might clear soon and he didn't want to miss his first glimpse of sunshine in fourteen years. "Mr. Potter, you've visitors," she went on in the same gentle voice, as if speaking to a frightened animal. Did they really think he was feral?
He kept his gaze trained on the window as she brought the visitors around the bed. There was a gasp and someone swore.
"Harry?"
"Hmm…" he responded, turning his head slightly in the direction of the raspy voice but not taking his eyes off that window. Everything was blurry without his glasses.
"Oh Merlin, Harry…" His view was obscured by a tall man with dark hair. The man fell to his knees in front of him, clutching his hands, wrists, and arms, as if he couldn't quite believe he was solid, all while chanting his name over and over again. Harry felt a spike of unease in the pit of nothingness inside him; he pulled his arms back and scowled down at the man.
"Don't." His voice was cold and hard, stubbornly unyielding in the simpering face of this shattered man who, wonder of wonders, actually conceded. He pulled his hands away and left them floating in the air between them, fluttering anxiously. Harry closed one eye and squinted with the other, taking in a face he once knew. "Sirius?"
"Oh my fuck!" Sirius croaked, crossing his forearms against his pale, scruffy face, and wailing with abandon. The swear jarred Harry for a moment, making him forget about his window. "Oh my fuck, Remus, oh my fuck! Oh my fuck!"
"Remus?" Harry squinted at the thin figure standing off to the side. Sirius was still blubbering into his own arms, careful not to touch him. Harry felt a tad guilty about that and wondered if the Healer would go and tell her gossipy coworkers that he had snapped at his godfather. Wait… "Sirius! Sirius, you have to go! Now!" he whispered, lurching forward to seize him by the shoulders. Sirius froze mid-sob and peeked through his arms at him with watery grey eyes, not even breathing. Useless mutt! Harry turned to Remus. "Get him out of here before he gets caught!" he hissed.
"Harry - "
"No, son, it's not - "
"Don't!" Harry pushed Sirius away on instinct, his stomach clenching as if he'd been punched. His godfather shouldn't have been easy to push over but he toppled backwards onto his arse anyway, bewildered and hurt. Harry was sorry for it, but also he wasn't, so much. "Don't…"
"Don't what, Harry?" Remus asked.
"D-don't, just don't…"
The Healer started to leave, muttering, "I'll give you three some privacy…"
"DON'T!" Harry stood, whirling around and reaching towards the Healer as if he could stop her by simply flapping his hand about. It seemed to work, but maybe she'd just listened to him. He was still getting used to people doing that.
The ward was painfully silent now. All he wanted for his first day of freedom was to watch his window in peace, and now he was in a stand-off. Remus stepped forward, hands clasped in front of him in that naturally professorial way he had.
"She won't turn Sirius in," he explained, irritatingly soothing. "He's safe. Just like you."
"I know I'm safe, why does everyone keep telling me that?" he spat. Still kneeling on the floor at his feet, Sirius was watching him with wide, reverent eyes. "What's wrong with you?" Sirius flinched and Harry felt like a git. "I didn't - I'm...sorry," he offered, not knowing what to say. He seemed to have lost his words...or at least all the words he hadn't used in the past fourteen years.
Remus helped Sirius to his feet and there they stood together, shoulder to shoulder at the end of the bed, while Harry was alone next to the side-table. The Healer had escaped at some point. Harry chose to take Remus at his word and trust that she wasn't fetching the authorities to cart Sirius off to Azkaban.
"So…" he said, shuffling his feet. "Sirius. And…"
"Remus."
"I knew that, I just - " he broke off and waved his hand vaguely in explanation. He was twenty-eight now, apparently. It would be weird to call him Professor Lupin. "Good to see you. Figuratively speaking," he added, gesturing to his bare face. He regretted breaking his glasses now, but he stood by the point he'd made in doing it.
There was an awkward silence again. Funnily enough, he hadn't gotten used to these, despite all the practice. Maybe he should mention that, it could be funny - actually no, it might make things worse.
"You're exactly the same," Sirius blurted in a raspy voice. Harry hummed in answer; he certainly didn't feel the same but he'd yet to run across a mirror. "Exactly...exactly the same…"
"He gave me potions to stunt my growth." There, that shut him up. Sirius was dangerously close to devolving into another monotone chant; Harry just couldn't take it, not when he was still waiting for the sun to come out from behind those stupid clouds. "Been stuck in puberty for over half my life now." He forced a laugh. It sounded as hollow as it felt.
"The Healers will get you back on track," offered Remus, and Harry nodded. They'd explained his recovery plan and he'd listened to every word, despite their belief that he was still in shock. It was simply that he'd had enough of the same two voices and wanted to hear someone else speak for once.
