Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 1
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: If they were mine, Harry Potter wouldn't be a kid's book. Capish?
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism
"Transcending the Bullshit"
-The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
Draco Malfoy was having a bad day, though it was the last before vacation. He had just recieved an owl stating that his presence at the Manor was unwelcome. No, scratch that. It was more than merely unwanted, bad enough in itself. He had been strictly forbidden to return over Christmas vacation. Draco Malfoy was not, nor ever will be, a person who takes to rejection kindly. He was upset, to say the least, when his name was forcefully added to the list of those staying at Hogwart's. To make matters worse, the only other people staying were Potter, four Weasleys, Granger, and a group of seven Hufflepuff first-years. He left the breakfast table with less grace than his norm (though it was considerably more than the rest of us have the priveledge of posessing) and stormed up to his dorm.
He did not reappear all day, missing Potions, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy, possibly his favorite classes.
***
How could my father do this?
It's Christmas, and I'm not going home.
Never the love I once had, I grew up and I'm not cute anymore.
Even a family with a Dark side should have some unity.
Invite me home to punish me, at least we're together, beat me, whip me, scald me, hurt me, at least it's contact. You always did, but it wasn't my fault I was Muggle- born. I hurt others to conceal the hurt I felt inside, but I was never rewarded.
My parents adopted me for my golden hair, my pudgy cheeks, my blood-red lips of yesteryear.
I've grown up. My face turned slim, my body lithe but small, my hair silver. No longer a spot of light, I have blended. I do not fit with rooms full of antique crystal and varnished cabinets. I do not match with the black robes of wizarding. I will never fully merge with this magic. I may have been brought up in its strict tradition as a plaything, a game of torture. You never thought I'd turn out magical, did you? You'd never think that my Potions skill would surpass my teacher's, and it does-- but you'd never believe it. That's why he likes me, you know. I didn't deserve the beatings for Snape being nice to me, I wouldn't suck up if I was paid, just like you taught me. Not that I need the money, heir of two rich asses like you. Schooled in the art of cruelty, meticulously trained to be scornful of my own birth. You planned it this way, didn't you? So I'd end up friendless and alone, without anyone to love or be loved by.
And it would be ten times worse if you knew I was bi.
***
It was after Draco's second day of complete absence that Harry noticed it. He mentioned it nonchalently to Hermione at breakfast the next morning. "Herm?"
She "mmmm"ed distractedly, halfway through a pleasingly stout book entitled "Anciente Magick: Ye Olde Guide to The Arte of Symboles ande Connotationes".
"Where's Malfoy?"
"I'd think you'd be glad to have him gone."
"But he isn't gone, his name's on the list of people staying. How come we haven't seen him at any meals?"
"He's probably getting food from the kitchens. Why are you so concerned?" Hermione replied sensibly.
"Good point..." Harry ran off to tickle the pear.
In the kitchen, Dobby swore he hadn't seen the youngest Malfoy. "I is not seeing Draco Malfoy, sir, no, not ever!" The elf's ears bobbled in emphasis. "NEVER!"
Harry stumbled backwards from the force of the tirade. "Thank-you, Dobby!" He ran out of the still life, leaving a bemused house-elf in his wake.
***
Where is he?
Why was he so upset?
Why did he skip potions?
Why do I care?
***
The hunger and cold isn't enough. The soft pain I subject my naked body to will not suffice to mask my inner hurt. It will never be enough. I need sharp pain, pain, a wolf to knaw at me. I'll pace in my empty dorm room for eternity before I can quench the knife stabbing me from the inside. I need to match it somehow... match it... match it...
***
At three o'clock in the morning, the slim blonde woke suddenly from a fitful nap on the floor. He instantly berated himself for allowing his body that rest, that comfort. His eyes were glazed and wild, his face flushed. He went to the wardrobe and drew out a starched, pristine white cotton robe. Feverishly, he spoke. "I can't do it anymore. I can't."
He slid the robe over his bare skin. It was generally uncomfortable, not molding to his form. "I'll never hold out for the slow route. I'm not strong enough." He turned to a small chest by his bed. "You formed it that way, didn't you, Father? Common muggle-born Draco, the weakling. It wasn't Mother's fault she turned out infertile. It was yours, but you aren't intellegent enough to grasp that she'd never become pregnant with the way you raped her. Didn't you know that knives do not enhance fertility? You didn't keep her well enough. It was your idiocy that began her illness. And then you were forced to adopt me, but you weren't happy. Whip me, saying how horribly common I was. Cruciatus, taunting me I'd never be able to do do magic. I grew up with magic, the worst of it. You hardened me to it, but kept me too weak to break free. I'll break free now, though. You'll see."
