Title: Christmas Presence
Author: Aidan Lynch )
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: Dedicated to Penguin.
They stumbled out of a seedy back-street bar somewhere between Soho and Trafalgar Square, into a swirl of icy air, leaves and litter.
�Where next?� slurred Draco.
The haze of alcohol abuse was evident in his clothes and his hair and his whole appearance. He grabbed onto Harry�s arm, then turned away to be sick.
�Home, I think,� groaned Harry, after a moment�s consideration. The state Draco was in, and the way he himself felt, they were bound to get chucked out of any bar they went into now.
�Have we got anything to drink at home?� spluttered Draco, bent over almost double, a mixture of vomit and saliva strung between his lower lip and the pavement.
�Water,� coughed Harry, trying not to look at Draco in case it made him sick himself, �and tea, but no milk.�
�Water�s no bloody good.�
�I know. Let�s try that bar down the road, that one we got banned from last month. They might�ve forgotten about it by now.�
�Good idea. Lead the way, won�t you? I can�t seem to see straight.�
It was Christmas Eve, but it could have been any one of many, many nights since the war had ended. But even on this night the jollity of the party-goers in the streets around them made no impression on their lives, or, reflected Harry, what�s left of our lives. The twinkling lights and the festive music emanating from all around them served only as another background detail, that was no more significant to them than the sudden flutter of urban pigeons or the distant rattle of the underground.
It was cold. Such cold was unusual at any time of year in London, where permanent activity and business seemed to stave off frosts and send snows elsewhere. But a wind with a chill factor was definitely blowing around them, swirling their overcoats and scarves and reddening their ears. Perhaps the wind came at them off the Thames, or blew in from the East and got trapped in little eddies in the tiny back lanes of the West End. Or perhaps it was blowing at them from a lot further away, from another world maybe, or from a long time ago. The wind made Harry think of fresh mornings at Hogwarts, of Ron and Hermione laughing in blustery rain, of Sirius flying at high speed on a Nimbus. He sighed deeply and tried to steady Draco, who was concentrating intently on every step.
It was winter, but it had always been winter. Ever since they had accepted Lucius�s judgement and left the wizarding world to live without money and magic in Muggle London, it had been winter. At first Harry had felt a traitor. Hermione, even in the face of her agony at losing Ron, had remained to try to coordinate resistance cells and guerrilla operations among the few of them that had been left. But Harry and Draco had only been allowed to remain with each other if they agreed to permanent exile, and Hermione hadn�t blamed them. Hermione, who could herself have moved to Muggle London without the slightest difficulty; she had stayed, while they had left. And now they had nothing but the wind and the rain for companions, and memories that were too painful to spend time with.
It was winter, as it had been when they had first taken their fledgling steps into their new lives. At first it had been Draco who had been optimistic. He had smiled when he saw the one-roomed flat they could afford (or rather one room and a tiny, unsavoury bathroom), burying his distaste for Harry�s sake, promising Harry they would make it cosy merely by being there together. He had sought out second hand clothes for them, and old furniture, and tried to insulate the freezing rooms with newspapers and blankets begged from the Salvation Army; oh yes, he hadn�t been too proud to beg, not then and not now, not if Harry needed something, not if Harry was cold, not if Harry this or Harry that. Harry had loved him to distraction then, when it seemed that the only thing they could rely on was the love they had miraculously found in their final years at school, and for weeks and weeks it was this love that fuelled their bellies and put warmth in their bones. It had been a game. Them against the winter. Their resilience against the perpetual dreary onslaught of London in January, and February, and March. And they had won. At first.
Some money had somehow found them. Draco suspected his mother, Harry thought possibly Molly Weasley. Every now and again, sometimes once a month, once three times in a fortnight, once not for two long hungry months, an envelope had been on their table when they had got home from drinking themselves stupid. Always the same type of brown envelope, with faded blue writing on the outside: To the Exiles, with love. A few Muggle pound notes inside, sometimes some coins too. It was never very much, but the proof that somewhere in the world someone was thinking of them relieved the crushing sense of loneliness they both felt, and on those occasions they would eat properly and drink good wine, and with some distant memory of happiness pervading their minds briefly, they would make love in the pile of blankets and cushions they called a bed, pretending that they were back where they belonged, valued rather than discarded, useful rather than exiled, empowered rather than emasculated.