"You're coming home, Harry," Sirius said, and Harry nodded again but didn't know what the heck he meant. Hogwarts? The Burrow? Surely not the Dursleys; he didn't think he could stand a new set of bars over his old bedroom window.
"Lupin Cottage."
"We agreed it's Blupin Fr - "
"Not now, Sirius - "
"Has it got windows?" he asked, and though he couldn't see it on their blurry faces, he could hear the pity in the answer:
"Yes, Harry...plenty of windows."
Lupin Cottage Blupin Frottage
#9 Flint Ct
2 bed, 2 bath
1000 sq ft Muggle, 2300 sq ft Actual
This charming antique cottage has been magically expanded to accommodate pets and creatures of a larger variety. Reinforced doors and shutters for added security. The spacious kitchen is supplied with an ice box full of takeout containers and a rarely used breakfast nook. The office serves as a small library in addition to the built-in shelves in the sitting room. A shed, added in 2002, for the aspiring Muggle mechanic. Conveniently located on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The Forbidden Forest borders the massive back garden with picturesque mountains in the distance.
Present Day: August 2009, Six Months Later
Life at Blupin Frottage was a decided improvement over his last situation. Remus taught at Hogwarts during the year, popping over each day after classes, and Sirius practically ran Zonko's by himself. The shed had been converted from its original purpose - motorcycle repair - into a broommaking studio. Harry was working on his fourth broom, which happened to be his first paid commission. All in all, he had no complaints.
"Everything alright?" Remus peered at him over his tea, looking as comfortable as he ever did at the little table in the breakfast nook - which was to say, not at all. Harry was the one who insisted they use it. If he sat with his back to the rest of the house, it was almost like being outside. The alcove was warm with plenty of light and a spectacular view of the mountains. Somewhere between the wild back garden and the distant treeline of the Forbidden Forest sat an old, abandoned silo he had yet to explore. Perhaps he would make another trip across the field today. He could do whatever he liked.
"Yep," he confirmed around a bite of toast.
Remus hummed and returned to that morning's paper, though his eyes didn't track across the page because he was just using it as a prop. Harry stopped chewing and waited. The toast was turning soggy in his mouth but he couldn't possibly swallow until Remus said whatever he had to say.
"Your potions seem to be working well," he observed. Six months on growth potions had fast-tracked the rest of his puberty, though he was still quite short. Sirius and Ron had quickly learned not to tease. "How much longer?"
Harry finally swallowed and took a sip of tea to wash it down. "One more round." He'd been working on his facial hair. It was little more than itchy scruff, but he was deliriously proud of it already. He looked like a man.
"You'll finish just after the start of school, then?"
"Yep." Did he dare take another bite? He felt the tension linger in the air, telling him that Remus had more to say, so he waited it out, tracing the rim of his Holyhead Harpies mug idly.
"I was wondering…" There it was. Harry stared down at his toast longingly. Soon, he promised it. "Rolanda and Pomona are taking a year or two off for their little one. Neville Longbottom is coming in to replace Pomona, but Rolanda is still looking for a replacement. Are you interested?"
"In her job?"
"It's temporary but could turn permanent. She's considering retirement." Remus kept his voice carefully light as he waved his wand to pour fresh tea for them both. Harry heard a creak from upstairs; Sirius would join them soon. He stood and skirted around the table, fetching a third mug to buy some time.
"I've got a job."
"Yes…"
Skull-and-crossbones mug in hand, Harry quietly closed the cupboard and watched the back of Remus's head. Though the shed wasn't visible from here, he was looking outside now instead of pretending to read his paper, no doubt thinking of Harry's workspace. Reluctantly, Harry returned to the table, setting down Sirius's mug and pouring the tea.
"I'm not lonely while you two are at work, if that's what you're thinking," Harry offered, hoping Sirius would come down soon and change the subject. "I've already got more comp--"
"--company than you ever dreamed you'd have," Remus finished for him. They'd had this conversation before.
"Right."
Silence reigned and Harry sipped his tea, longing for his toast, for his godfather, for a pickup game of Quidditch with Ron, Ginny, Charlie, and the twins.
"I think it would be good for you to begin socializing on a larger scale," Remus broached delicately. Harry rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide it. He heard Sirius finally descend the stairs behind him.
"I'm not lonely," he insisted. "I've got you both, and Hermione and the Weasleys, and - "
"The same small circle for six months now, don't you think it's time to spread your wings, so to speak?" His voice was light and chipper, fantastically bland, and Harry almost wished for silence again.