He roughly shoved the lid up, splintering the fragile carving. A sliver of wood imbedded deep into his palm, and he laughed hollowly. "You never guessed I could die, did you? Train me to be invincible and soft, so soft I'd never commit suicide. A toy for your sadistic enjoyment. Never thought you'd spawn a masochist." He grabbed two thick, silver armbands from the pile of ceremonial jewellry. "And I'll die with style, cold splendor that you'll never achieve. You'll die at the hands of Voldemort in a cold, dark, musty cellar. The rats and roaches will eat your body. You will never be mourned. I will be mourned. I will shock the wizarding world and make a headline. I can see it: 'Young magic student found dead in a pile of bloody robes." I'll be beautiful, as I always am. You never could stand it, how beautiful I turned out to be. You picked me for family resemblance. You were so handsome then, pale and cold and handsome. You never considered the fact that you could go old and gray, while I bloomed into my prime, sexy as hell and better-looking than you ever were." He snapped two snug silver bracelets onto his wrists. "And now, I'll overcome the lies you told me. You told me I was good-for-nothing, stupid, ugly, dumb, unattractive." He picked up a quill and parchment. "But I learned I didn't have to listen to your lies. The shit you fed me to make me feel bad and you feel good." He began to write, his calligraphy looping over the parchment in perfect curves. "They'll all weep when they find the true Draco Malfoy, a boy that was misunderstood and abused by his father. They'll read my dying phrase: 'died for lack of love'. They'll read my notebook." He snatched up a heavy leather volume. "I recorded it all. When they investigate, they'll find it's true. A drop of Veritaserum in the wine you love so much, and it will all spill out. You'll never escape. Never." He strode to the door, his legs carrying him gracefully out of the stone halls of the dungeons and onto the snow-coated lawn with his parchment and diary.
His voice echoed into the dark night, rebounding off the trees in the Forbidden Forest: "I'm transcending your bullshit, Father! The muggle book said they did it with drugs, but that didn't work. I found the way, Father, the way no one else has ever found!" He dropped his book next to the lake and drew an ivory-handled knife from his pocket. "I'm transcending the bullshit..." He sliced into his forearm with the knife. It did not hurt. He hurled the knife, wet with crimson, scented iron, into the snow, and raked long fingernails over the scrape, drawing blood, and blood, and blood, and blood... "I'm transcending the bullshit..." A scarlet waterfall stained the stiff cloth he wore. "Transcending the bullshit... transcending the bullshit..."
His voice trailed off and was swallowed whole by the trees of the Forbidden Forest as his concious ebbed away onto the snow with his blood.
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 2
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to the prestigious JK, who has managed to keep the shaggable boys from doing so thus far. Applaud or curse her self-control, it's up to you.
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism
"I've looked at love from both sides now/ From in and out/ And still somehow/ It's love's illusion I recall/ I really don't know love/ at all."
-Clouds
Joni Mitchell
Harry stared pensively out the window of Gryffindor tower, watching the landscape illuminated by the half-moon. It was after two in the morning, but he couldn't sleep. It was almost lulling to watch the lap wind-driven waters against the snowy banky of the lake.
He was mearly nodding when a sudden vision jerked him awake: a blonde boy in a pale robe that didn't shift as he glided over the snow. Harry wondered briefly if he was wearing skis under his outfit, but the footprints showed each toe in perfect detail, all ten of them.
Harry was about to placidly watch the figure when he suddenly realised that those footprints belonged to someone who wasn't wearing shoes when it was about three degrees below zero outside. He sat up, now curious.
An old Japanese proverb says that bad luck comes in threes. Harry found out that the same rule applies to the things that come to shock you in the middle of the night, because he recieved the third one monents after the second.
A knife blade glittered eerily by virtue of lunar illuminescence. Harry reached absently for his snow boots. When the knife cut into one pale arm, Harry shoved the boots over his socks, grabbed three cloaks, threw the invisibility one over him, and glanced out the window, where the figure was tearing at his own arm. Harry's eyes blurred in horror as the crimson sploch began to obscure his vision. He hastily adjusted his glasses and burst out of the Fat Lady, who was disgruntled at such a rude awakening. Without opening her eyes, she called down the hall: "Eh, leave a portrait to her sleep, why don't you!"
Blood pounding in his ears, Harry didn't hear her as he tore down flights of steps and out the door.
