𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓 2008

Exodus Honey

Author: derryere
Pairing(s): H/D
Rating: Heavy R
Summary: In which Draco sucks at his job, Harry has problems, and an assload of illegal money helps the shit hit the fan. There are also Mafiosi, guns, carjackings and flip-flops. EWE.
Warnings: Swearing, violence, a blatant disregard of a certain epilogue, mild AU and suzzual situazions.
Word count: 35k

 

Head down, supported by the clammy heels of hands against forehead, there is little else to look at but the yellowing lawn and the shadows of bugs shrugging up the soil from underneath. There is a gathering somewhere nearby, and it sounds like that loud couple from a few doors down who are always having parties after one of their big rows, when the neighbourly conversation concerning the smashing sounds of household objects against the tin walls of the trailer home is one too awkward to have while sober. So everyone gets real drunk, sitting on beer cases and folding chairs out on the grass, and for a while it's okay again. For a while no one cares that they were up at four AM last night screaming out of their bedroom window, 'Would you fucking keep that motherfucking noise down, Rogers!'

 

And like this the alcohol dampens the resentment, gossip and anger. People say, 'I love you, man! You are fucking awesome!', and they mean it, because they know what love feels like and they know that beer sometimes feels like love too, but it's okay, because it generally is a good feeling – so why be picky on where it comes from? There is loud music and maybe a barbeque going on though maybe not, maybe it's just the neighbour's kids burning some tires or small animals at the other end of the park. It doesn't matter. The summer's been good to these people. Even if it's a caravan park and they're not exactly on their financial top, not precisely what you'd call high society and not entirely the prettiest people all around, this summer has been mild and it's hard to not enjoy the evenings as they dwindle between the mismatched hedges with their agreeable temperatures and brilliant sunsets.

 

The noise is pleasant, it's happy and the music is nondescript enough to not offend anyone in particular. 'Who's that singer?' they ask. 'Oh, that's whatsername, with an A, and an M, and the ... she played at that place last year, the place with the thing ...' 'Oh yeah,' the others reply, vaguely enthusiastic. 'I must look her up when I get home. I must illegally download her entire album and pass this brilliant music to all my friends.' But after five minutes they lift to their lips a new beer, laugh and then raise it to their company, drinking away the memory of the singer who has an A and an M in her name. A beverage is then spilled on the CD player. The contraption jumps, buzzes, repeats the last chorus three of four times before stopping altogether and everyone finds this incredibly funny. Now, no music will not be drowned out by no crowd, and the slurred conversation between the blurry people will from this moment on serve as base. The crickets are the strings, the children the altos, and the crackling fire will be the sticks that someone always clicks together in the back of  the orchestra for some insane reason, maybe just to amuse the bored teenage kids in the crowd, the ones who always need a weird looking instrument in the musical set up to make fun of. And lastly that sigh from a distance, that irritated breathing swooping through the symphony with almost no sound at all – (you hear that? There – right there – there it is) – that will be the element we'll call X. Undefined and invisible as it is, element X is not entirely useless. Over from his trailer home a few dozen yards down the road, sitting on the step leading to his kitchen/bedroom/living room, element X serves a certain purpose. His purpose is as follows: