Water drips down the rotting pipes of the abandoned streets of Diagon Alley and the moonlight betrays the broken man lying on the cobblestone road. The moonlight shimmers on the stilled water puddles and catches on the dusty windows of shops and parlors, giving them a haunted feeling. It wasn't a magical place: Diagon Alley after hours. In fact, it was quite scary. It was one of the last places to be when you're homeless, but it was the only place that would keep you. If you were pathetic enough to live here, then you were really desperate for life, and would be better off dead.
Yet this man had the will to go on.
Barely 18 and just out of school but yet he was unable to do anything with his life. After school, Lord Voldemort lives on and he couldn't go to Auror prep school due to the lack of money. His own wand had been broken in a fight he had gotten into but he hadn't enough money to get a new one. Really, Harry Potter had lost everything. He didn't give up on the world.
The world gave up on him.
Shivering, he pulls himself into a tight ball to conserve heat but winter is approaching. Winter in this part of Britain is damn near impossible to survive. In fact, people here call it the 'Death Season' of the homeless. Usually, the ones left out in the cold got severe pneumonia or hypothermia or just freeze to death in their sleep. Harry had made it through one winter. He wasn't sure if he could do it again.
He hears approaching padding footsteps of bare feet on cobblestone and he looks up, listening hard for the direction. Turning his head to the left, Harry realizes it is an old bloke that he had come to know since his months (almost year now) of homelessness. This man's name is Edgar, preferably Eddie, and he was in his mid to upper forties. His teeth partly rotted out, and his skin and clothes are a grubby grey. He knows his life is coming to an end. He's expecting himself to go in the winter. Although Harry tells him that he's going to make it, Eddie doubts it and tells Harry to just worry about himself.
"Hey Eddie," Harry says softly as the middle-aged man sits beside him. Eddie looks worse than he did yesterday but yet, it had been a bitter day. It had rained all morning and afternoon, making the ground wetter and colder than normal.
"Good evenin' Harry," Eddie mutters, reaching for a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his brown jacket pocket. He coughs a wheezy cough as he pulls out a cigarette. After his small coughing fit, he places the cigarette between his cracked lips and lights it up. He put away his box and lighter to their original location.
"Rough day," Harry notes softly, looking up to the star dotted sky. The clouds have cleared up just in time for nightfall.
Eddie laughs harshly and pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, releasing smoke as he growls, "You're telling me." He hands over the cigarette to Harry, who receives it and takes a long drag. Holding in the tainted breath for a second or two, he releases it into the night air. He hands it back to Eddie, who takes it and poises it between his middle and ring finger on his left hand.
"Tom is thinking about kicking us out of the Leaky Cauldron for good now," Harry says, inspecting the dirt coating his jagged nails. "He won't let us even come inside now. Even during hours."
"Bastard," Eddie murmurs, placing the cigarette between his lips again and shutting his eyes. "What did he say that for anyhow?"
"Says its bad on his publicity," Harry seethes slightly. "Bad for his business apparently." The Leaky Cauldron was the place where he and Eddie spent all their time during the days. It was the only dry place that they didn't feel so out of place at.
Eddie snorts and says, "We look no different than what half of the people that go there do." He hands Harry the cigarette again. "It's a bunch of bullshit."
"I know," Harry agrees, taking a drag. Releasing the smoke, he asks, "So what were you coming back from just a little bit ago?"
"I just bought these," Eddie answers, grinning his wild teethed grin at the younger man. Harry returns Eddie his cigarette.
"You mean you wasted your money on cigarettes?" he asks softly, brushing a hand through his tangled hair.
"I didn't waste my money," the older man says, shrugging slightly. "If you don't like it, then don't share the cigarettes with me then."
Harry sighs from the naivety of his older friend. Harry was saving every Knut he had for buying a house. The first chance he got, he was going to rent out a room at the Leaky Cauldron until he found a job. Right now, nobody wanted Harry to work at any of the shops at Diagon Alley. They didn't want to be known as the place that the homeless guy works at.
Due to the lack of a job, Harry had to find other ways of making money. If you're thinking drug pusher, then you're sadly mistaken. It takes money to get possession of drugs but Harry was broke and couldn't do that business. So instead, he regrettably sold his body to anybody that would be willing to take him.
Harry wasn't half bad looking. He could even be called handsome if he was cleaned up. But really, some people really liked the rough kind of look. Young women like that a lot, and he found that's where most of his business came from. That and the occasional young man. Harry almost preferred it to be a man. That way he wouldn't have to do the work.
Sighing, Eddie squashed the last, unusable butt of the cigarette underneath his callused foot. The burning did not hurt him. He has stepped on glass before and still he does not bleed. Eddie had thickly soled feet. I still have my shoes but I know my feet will grow out of them soon. These trainers I have kept since my sixth year at Hogwarts. They were breaking but they were still shoes.
"Well I'll see you 'round Potter," the older man says as he starts to pad his way down to Knockturn Alley to do God only knows what. Sighing again from the sudden loneliness, Harry slides back to the concrete sidewalk beside a brick building, where he curls up into a ball. The drain pipe it next to his head, and he listens to the steady rhythm of dripping water as the smell of rot overcomes him.
--
"Well look what we have here!"
Harry's eyes crack open, thus causing his other senses to tune in. The noise and chatter of bustling people in furry parkas and scarves filled his head along with the sweet smell of hot chocolate and butterbeer. The bad cramps and kinks in his back was a fleeting pain as Harry sat up from his concrete bed. Harry didn't need to look up to recognize the voice of a man that brought him so much pain.