But those few isolated moments of hope had only made the permanent winter seem crueller by comparison. Draco�s optimism had long faded to resignation and it was Harry who tried to care for them both now as they lived in the cracks of the system, dodging the demands of the city and the endless, indifferent winter. Harry pulled his coat closer around him as he steered Draco past the bar they had considered, knowing that the best place for both of them was bed, especially on this night. They staggered clumsily through the streets until they came out into the bright lights of the Strand, and where the wind blew so viciously right through them that Harry wondered if he had the strength to get them both home. Draco�s coat was thin in comparison to Harry�s; they only had one good coat between them, and Draco insisted that Harry have it, which was a kindness of long standing. But now Harry knew the alcohol they had been consuming for hours, days, weeks, months, had stopped warming Draco and started to weaken him, and he leant Draco�s unprotesting face against a wall and changed the coats over. If nothing else, it would force Harry to pick up the pace and get them home before they froze.
�I�m bloody nothing without you,� Draco slurred, as their steps quickened slightly in the cold. �Honestly. Nothing. Thanks.�
They had had this conversation so many times. In the early months, each had continually told the other they couldn�t even contemplate dealing with this horror story without him. And the magic of their love had become, imperceptibly, a sacred faith in the other�s continued presence that they each now mistook for the joyous affection of their schooldays, and that bonded them together as tightly as did the cold wind and their squalid flat. Harry longed for a future where their love would be allowed to blossom once more and thrive alongside birdsong and summer flowers, where they could rejoice in it and sing it aloud, rather than watch it warp under the strain of absolute mutual dependence. And each time this one single line hinted at this vast unspoken world of history and hope. Now, they didn�t need to go through the whole conversation. It was enough to say, I�m bloody nothing without you, and the dialogue would play through in full in both their heads. As they staggered up the Strand, Harry recalled the first time they had had this conversation. So did Draco, and he stopped Harry and tried to kiss him. It was a clumsy, drunken, unattractive lunge of a kiss, all wet tongue and misplaced enthusiasm, which tasted of whisky and vodka and sick.
�Fucking queers,� spat a passer-by as they struggled to resume their ungainly progress.
Neither of them reacted. The general inhabitants of Muggle London meant nothing to either of them, unless they were serving alcohol. And with empty pockets and a ban from most of the bars within stumbling distance of their flat, there was nowhere else to go but home, and no need to pretend to be able to relate to anything that happened in the city around them. Eventually they reached Cambridge Circus, and veered off into the dimly lit passage that approached their small piece of territory. Harry set Draco down on the step while his frozen fingers fumbled with the keys that opened the door, and then hauled him up the endless stairs. And as always, the blessed relief of being able to shut the door on their shitty shitty world was marred by the reality that the sanctuary to which they escaped was a hovel. And a freezing one at that.
�Draco, look,� grunted Harry. �Our mystery provider has sent us a Christmas envelope.�
Draco had already collapsed fully clothed onto the pile of blankets they slept on. Harry cautiously picked the envelope up, and then stared at it hard. These were always painful moments. Harry prayed each time that the banknotes inside might be accompanied by something more personal from someone they knew and loved. And each time an envelope arrived, Harry felt sick with shame that they relied on them so much. They were young and, if the alcohol were cut out, still fit; they should be able to work and live and love like the millions of decent people around them, but instead they were pitiful wrecks who clung to the past while obliterating their future with whisky. But, thought Harry, we never had a chance, not even a slim one. When Lucius had outlined his deal to them � death or exile, presumably only so generous because Lucius still had a nagging sense of duty where Draco was concerned � they had been so tired and exhausted, so shell-shocked by events, so distraught at losing loved ones, so low on hope and good will, so depressed and despairing. They had taken the deal, of course they had. But perhaps Lucius had even then known they were so damaged by their efforts and experiences of the previous year that they could never be strong enough to try to start all over again. And they had drifted, seemingly unconcerned as long as they had each other, until they had ended up right here: Christmas Eve, a whole twelve months of winter after their expulsion from a world controlled by dark forces, in a filthy flat, drunk, penniless, hungry and cold, and feeling more worthless than either of them could define. Only the envelopes offered anything different, and even with the inevitable reminder of their own uselessness, Harry still felt a tremor of excitement when one appeared.