"I've been thinking of getting an owl," Harry lied, starting to feel desperate. He liked his life now. No complaints. None. Everything was fine the way it was, why should it have to change? Why should he have to endure the stares and whispers to put Remus at ease over an imagined issue? "I could get a penpal."
"A what?" Sirius grunted miserably as he set upon his tea like a starving beast. His long hair was in disarray, eyes puffy with sleep, kimono-style robe barely tied and revealing far too much. Harry's face went hot and he kept his eyes firmly fixed on his toast.
"Quill acquaintance," Remus translated automatically. Harry blinked. He would be sticking with penpals, if he ever went about forging that ridiculous plan. Hedwig was one old friend he hadn't been reunited with, having disappeared shortly after he did...he wondered what had happened to her.
"Who's writing you?" Sirius mumbled into his mug.
"No one."
"I told him about Rolanda's position opening up - "
"Ugh, not this again…"
Harry frowned. "What d'you mean 'again'?"
Remus adjusted himself in the rickety old chair. "We've discussed - "
"You're talking about me like I'm some sad, lonely little latchkey kid who can't make friends - "
" - helping you get accustomed to the world again, in a way that doesn't cause undue stress - "
"He's happy here, Remus, you don't need to keep an eye on him at Hogwarts, too."
"Is that what this is about, you don't trust me home alone during the day?" Harry whirled on Remus, who abandoned the paper on the table and put his hands up in a placating way.
"The Healers said a gradual and steady reintroduction is best." Harry and Sirius fell quiet as Remus pressed on. "We need to keep pushing the limits here so you're not trading one prison for another."
"This isn't a prison," Harry contended, gesturing to the back garden.
"Even Azkaban has windows, Haz," said Sirius. The pet name struck a chord in his chest, like a note from a phoenix song, but he refused to be swayed.
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, you berk, but that doesn't mean Remus is wrong." He had that pitying look on his face again, the hypocrite. Both of them were imprisoned for over a decade and Sirius had the gall to pity him?
Harry stood abruptly, abandoning his tea and toast on the table.
"I'm going out - you see, I couldn't do that if this were a prison!" He knew he was overreacting but it was happening anyway.
He stormed upstairs to get dressed and caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. Sharp specs, scout! the mirror crowed for the umpteenth time, but for once it failed to elicit a smile. His new glasses were wirey, square-ish, and the lenses tinted a cobalt blue in the sun. The Healers were clear that he needed to protect his eyes after so many years in the dark. He picked them out in an optics shop during his first week "home," on a rare trip to the nearest Muggle town. Now, even when they tinted, his vision was always colored by the sky on his first cloudless day above ground.
Harry lies on his back on the floor, palms down, eyes up. He can't get his stomach muscles to stop shivering, but he won't go back to the same stupid furniture right now. But even the coolness of the smooth concrete beneath him is nothing new, not really. Perhaps new since yesterday, but nothing about his life is ever really new.
These are the Days of Lenny. Without windows but with just enough routine, Harry estimates it has been several years in this little underground room. Probably not ten, though it feels like it. It's impossible to be sure of time, so he defines it by whatever he's calling his captor nowadays.
"Daddy, remember? I'm your daddy," the man always insists. And Harry insists on mishearing him every time.
"Piss off, Danny," at first.
"Daddy doesn't like that language, son. You are not to use that language."
Then for a while it was, "Denny, I want to go to school."
"Adam, stop this now. You have your lessons here, where it's safe."
Now it is, "Got it, Lenny."
And so the Days of Lenny pass much like the Denny Days before, and the Danny Days of old, when this prison was fresh and new. When the concrete wasn't worn smooth with his pacing. When the cinder-block walls were still unscathed, before he scratched them all to hell.
"What have you done to your poor fingers, son?" Denny had said back then, tending to his bloody nails with nauseating care before retrieving a pair of clippers. That was the last time Harry had nails long enough to scratch anything.
Harry's muscles jump and quiver in protest of the cold floor, but, as with the scratches on the walls, he welcomes any fresh experience, even the painful. He stares at a crack in the ceiling, wondering if it's grown, wondering if there's a fault line nearby, wondering if one day the ceiling will crumble down on top of him. He finds he doesn't even mind the thought, as long as he catches a glimpse of the sky before he's crushed.
Even a tomb can't be as stale as the air in this room.
Today the sky was both overcast and blindingly bright with the promise of a storm in the far distance. Harry hurried from the Leaky Cauldron, adjusting his pageboy cap and wishing there was a less conspicuous way to floo out of Hogsmeade. He wasn't sure how he felt about the clothes Sirius and Remus had collected for him over the months: a strange blend of the two men's tastes. The distressed burgundy trousers, cream button-down, and thin leather waistcoat felt too dressy when all he did was work in a shed, play Quidditch, and lounge about the house. Then again, anything was better than the childish clothes he had been forced to wear before.