By the time he got there, the blonde was slumped over in a dead faint. Upon closer inspection, the boy was strangely beautiful. The pale unity of the moon, the snow, and the boy's white robe, pale skin, silver jewelry, and blonde hair was stunning contrast to the dark, dead, black winter night. Harry wrapped his spare cloak around the other boy, wondering who he was. The thought crossed his mind that he might be Draco, but then he glanced at the parchment lying on the snow next to the boy. 'Died for lack of love'. Definitely not Draco, Harry thought. He also picked up the leather-bound volume lying by the boy. He'd read it later, Harry decided, it was far more important to get this guy cleaned up. He lifted the parchment and the volume after gathering the boy into his arms. He was surprisingly light, which worried Harry. The boy desparately needed to gain some weight before he starved to death.
Some gut feeling told Harry not to go to Madame Pomfrey, so he headed towards the Prefect's bathroom after he re-entered the school.
When he arrived the door, he prayed to whatever deity that might be looking after either the boy or him that the password hadn't changed. "Pine fresh," he hissed urgently, and the door swung rather drowsily open, as if it hadn't really listened to the password.
It worked for Harry. He walked in and turned on the single plain faucet. Excessive amounts of bubble bath would only irritate the boy'd injuries, he reasoned.
He stacked five towels and lay the boy on top of them gently while he closed the door, then he rushed back to the boy's side, where he promptly did a double-take of the events of the last twenty minutes or so.
"Let me get this straight. I was looking out the window when a boy walked outside in bare feet and started to slash at his arm with a knife. Then, I ran outside, wondered who he was, figured out who he wasn't, gave up, and instantly carried him to the *prefect's* bathroom, god knows why." Harry spoke aloud, then laughed at his own words. "Gosh, I'm going batty, aren't I? This is probably all a dream." He shook his head. "Even if it is a dream, I'll feel pretty bad if I don't fix him up."
Blushing profusely, Harry stripped off the boy's robe. He wasn't wearing anything underneath, which startled Harry, who merely blushed harder.
He lifted the boy again and snatched one of the towels. He tied it to two of the taps as sort of a seat to put the boy in, then set the boy down again.
After he shed his own robes, Harry slid into the water. It wasn't as deep as he remembered; he could stand comfortably now. He reached for a towel, wet it, and began to stroke it over the boy's bloody arms, wondering what was so terrible that it could make someone, anyone, do this to themselves. As the blood began to run away from the boy, Harry noticed it was better than it looked, though it wasn't good at all. He decided that whoever it was needed counselling more than medical attention. He didn't even need stitches; the single incision and jagged-edged fingernail rakes were already beginning to form scabs. Harry was trailing the towel over the boy's body methodically, the rhythm beginning to lull him to sleep. Shaking himself firmly awake, he finished cleaning the still-unconcious boy up and dried them both off.
Not bothering with robes for either of them and too tired to work the clasps if he had tried to put them on, Harry lifted the boy and covered them with the invisibility cloak before rushing up to Gryffindor tower.
The Fat Lady refused to be roused easily. After Harry poked her for the umpteenth time, she crankily spoke, not bothering to look at him. "What is it?"
Harry blinked. "Uh... velvet night?" At the password, the portrait swung open, so Harry took the opportunity and let the Fat Lady go back to sleep as he carried the boy up the stairs.
He tucked the boy into his own bed, then realised that Ron would be suspicious if he used Seamus's bed. He crawled under the covers and shut the curtains, sealing, locking, and soundproofing them with a charm Hermione had taught him earlier that year, when Neville's snoring and Dean's nocturnal lavatory visits were keeping him awake.
Sleepily, he curled up to the blonde, not even putting on pyjamas, just attracted to the source of warmth.
The next morning, Harry was woken by a loud fluttering of wings. Hedwig had flown through the top of his four-poster to deliver a letter. He caught the parchment automatically as she looked for somewhere to roost. He was unrolled it and began to read.
"Dear Harry,
Don't worry about it, lots of wizards are bisexual. However, quite a few of them are still afraid to come out. Voldemort was reputedly very intolerant of homosexuals, even for him. Keep your chin up!
Your godfather,
Sirius."
Harry smiled. So it wasn't abnormal after all.
A sudden angry hoot from Hedwig made him look up. The owl, looking disgruntled, rose from her perch on the blonde's arm and flew out the window. The blonde stirred. "Am I in Heaven or Hell?" He said, drowsily.
Harry stared.