"Hello Malfoy," Harry replies softly, still not looking up at the towering man before him. Malfoy had returned after he fled from Voldemort. After the Dark Lord weakened, he had returned.
Malfoy laughs harshly and says mockingly, "What a piece of filth you have become! Just look at yourself!" Harry does not react. He just sits there, ignoring Draco Malfoy's pale eyes and trying to block out his insults. "Well are you just going to sit there or what?"
"Leave me alone," Harry whispers, voice cracking as he sits back against the brick wall. He brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Malfoy simply rolls his eyes and chuckles.
"You're so pathetic Potter," Malfoy snaps, kicking Harry's side harshly. As his foot makes contact with Harry's ribs, he doubles over, clutching his sides, gasping in pain. It doesn't take much to hurt an already broken man.
--
"So how long have you been smoking Potter?" Malfoy asks in a sickly tone as his shoes clatter against the cobblestone in the once still night. He stops, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Never would Harry ever plan on seeing Draco Malfoy in anything but dress pants and robes. But that had changed a few months ago: when Draco become Harry's frequent customer.
"Since I've been in hell," he answers gruffly, pulling the cigarette from his lips. His arm rests on his leg, where his wrist is gently tipped, the cigarette's trail of smoke drifting upward into the navy sky.
Harry had given up on that stupid thought of ever getting enough money to do anything with his life. He spent all his money on cigarettes.
Draco snorted and says, "Maybe if you'd stop feeling so sorry for yourself, you could get up and do something."
"Like you know anything about being homeless," Harry replies bitterly, eyes narrowing to slits as he takes another hit from his cigarette. "I can't believe the goddamn richest man in London is trying to tell me about being homeless. You know nothing about what I'm going through right now."
"Whatever Potter," Draco sighs, sitting down next to Harry on the concrete.
"You set yourself up for that," Harry says, dropping his hand down again. Draco looks over at him and takes the cigarette from Harry's hand. He places the cigarette between his pale lips and takes a small drag before handing it back to Harry. Draco watches Harry's annoyed expression. "Do you really think you're better than everybody else? Do you honestly think its okay to treat people like shit?"
"I can't help treating them that way if that is what they really are," he replies, leaning back on his hands to look up at the velvety sky.
"Sometimes I think you just like to argue with me for the hell of it," Harry says softly, putting the cigarette to his lips, tasting whatever had come off Draco's lips.
"Sometimes I do," he admits, studying Harry with an interested expression. "It's fun to see you get flustered. Because I hate you that much."
Harry scoffs quietly and he says, "No one who truly hates me would kiss me the way you do." A silence lapses, and Harry flicks the cigarette away, into the cobblestone street.
"So are you saying I don't hate you?" Draco asks curiously, turning around to face Harry completely. Harry cocks his head to the side as he returns Draco's confused look. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means whatever you want it to mean Draco," Harry replies softly, feeling Draco's warm breath brush his face with each exhale. Draco's eyes are glittering in the soft moonlight, just like the water had the night before only his eyes are a torrent of emotions. He leans forward and captures Harry's lips in his, tasting the lingering nicotine. Draco's cologne filled Harry's senses, and he kisses him back, returning all of the confusion, hate, and love in one kiss. Harry's hands found their way dug deep in Draco's blonde hair. And Draco's hands are on Harry's sides, guiding him down to lie on his back.
Just to think Draco had kicked him where he was now tenderly holding him just that day.
Sometimes the two would somehow loose all sense of emotion. Love would be confused with hate and the borderline was so blended between the men, that they didn't know what to feel towards the other.
Draco pulls away and murmurs with his eyes closed and his forehead resting against that of his lover's, "I think I love you Harry."
"I know," he replies softly, causing Draco's eyes to open. His pale blue-grey eyes met Harry's emerald ones as he adds, "I've always known."
"And you've never said anything," Draco mutters, pulling away from Harry. The other man sat up to look at Draco, gently resting his hand on the small of his back. "Why?"
"Because sometimes I swore that you hated me," Harry replies, moving his hand to lie on Draco's leg. A silence lapses as both men think about Harry's words.
"You never specified…" Draco trails off as he tries to get around to the question. "Do you love me too?"
Harry looks away and says nothing. Did he love Draco? He didn't know. He could swear that he hated him more often than loved him. But then there were those nights… Those times that it was just them: two confused, passionate lovers.
When Harry didn't answer, Draco stood up, his love's hand to fall from his leg. He strides away swiftly, the same way he came in, with his eyes low, hands stuffed in pockets. Harry watches as Draco disappears, going to put himself into character for tomorrow afternoon, when Harry will be sure to be abused by his lover.
Harry looks up at the sky, where the clouds are overcast and storm threatening. He pulls out a cigarette and a lighter, lighting the cigarette and placing it between his lips. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and the sky rumbles overhead.
"You know what Draco?" Harry says softly into the night, as if Draco were still there. "I think… I think I loved you." The words linger in the humid air. There is a flash of lightening; a crack of thunder, and then rain starts to pour over him. "A bit too late for that though, isn't it?" Harry laughs harshly to himself as he flicks his unfinished cigarette into a forming puddle. The rain washes over Harry, rinsing the loose dirt off his body.
Harry curls up into his ball against the brick wall, trying to conserve what little body warmth he has. The water gushes out of the rotting drainpipe but all that he smells is the intoxicating scent of Draco's cologne.
And all he feels is the undying hate possessing his entire being.
Borderline by sweetxcharade
Chapter Notes: well i really dont know what to say about this. i was just typing and this is what came out. it was something i was feeling at the moment and so yeah.... i would like feedback. anything to make my writing better