[art by zigster-ao3]
Even after months of (freely) wandering the city, he would never take for granted the feeling of his shoes against uneven, unpredictable pavement instead of the same smooth concrete floor. Several hours went by and he found himself in Ravenscourt Park, dragging his feet through the grass and reveling in the scent of nature in the middle of a city.
Across the way stood a long row of exceedingly nice houses - not quite manors, but large and stately at any rate. As he approached the far border of the park, he rested on a bench, leaning his back against the armrest and kicking his legs up onto the length of the seat. He crooked an arm over the back of the bench and turned to watch an older couple leave a home with an Open House sign mounted in the front garden. He wondered what the great big house was like inside. Maybe he should take the tour…
"WAAAH-OOF!" A figure fell out of the tall oak tree near his bench and he rocketed to his feet, hurrying over to a little boy moaning in the grass.
"You alright?" He squatted down but felt unbearably close to the boy, like he was crowding him, and stood back up, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
"N-no!" the boy whimpered, his face still pressed into the grass.
"Erm…" Harry dithered for a moment then knelt in the grass. He reached out, his hand hovering in uncertainty above the boy's shoulder. "What hurts?"
"LEG!" he wailed. Harry reared back, grimacing.
"Which leg?" He was out of his element here. He'd never dealt with children before...he estimated this one at about, what, seven years old? Nine? Maybe six? He was sobbing into the grass, tears and dirt all over his bright pink face.
"This one!" he cried without indicating right or left. Harry took a guess and placed his hand gently on the right leg, earning a fresh wave of wails. He snatched his hand back and looked around for help, but no one was near.
"Where's your, er...person?"
"Daddy!" the boy whined. Harry flinched.
"Right, where's your - where is he?"
"Showin' house," he blubbered into the ground, his cheek pressing sharply against an exposed root of the tree. Harry frowned, not understanding, then his head snapped up at the open house across the street.
"Er, shall I fetch him here, or...?" It didn't feel right to leave a child crying in the dirt but he wasn't about to -
"Carry me!" he demanded, and Harry found himself complying. He was too big to carry in his arms, but with some fumbling, he got the boy settled on his back with his legs gripping his waist and his arms wrapped uncomfortably around his neck.
The crying subsided into sniffles and Harry smirked when the boy used his collar as a handkerchief, smearing snot and tears into it. Better than crying and attracting all sorts of strange stares from passersby, anyway.
"What's your name?" he asked, trying to keep things light.
"Scorpius."
Harry balked - who in their right mind named a child Scorpius?
"Your parents fond of scorpions then?" he huffed, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change.
"Whut?" was the blank reply.
"Erm...nevermind." The signal changed and Harry gestured rudely at a driver who stopped right in the path, opting to walk behind his car rather than step into the intersection. "How old are you, Scorpius?"
"Seven."
"Do you like school?" he asked, hefting him up a little higher.
"Don't go to school."
"What?!" Harry stumbled slightly on the curb as he tried to look over his shoulder. "Why not? You need to - to learn. You need an education."
"I've lessons at home," Scorpius explained like it was obvious. The answer set his teeth on edge.
"But, don't you want to go to school with other people? Kids your age?"
"Daddy says I'm not old enough yet." The boy's voice was free of tears now, simple and straightforward. It seemed almost...dead. Harry very much wanted to meet the father who kept his child at home when he should be socializing, making friends, building a life. He had a few things to say to the man.
They arrived at the house and Harry marched - as well as he could with Scorpius clinging to his back - right up to the door, rapping sharply with his knuckles. They waited.
"It's open," Scorpius said dully. Harry adjusted his grip again.
"We can't just - "
"It's'n open house," he insisted, and Harry wondered how a seven-year-old was managing to talk over him. "You just, go inside."
"I'm not breaking into someone's home! I'll just knock again," he sighed, doing just that. Voices and footsteps filtered faintly through the door, but none seemed to approach. Well, he wasn't going to give in now, he had to set an example for the youth on his back - who seemed to be getting heavier and heavier with each passing second.
"Merlin's beard - " the little boy muttered under his breath, reaching with his entire body over Harry's shoulder to grip the door handle. Harry reared back - did he say Merlin?! - as Scorpius pushed the door open, upending his precarious balance and sending the child toppling forward with a squeal.
He caught the little bugger before he hit the ground - well, before his face hit the ground, at any rate - and set him upright on the ground.
"DADDY, I FELL!" Scorpius took off into the house, his trainers slapping on the pristine, shining hardwood floor, and left Harry at the door staring back at the small crowd of roaming couples.