The blonde's eyes fluttered open. Silver. "Oh, no, I'm dreaming. But if I'm asleep, I'll die soon enough. My body won't stand the cold. I thought I'd stopped having these goddamn wet dreams about you, though!"
Harry's eyes widened. It looked so much like--no, it couldn't be. There could be two people with this strange, pale colouring. It was coincidence that this boy had the pale skin, silver-blonde hair, and overall look of his nemisis. Besides, the boy next to him was far too lovely to be someone he'd despised for that many years. And lastly, there was no way in Hell, Heaven, or earth, or anywhere else, that Draco Malfoy had had wet dreams about him. "Who are you?" he asked the pale apparition at his side.
"Draco Malfoy. Don't play dumb, Potter, it doesn't suit you at all."
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 3
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: Does my writing style look even remotely similar to JK's? We all know who wrote the books, right?
All: Yes!
Me: Then I didn't, right?
All:Yes!
Me: Then they're not mine, right?
All: Yes!
Me: Damn! ...I mean, don't sue me, I know they're JK's.
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism.
Thanks to all the lovely reviewers. I didn't realise that the muggleborn Draco was new (conciously). It's so nice that you said that! *smile* You really make this worthwhile, even though it's new and flowing pretty well.
"...we made love, I suppose inevitably. Sex can do wonderful things for fear."
-"I Sad Seen Castles" by Cyntihia Rylant, "Cicada" magazine, volume one, issue four.
Harry's face contorted. "Uh... Draco... it isn't a dream."
Draco smiled condescendingly. "You always say that. If it isn't, then why are we naked, in bed, together?"
"Because I rescued you!" Harry told him, mending the hole Hedwig had made in his four-poster with a flick of his wand to block the noise.
"And why would you rescue your arch-enemy? Or even call him by his first name?"
"Because-- because-- oh, hell-- you were beautiful. Lying in the snow like a fallen angel, silver pale--"
"Okay, that's enough, Harry, I know I'm sexy without you trying to be eloquent. Leave that to those who have talent and experience, will you? Stop trying to prove it with fragments from my subconcious mind."
"But--"
"But nothing, dear boy. If I'm going to have this dream again, at least follow the script properly."
"So why are *you* using my first name?" Harry challenged.
"Because you're about to shag me, that's why."
"I'm what?"
"Do you need everything spelled out for you?"
"Yes, I do!" Harry replied peevishly. "If you've had this dream before, I haven't. D'you take Divination?"
"Goodness, no. I could hardly stand that old bat and her lectures about the 'inner eye' and 'psychic aura'. Why do you mention it? Did she see an irresistably hot Slytherin in your tea leaves?"
Harry snorted. "In your dreams."
"This is one, remember?"
"Why do you dream about me, of all people, anyways?"
Draco was taken aback. "What, don't you know? You're perhaps not quite the peice of eye-candy I am, but you certainly are a looker. You underestimate yourself, my dear."
Harry blinked. "But I'm a guy!"
"So am I! But you're *obviously* at least bi, and I'm nearer to 'gay' on the continuum myself."
Crossly: "I'm *not* swishy."
"Of course you're not, dear."
"My mirror said that to me once."
"Oh, really?" Draco was suddenly delighted. "That's so cute!" He ruffled Harry's tousled hair.
Harry looked even more cross, if that was possible. "OK, so you're dreaming about shagging me?"
"Well, among things. There are other things I do to you, too. One of my favorites involved a tray of sliced peaches, vanilla ice cream, a thin silk rope, and a feather."
Harry blinked. "What usually happens next?"
Draco leaned over Harry and kissed him. "That. Except you usually don't ask so many questions."
Harry let out a small whimper, wondered where it came from, and decided to ignore it. "So, how do I prove to you that this isn't a dream?"
Draco grinned. "Make me scream."
Harry gave Draco a decisively odd look. "Why?"
"One, because if I'm screaming, you're doing something particularly nice-feeling--"
Harry rolled his eyes and remained silent.
"And two because I've been spelled to remain silent during dreams. As a child, I used to scream very loudly when I had nightmares, and Father decided that it would reflect badly on him if I woke the castle by screaming. Are you quite satisfied, and can we get on with it already?"
"One more thing: why would you have nightmares? You don't seem like a monster-under-the-bed-trying-to-eat-me-up sort."
Draco's face darkened. "You don't want to know the answer to that, Potter."
"Tell me anyway."
"I'm muggle-born--" (Harry gawped) "and my father adopted me as a torture toy. I have some fairly unpleasant memories to build nightmares on. It was especially bad when I got my letter. He hadn't wanted magic out of me."