�Draco, wake up, won�t you?� called Harry. �It�s our Christmas present.�
Draco stirred slightly, but Harry knew from experience, from daily existence, that if he wanted to talk to Draco he would have to bring him round with cold water or some other shock. Hell, it was Christmas. They had an envelope. Draco would bloody well snap out of his stupor for five minutes and enjoy it with him. He staggered to their pile of blankets and sat down next to Draco�s motionless body. He stared into the empty fireplace, and for the millionth time in their exile he wished for a wand. A fire would be luxury. They could sit naked next to it and enjoy their bodies without shivering. Oh, for a fire. Or even just for some love. Mostly they were too drunk to have sex, or at least too drunk to enjoy it or remember it.
�Draco, please!� moaned Harry, poking Draco violently in the chest.
With a supreme effort Draco sat up and rubbed his eyes. They looked at the envelope together. To the Exiles, with love. Harry opened it while Draco leant against his arm. Inside was money totalling nearly �300, including a number of fifty-pence pieces. It was by far the largest sum they had ever received. But, much more significantly, there was a note. After all this time hoping and praying, there was a bloody note. Harry teased it out in between two fingers, cream paper folded in two. Draco was instantly sober.
�Harry� Harry� what if�? Do you think�?�
�Shhh. Listen.� Harry read aloud.
Dear Exiles. Please spend this money on food and clothes and not on drink. Please bathe yourselves and try to feel more positive; the coins are for your electricity meter so you can have some hot water. Please remember that you are loved and that you are in love. And please hang on. I will come for you when I can. Merry Christmas.
�Who�s it from?� yelled Draco. �Is that all it says?�
�It�s not signed, presumably because it�s too dangerous to sign it,� said Harry softly. �But it doesn�t matter who it�s from, does it? Someone�s going to come for us, Draco, someone�s going to help us get back where we belong!�
�Wands? Brooms? A proper bed for you and me? Two warm coats instead of one?�
�Maybe all those things. But first, whoever wrote this is right: let�s have a bath.�
�Yes! Hot water and bubbles and you and me in a tub is about the best Christmas present I can think of right now. Oh, but Harry, I�m not sure I can face all the, you know��
A bath. It sounded so simple, just one tiny word like that. And there had so been so many baths in their previous life, none of which had meant very much to either of them. But now to have a bath was to wrestle with the most problematic aspects of their existence and to be unhappily reminded of the appalling facility they called a bathroom. Draco slumped back to the pile of blankets. It was always Harry who prepared them for a bath � Draco just couldn�t bear going in the bathroom � and Harry rose and set about this task with a surprising level of commitment. Suddenly it seemed so important to obey whoever wrote that letter. Harry had an image of whoever their benefactor was somehow being able to watch over them, either by physically moving in and out of Muggle London, or by some magical means, and he hated to think their mystery provider was of the opinion they were so filthy they needed to be told to take a bath. Perhaps there was even the thought in Harry that if they obeyed the letter seriously then whoever it was might come and get them sooner.
There were only two doors in their flat. One gave out on to the landing and the stairs and the outside world. The other prevented them from having to look at the bathroom all day. Harry opened it now. The room was just as gruesome as it always was. It was surprising how a room so small could provoke such strong antipathy. It was narrow, which made it awkward, and so dimly lit that it was immediately unwelcoming. The bath was large, but this only meant there was more enamel on show, once white, but now discoloured by years of dirty London water and a succession of tenants who did not care enough to clean it properly. The room was also bitterly cold as the skylight window had been broken since they moved in, but as they were so many months in arrears with the rent they had never been able to get it fixed. Once, early on, Draco had tried to block the hole with the remains of a blue carpet they had found in a cupboard, and in the process he had fallen and broken a wrist. At the time this injury had seemed grown up and significant, as it was somehow symbolic of their new life: a broken wrist, caused by something as mundane as a domestic incident in a Muggle bathroom, was far more painful and slower to heal than all the serious injuries they had sustained in fighting a losing magical battle for thirteen months. Now that accident only marked another point in their decline.