"Er...hello," he offered with a little wave. "Looking for his, erm...person." He gestured in Scorpius's direction, though he was long gone. Should he go after him? He had just let an unsupervised child loose in a posh home, and until they found his...person, Harry would have to mind him, right? "Scorpius?!" he called, shoving through a couple blocking the hall.
"You'll have to excuse me," a refined voice came from the parlor to the left. Harry quickly rounded the corner into the kitchen, following the sounds of Scorpius's stomping, and ran into a tall, thin man in a crisp checkered shirt with a thin tie.
"Sorry!" he said, fixing his hat firmly in place by habit, then peered up through his glasses at the man. "Oh, bugger--erm, butter," he corrected quickly. Draco Malfoy looked as Malfoy-ish as ever and Harry could think of no one else who would subject an innocent child to such a name as Scorpius.
"Butter?" Malfoy repeated blankly, reaching out a hand and pulling Scorpius to his side.
"Butter is good," Harry said. He was staring openly. Two men in the kitchen snorted in unison.
"Oh my god..." one of them whispered gleefully, turning away from the disaster that was Harry finding his old nemesis under a twinkling electric chandelier that was far too much for the kitchen.
Malfoy stared. "Indeed…" He clearly thought Harry was a nutter. He turned to his son, wiping a smudge of dirt from his cheek. "Another hour I'm afraid, Scorpius."
"Daddy, I fell," he announced loudly to clear things up.
"Are you injured?" Malfoy knelt down, examining the boy's face and limbs, and Harry wondered if he should just...back away, leave, escape before he had to make conversation. He met the eye of one of the snickering men, who winked and lifted a glass of something bubbly as if in toast to his discomfort.
"My leg," Scorpius informed him calmly.
"Which one?"
"Left," he answered.
"You said it was your right," Harry cut in with a frown.
"Oh yes, right. My right leg is broken, Daddy." Malfoy nodded seriously and tapped his little khaki trousers at various points, earning a dramatic hiss from Scorpius.
Harry watched in detached fascination as Malfoy scooped some ice from the Muggle freeze box into a little plastic bag before applying it gently to a seemingly random spot on his son's leg. The men in the corner of the kitchen were giving him significant looks, but he had no idea what they were signifying. He shrugged at them and they went back to giggling at each other.
"Do you think you can manage for another hour, Scorpius?" Malfoy asked quietly as he hefted him onto a tall stool at the breakfast bar. Harry shuffled his feet, thoroughly regretting not taking his leave earlier. He couldn't leave now, could he? Then it would be obvious that he should've left already.
"I s'pose so," Scorpius muttered bravely. "Could we go for ice cream then?" Harry smirked. Malfoy was getting played.
"Of course." He gestured broadly around the kitchen. "Think you can handle this room alone?"
Scorpius straightened in his seat and recited: "This kitchen comes with all-new stainless steel appliances, and check out that gorgeous backsplash!" Malfoy patted his blond head and then turned to Harry, who failed to hide his glee in time.
"Draco Malfoy, I'm the real estate agent for this property," he said rather formally. He stuck out his hand, and with a jolt, Harry realized he hadn't been recognized. With a giddy grin taking over his face, he shook Malfoy's hand. It was ridiculously soft.
"Haz," he said. How long was too long for shaking hands? He quickly and unceremoniously dropped Malfoy's very soft hand as he scrambled for a last name. "Er, Haz Blue." Black is a name, why not Blue? he told the spluttering voice in his head.
"Are you as interesting as your name?" Malfoy quipped with an easy smile, eyes shifting somewhere over Harry's shoulder at his small but bustling crowd of prospective homebuyers before returning to him.
"Yes - er, what? I mean, I'm - I'm looking for a house," Harry stammered out without even knowing it was true until he said it.
"That is usually why one stops by an Open House," Malfoy drawled, "when they're not returning errant children, that is. Thank you, by the way."
"Yep," was all he could think to say. He was vaguely aware of another snort of laughter at his expense from the Muggle men across the room.
"And does this place strike your fancy, Haz Blue?"
His stomach did a big fluttering flip, ten times more powerful than when Sirius had first called him Haz. Haz, not Adam, or Addy, or 'Adam Marcus Schmidt!' when he was in trouble. Haz was his very own, and it felt even truer than 'Harry' after years of screaming that that was his name.
"Erm..." Harry's eyes darted up at the too-much chandelier over their heads and Malfoy smirked, giving him a conspiratorial wink and nod.
"Right. Here's my card," he slipped a business card into his hands and Harry fiddled with the corners.
"I, er… I don't have a phone," Harry admitted. The eavesdropping Muggles were briefly overcome by incredulity and Harry sent them an annoyed glare.