It made sense, in some demented way, to Harry. "Okay, since you're so determined to have your way, I'll let you believe it's a dream." He sighed and reclined back on the pillows.
Draco's lips curved into a rather seductive smirk that refused to stay put, instead, it played around his mouth in such a way that drew attention to itself. The effect was lost of Harry. His eyes were closed. Giving up, Draco leaned over, decided against leaning, and collapsed onto Harry's bare chest.
"Oof." Harry told him, rather unconvincingly.
Draco gave him a Look. "What do you think you're doing?"
Harry sighed again. "I *was* going to go back to sleep," he replied petulantly, allowing his lower lip to jut out just the slightest bit, turning himself into a picture worthy of pity, a pat on the head, and a doggy treat for sheer adorableness.
Draco wasn't fooled. He dipped his head and nibbled gently on said bottom lip.
Harry tilted his head back, remembered who was doing the nibbling, and shoved Draco off. "What the hell!"
"This is the way the dream goes. Stop playing hard-to-get, it's quite obvious you'll enjoy this just as much as I will."
That gave Harry pause. The blonde, unfortunately for Harry's rational mind, had a point.
While Harry was mulling that over, Draco maneuvered himself in closer to Harry, trailing a hand over the other boy's chest.
Harry was snapped from his thoughts with a jolt, which was not half so unpleasant as he might have expected. A smile began to sneak over Harry's lips.
Draco noticed it. "See, you are enjoying it."
The smile cursed and retreated, shaking a figurative fist at Draco. Draco took the point, then wondered why he was communicating with a smile. He gave up wondering and decided that he liked it on Harry, so he'd ignore it and hope it would settle there.
Harry looked at Draco.
Draco looked back. He realigned his body with Harry's, then started a slow, throbbing kiss to a low beat he cast into the air.
Silver eyes fluttered shut as thier owner began to pur himself into the kiss. Green eyes followed shortly after Harry, quite against his will, gave up trying to resist and let himself enjoy Draco's lips.
After a bit, Draco broke the kiss. "See, you're liking it enough. You always do."
Harry's eyes were a bit glazed. He didn't say anything.
***
By the time it was all over, both boys had screamed.
Draco looked at Harry. "It's not a dream."
Harry shook his head no.
Draco stared, ruffled. "Damn."
Harry looked away.
Draco grabbed a cloak, hastily threw it about his shoulders, and ran from the room.
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 4
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: JK wrote it. D'you think she'd sell the rights to me? Maybe if I was having a *really* good dream, but not in life. Therefore, I don't own it. Please don't sue?
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism.
"But they wouldn't listen-- or watch us dance! Our stories were wasted, and so were our songs."
-Version of Cinderella
"And then I saw it. A circle. A circle where dancing feet had worn away the moss. A circle whose outer edge was a hand's-breadth away from the crumbling cliff edge."
-Visitors, by Sarah Ellis, Cicada magazine, Volume 3, Number 4.
Harry was extremely confused. He had just rescued his nemesis, *slept* with said nemisis, and then, if it wasn't enough then, gone all out and SHAGGED his nemisis!
The issue was not the two-boys thing. The issue was that it was Malfoy--Draco? They'd been fighting since forever, but was it time to reconsider and lay aside old grudges?
He closed his eyes and flopped back on the pillow to think.
***
Draco was just as confused. Why had Harry done that? Why?
***
My wet dream and nemisis in more ways than one
Since second year!
Rescued me-- when I didn't want to be rescued.
Death-- it was all I wanted.
Pain to block out my mental suffering.
I was nearly there,
away from it all,
out from under the shit
that held me back,
tons of it,
brown and oozing and putrid and decaying,
And I came out.
His arms around me, snuggled up to me--
Do I have a reason to live?
He can't like me-- that had to be pity sex
But Potter-- Harry-- doesn't seem like the type.
Stand up to your foes, brave Lion,
But stand up in which way?
Does he get off on beating Voldemort?
Fight them, love them--
I don't know where he stands.
I don't know where I stand
To be or not to be,
To live or not to live,
Muggle hauntings,
classic, I suppose,
painted against the bloody arm Potter cleaned
And I don't know if I have the willpower,
either to go on and find out
Or die.
I'll just sleep.
***
Harry tossed under his comforter, and finally decided to stop trying to second-guess Draco's mind. It wasn't necessary, Draco should know himself. Just ask, he must mean something more than a fuck-toy, because Draco was acting as in a dream.