Feeding all the coins into the electricity meter, Harry then switched on the boiler and the (probably illegal) three-bar electric heater in the bathroom, and then went foraging for candles. Once he had cleared away everything cluttering the small room it began to look marginally less like the inside of a dirty fridge, as the dim flicker of about a dozen mismatched candles obscured the grime and damp and mould that ran along the floor and walls. He turned on the hot tap and set the steaming water cascading noisily into the bath as the ancient plumbing clanked and groaned in reluctant activity. As he emptied a bottle of bubbles into the bath, Harry felt a brief flash of satisfaction at a job reasonably well done.
On the day Harry and Draco�s remaining friends and family had been coming to terms with a new world order, Lucius was en route for the Ministry when the tedious issue of his renegade son had finally demanded resolution. Lucius was ordered simply to deal with the matter once and for all. In every other instance Lucius would have interpreted these instructions as carte blanche for as much murder as was required. He visited the pair in their cell in the basement of Gringotts, which had been besieged some weeks before. There had been a little itch of disgust in his throat as he opened the door and found them sleeping peacefully together, yet he knew he would never be able to kill Draco, whatever the Dark Lord demanded. Lucius chose to offer them exile instead, which the prisoners accepted suspiciously, and not half an hour later they had been marched along Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron and, in front of a number of officials of the new regime and a few nervous customers, their wands had been broken in two and they had been pushed out the front door with only the clothes they stood up in. That first day had begun in jail and ended in this very bath, when it had seemed like the finest bath in London. The endless winter of exile had drained them both of their energy and motivation, but as Harry looked at the bath that Christmas Eve he dared to probe the shadow of long-lost optimism.
Shifting Draco off the bed was never easy but it was vital if they wanted to go directly to bed afterwards. Harry hauled Draco to a nearby chair and set about straightening the mattress and its heap of blankets, as he was determined that tonight they should have as near to a real bed as it was possible for them to get. He dragged all the bedclothes away and began to remake the bed in a logical fashion. As he exposed the mattress for the first time in weeks, he caught sight of a piece of paper. He looked at it closer. It was a Christmas card. Or rather, an attempt at one. Using a sheet torn from a faded newspaper, and with a very soft pencil, Draco had obviously at some recent point tried to make something to give to Harry. On the front was a meticulously drawn picture of the two of them on brooms, and inside were the words, Harry, I�m bloody nothing without you, all my love for ever, Draco. Harry was moved by this and suspected that Draco, who was still sprawled uncomfortably in the chair, had forgotten about it. He finished making up their bed and set the card on Draco�s pillow.
Now all he needed was Draco. As Harry gently lifted him to his feet, Draco looked around vaguely.
�Harry�?�
�Yes, love. Stand up now. You�re going to get warm. We both are.�
�Are we?�
�Yes. And clean. Remember what it�s like to be clean?�
Draco nodded with the enthusiasm that only children and drunkards can manage properly. Harry began to undress them both and after only a short time they were naked in the centre of their room.
�This doesn�t feel very warm, Harry.�
�It will, baby. Come with me.�
In the bathroom the bath was close to full and Harry turned the tap off. Blue bubbles were banked high above the rim of the bath and the candles gave the room a vaguely magical air. Draco gasped, enchanted, and turned to Harry, the haze of alcohol clearing a little.
�Harry! It looks� perfect!�
�Merry Christmas, Draco,� smiled Harry, helping them both into the water, which was almost scalding hot, but which neither seemed to notice. It could have been that the water was so hot that the room was absorbing the steamy warmth, or it might have been that the candles made the room seem less cold, or it might even have been that destroying their wands was not by itself enough to eliminate the magic in Harry and Draco, but, for about half an hour, as the clock ticked past midnight and Christmas Eve became the following day, the pair were warmer and happier than they had been at any time in their exile. As they washed each other�s hair and scrubbed each other�s backs, their conversation turned from practicalities � they agreed to spend some money on a new coat, more on some proper food, and they tried hard to say that they would start to cut out the drinking � to hope.
� �Remember that you are loved, and that you are in love�,� quoted Draco while his hands massaged Harry�s shoulders. �Harry�?�
�Yes?�
�Good advice, eh? Like, remember who we were, and who we are��
�And who we will always be, I suppose. Come on Draco, rinse off. I�ve made the bed, and I want to get in it while I still feel warm. Will you come with me?�
�Just try and stop me, Harry. Merry Christmas.�
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