"I work in a variety of markets," Malfoy said pointedly, as if it meant something. Harry nodded dumbly. Malfoy looked heavenward as if praying for patience before angling his back towards the Muggles. With an odd little flourish, he used his pinky-finger to tap the card in Harry's hand twice. Harry's eyes widened with understanding, and he nodded again. He pocketed the seemingly non-magical card for now, until he could take his wand to it.
There was a long silence and the room felt tense. Harry realized with a jolt that he had no idea how to end a conversation like this, with a stranger, or rather someone who was meant to be a stranger. But he didn't want to be found out for the unsocialized freak he was.
"Okay, bye!" he blurted unceremoniously, turning heel and darting away. He heard the Muggles' laughter as he hurried outside. The lack of privacy in that kitchen should've filled him with a familiar rage, but he was far too full of new, fresh feelings to care.
It's Lenny who resorts to tying him down to the bed to keep him from "ruining" himself. The second time he's caught with the evidence in his pants, he vows never to have to endure this lesson a third time. He's not even allowed up to relieve himself - Lenny changes his nappies and spoon-feeds him his meals and by the time he's trusted again, he has half a mind to sleep standing up rather than ever return to a horizontal position.
He settles for shivering on the floor instead of returning to the bed, and remains there for much of the remaining Lenny Days. But when Lenny starts carding his fingers through his hair while he tries to sleep (as if such a thing could be comforting!), Harry hides under the bed instead. Lenny can't reach him here. He can't see him either, but still Harry keeps his hands chaste. Lenny has a way of knowing Harry's misdeeds even when he isn't around to watch.
The Days of Lenny are filled with cold skin and aching bones, and the only privacy to be found is when he crams himself under the bed, feigning sleep.
A pounding on the door startled Harry and he slipped, only just managing to regain his footing under the spray of the shower.
"YOU KEEP WANKING IN THERE YOU'RE LIKE TO PULL IT OFF!" Sirius sounded halfway between a leer and a bark of laughter.
Ears ringing, Harry smashed the tap closed so hard he felt his hand bruise. He heard his godfather's chuckling retreat down the hall and figured he was safe, figured Sirius wouldn't go so far as to punish him anyway, but still he felt sick. Unclean, even after the shower, even though he hadn't actually done that. He panted unevenly, willing his heart to calm and his stomach to settle, before stepping out of the shower and covering up quickly with a big, fluffy towel.
Dressed, hair sopping wet, Harry barreled downstairs to be seen doing anything at all that wasn't that. He wouldn't bring it up, but even Sirius had to know that if he had been abusing himself in the shower, he probably wouldn't be down here two minutes later. Right?
"Harry?" Remus asked, bewildered by his entrance.
"I wasn't!" Harry wheezed. Pickles, it was hard to breathe, like the steam of the shower hadn't quite left his lungs. Remus blinked, then nodded slowly.
"Oh. Alright then..."
Harry's hair continued to drip in the middle of the sitting room while Remus stirred a potion in the kitchen and Sirius puttered around upstairs, thinking Harry was a deviant.
"What are you up to today, Harry?"
"Realtors," he answered. The word felt foreign on his lips and it occurred to him that he'd probably never said it out loud before. Remus paused minutely in his stirring before continuing with an air of nonchalance.
"Oh?"
"I met one yesterday," he explained, blunt as ever. He seemed to have forgotten how to soften his words. "I'm twenty-eight. Twenty-nine . Everyone else has their own place."
A steady thumping sound started on the floor above, in time with Sirius's favorite Muggle record. As fun as it seemed to dance around with his godfather without a care in the world, experience told him that Sirius would likely be in his skivvies right now.
Remus lay the stirring spoon to the side of the cauldron and approached Harry, gesturing at the sofa. Harry blinked at the sofa, then at the fireplace, then back at the sofa. It seemed his trip to the magical branch of M & P Realty would have to wait. With a sigh, Harry threw himself down on the leather sofa. Remus joined him with decidedly less melodrama.
"Are you unhappy here, Harry?"
"No," he answered readily. Of course he wasn't. But he was an adult, and he would act like one. This wasn't pretend, it wasn't a fantasy, it was real and Harry was itching to get started. His eyes darted to the fireplace again.
"Have I made you, ah...uncomfortable?" Harry frowned at the man, confused. "Discussing Rolanda's position, I mean. If it's really something you don't want to do, of course you - I only - I suppose I am pushing you, but I never meant - "
Harry interrupted before Remus could wind himself up even more.
"No," then, opting for honesty, "well, yes, but I'm not running away. I just want to look at some houses." He was an adult, this was not a prison, he was allowed to do as he pleased.
"To move out of ours."
"...yes."
Remus floundered as if Harry had just proved his point and Harry stared back at him, open and honest. For once, he had nothing to hide, though it felt like a stone was settling in his stomach the longer Remus sat there with his mouth hanging open.
With monumental effort, Harry did not let himself ask, Is that okay? His Mind Healer had told him that another person's disapproval was not his responsibility. There was nothing for him to fix here, nothing he could do to fix it unless he backed down to make Remus happy.
"If that's all..." Harry braced his hands on the cushion beneath him and, at Remus's nod of dismissal, pushed himself up and made for the floo.
In the Danny Days of Old, Harry is still finding his bearings. It doesn't seem so long ago that Voldemort was killed in the graveyard after the Third Task. When he closes his eyes, he still sees Cedric's lifeless eyes, still sees echoes of his parents blossoming out of Voldemort's wand. He still hears the awful squelching, tearing sound as his panicked Bombarda! hits Voldemort square in the chest, ripping apart his newly formed body just seconds after the connection between their wands was broken.
Like it was yesterday, and it very well might have been, he remembers darting through the ring of dumbfounded Death Eaters, stumbling down the hill and into a Muggle village. He remembers hiding until dawn, hunched over behind a skip in his blood-soaked tournament uniform, ankle throbbing, drying sweat mixed with the grime on his skin like paste. And just as the sun came up, Danny found him. Offered him help, a clean towel, a phone call. Stole him away.
He hasn't seen the sun since, but it hasn't been very long. He still has hope. He just needs to survive this lunatic long enough to escape.
He's not allowed knives with his food. Danny cuts his meat into small bites.
He's not trusted to brush his teeth properly after his first "tantrum." Danny wields the toothbrush for him, jarring his jaw with the force of it.
He's wearing these childish clothes and wonders, but has learned not to ask, where they came from. Who they came from. The underground bunker smells like concrete and dust, not old sweat or - or blood. But perhaps there had been another kid before him. He tries not to speculate.
He's deduced that Danny is a squib or maybe has sworn off the use of his wand. He gave him a potion right off, when Harry was still twitching with the pain of the Cruciatus, but he has yet to see a wand, much less his own.
No matter. Harry will get out. There's only two locked doors and a steep set of stairs between him and freedom, after all. He'll learn this new game and play by the rules when he absolutely must, just long enough to find his way to the surface again.
Harry opened the door of the Leaky and then promptly closed it again, relishing the thrill of casting his own Impervius spell at his sneakers, before venturing out into Muggle London.
Rain was pouring down and Harry was without an umbrella, but he was positively giddy as his clothes went soggy. He stamped in one puddle, then another, then nearly drowned in a deceptive lake on the corner. He laughed in the face of a peeved looking woman who gave him and his antics a wide berth. M & P Realty was just two blocks down from the Leaky and in that short distance, Harry managed to thoroughly soak himself in the rain.
It was brilliant.
Malfoy's business card had revealed, after some prodding with his wand, how to access the magical side of the building. He felt a little silly holding the doorknob while muttering the password, but then found himself - shoes dry, clothes dripping - in the clearly magical lobby of a small set of offices. The reception desk was manned - or womanned? - by a handsome - or pretty - person whose gender Harry couldn't quite place. The nameplate read Terry, which wasn't particularly helpful.
"Welcome to… Malfoy and Parkinson Realty," the wix said, their nose wrinkling in distaste at the mess Harry had tracked in. He figured his Mind Healer wouldn't back him up here, but he decided to ignore the flash of regret anyway. It's only a bit of water, Terry, pull yourself together. "Do you have an appointment?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted. "Haz Blue! Pleased you could make it." Malfoy stalked over, his boots clicking sharply on the floor. He looked very important in business-casual dress, and very...good-postured. That surely accounted for the nice shape his torso made, shoulders firm and straight over his narrow hips. Harry's mouth was still open and he looked between Terry and Malfoy, unsure of whom to address.
"Him," he finally said, looking at Terry while pointing at Malfoy. Terry raised their perfect brows and Malfoy furrowed his. With the receptionist's question answered, Harry turned to Malfoy. "I want a house. Er, well, it doesn't have to be a house, I reckon, but a home anyway." As soon as he said it, however, he knew he detested the idea of a flat in a building shared with strangers. "A house," he amended, speaking over Malfoy's reply.
Malfoy paused, perhaps waiting to see if Harry was truly done talking, then said rather stiffly, "Certainly. Come on back to my office and we'll get started." He opened his arm in a gesture before retreating back down the hallway, and Harry followed.
Malfoy's office was as sleek and neat as he was, but with a distinct magical flair that delighted Harry. He hadn't much experience with the working magical world. Remus's office at Hogwarts and the backroom of Zonko's - Sirius's domain - were about the limit of it. He'd never seen Ron and Hermione's Auror offices and wondered if they were as whimsical as this one.
The large window behind the desk was charmed to show a sunny field of white peacocks, because Draco Malfoy was apparently still every bit the posh wanker. Pretty glowing orbs of light floated over their heads, and the arched ceiling was surely a product of magic, seeing as the outside of the building was far too stout to allow it. The dark hardwood floor matched the dark beams of the arches, but the cream-colored walls, rug, and ceiling kept the room feeling bright, clean, and open.
Harry dropped into a chair that was cushier than it looked and caught Malfoy's wince as the leather creaked and squeaked with water. He offered a half-smile, half-smirk in answer and Malfoy took his own seat, pulling a notepad and quill close.
"What are you looking for in a home, Mr. Blue?"
"Haz," Harry corrected. He loved hearing 'Haz.'
"Haz," Malfoy agreed after a moment of hesitation, then waited. It took a long moment before Harry realized he still needed an answer.
"Oh! Er, you know, somewhere to live. On my own."
Malfoy clicked his tongue, but didn't say anything. Harry suddenly got the feeling that he was being looked at like he was a madman who shouldn't live unsupervised.
"I live with, er - my uncles right now. But I really should find my own place. I've started a little business, see, and I've been using the shed out back, but it's bl--blingin' hot," he caught himself before the swear could come out, but then immediately wanted to retract the other word and use bloody instead, like a proper man.
"A home that doubles as a shop, then," Malfoy said, noting it with the overly large quill. Harry nodded. "What sort of business?"
"Brooms. I make brooms. Er, the flying kind. Obviously."
Malfoy's eyes widened while he took another note and Harry figured he had about fifteen minutes left before he called in a team of Mind Healers to cart him off to the loony bin.
"Anything else?"
Harry hesitated. "N-no, just the brooms for now..."
"Are you looking for anything else in a home besides space for your work?" Malfoy elaborated slowly. Harry scowled and bit back a retort. How was he meant to answer questions properly if they weren't asked right in the first place?
"No… Well, like what?"
"Single bedroom? How many baths? Are you looking for something in the city, or - "
"Oh! Just the one room. Bedroom, I mean. And the bathroom, I'll definitely need one of those. A separate bathroom, not one that's, like, behind a screen or something." Harry pursed his lips and tried to recall any other loo that didn't come with an actual door. By the look on Malfoy's face, a screened-off toilet was not the norm. "I like, er, not the city. I mean, I do like the city, but not to live in, I don't think. I like it looking..." he gestured to the window and its beautiful rolling hills, "open, I guess. I just don't want to look at the side of a shopping center, you know?"
"A home with a view," Malfoy confirmed, taking note. He seemed to be avoiding Harry's gaze, but then suddenly lifted his eyes and pinned him with a searching look that had Harry squirming loudly in the leather chair.
"Yeah," Harry said, swallowing with an audible gulp. His scar was firmly covered by his cap, he reminded himself, and Malfoy hadn't seen Harry Potter since fourth year. He'd not been found out yet, surely.
Malfoy nodded slowly, seeming to arrive at some sort of decision. Harry hoped it was that any business was welcome business, even if it came from a crazy person. Which he was not.
"Let's talk price range, and then we can look at some options," Malfoy said amicably enough and Harry allowed himself to relax.
The Danny Days are long gone and Harry longs for a time when he was still in his captor's good graces. The man's patience has been worn thin after one too many escape attempts.
In the Days of Denny, Harry hasn't yet broken his cursing habit. Again and again, he has his mouth violently washed out with soap until he's gagging and crying. He takes to rinsing his hands without soap, as the smell of it is enough to put him off his food.
He hates it here. He hates Denny. He hates the stupid screen that shields the toilet from view but doesn't actually offer any privacy when the man wants to spend time with him.
"It's not really sanitary, is it?" he asks one day over breakfast or lunch or dinner or whatever it is they are sharing at the little table in this room. Denny frowns at him. "Eating in the loo, I mean."
Denny continues frowning at him, as if that's an answer.
"I just took a massive shit and now we're supposed to - no, wait!" Denny hauls him up by his arm and drags him over to the sink. Harry kicks up a fight, already gagging, but Denny is easily twice his size. "No, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"You use foul language, Daddy has to clean it up."
Denny holds him, pinned against his chest, squirming and choking and screaming and retching, and Harry doesn't end up eating in his hated loo-room that day after all.
Source: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223679/chapters/63824206
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