After a scribbled question, Harry tied a scrap of paper-bag brown parchment to Hedwig's leg, shooed her out the window, and emerged from his bed to wait.
***
"Draco--
what was last night?
was it just because?
-HP"
***
Ron was waiting for Harry. "Took you long enough!"
Harry blinked tiwice, clearing sleep from his eyes. "What? What time is it?"
Ron smiled. "Three PM! Sleepyhead!" He gave Harry a soft punch on his bicep.
Harry smiled back. "I guess I missed breakfast, then, eh?"
"Oh, and that's not the least of it! Fred and George were out prowling last night. Suddenly, Snape dragged them into a broom closet-- you know the one, next to the stairs on the fourth floor?"
Harry grinned, startled. "You're kidding."
"Nope! See, what happened was..."
Harry linked arms with Ron. "Tell me all about it."
***
The snowy white owl pecked hard on the pale forehead of a boy tangled in sleep. "Go away, Terence, not today," he muttered sleepily. Hedwig kept pecking.
Draco rolled up in bed, peevish. "Wha--" He saw the owl and calmed. "Oh." He untied the scrap of paper. The torn edge was soft under his finger. "Thanks," he told her. She stayed, as if waiting for an answer.
Draco dutifully flipped the parchment over and read it.
Then he read it again.
And a third time, for good measure.
He blinked, then selected a roll of pale pink, faded parchment. A pair of scissors, a bit old, perhaps, musty, black handles, served to snip off the amount Draco thought he would need.
He paused to consider. What was his connection with the Boy who Lived? Did he feel anything for him?
He didn't need love in his life, did he?
Harry couldn't love him. No. Harry's pure, innocent, untouched... but then why'd he write?
Draco didn't understand. It's just...he couldn't get Harry out of his mind.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
He crushed the thought that began nibbling on the corner of his brain. //I do NOT!//
After a bit, the thought came back. //Didn't I tell you to go away?// he told it peevishly.
The thought stayed firmly put. //You know I'm right.//
Draco ignored it.
The thought, however, was annoyingly persistant. //I'm right and you know it.//
Draco glared daggers at it. //What was it you said?//
//You like Harry.//
//Let me get this straight. Me, Draco Malfoy, son of Voldemort's right-hand man, I am in LOVE with the Boy who Lived? Me. Harry Potter. Me. Harry Potter. Is there something I fail to comprehend here?//
//You look good together. You're sexy, he's sweet. It's perfect. You're bitter, he's your cure. He's too selfless, you're his counter. Don't worry, it'll all come out in the wash.//
//I love the fucking Boy who Lived. Love.//
//Yup!//
//You're kidding.//
//No.//
Draco paused, thought a bit, and decided that, gosh darn it all, the darn idea was right. He dipped his quill in his elaborate inkwell and spun matching words with an extra flourish.
***
"HP--
I think I love you.
--DM"
***
Harry was in the bathroom when Hedwig returned with a letter.
After untying a golden thread, he skimmed it and almost collapsed in shock. That was certainly not what he had expected. He flipped the note over but decided against defacing it. Harry wondered why he hadn't noticed Draco's beautiful penmanship before, wondered why he'd used the word 'beautiful' in conjunction with his oldest enemy, desparately tried to forget that it was that beauty that had sent him racing out of the warmth of Gryffindor Tower to rescue the blonde, and grabbed a slip of paper to scrawl a reply on.
***
"Malfoy, what the hell?
Meet me by the lake at ten tonight; we seriously need to talk.
Harry"
***
The owl was tired, but sensed it was close to rest. She flew.
Draco recieved the parchment, and read it. His face fell, then he relaxed. It was an improvement,
Resolving to take care of that later, he hastily scribbled a reply in his excitement.
***
"K.
-D."
Harry stared at the initial. It surprised him, but he already knew Draco's script. But why was the bloody Slytherin signing the parchment as if they were already lovers? Presumptuous, as usual... Harry let his thoughts drift off on thier own, so he didn't notice when they started playing with a daydream of Draco.
***
When Draco reached the lake at 9:55, there was no Harry.
There was no Harry five minutes later.
Or ten minutes after that.
When it was 10:30, Draco was extremely worried. Somehow, he knew that Harry hadn't stood him up.
A black silhouette of one figure carrying an unconcious one passed before the moon just above Draco. Harry's glasses, bridge broken, fell onto the ground beside him.
Draco stared a moment, horrified, then turned and ran for Dumbledore.
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: If they were mine, Harry Potter wouldn't be a kid's book. Capish?
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism
"Transcending the Bullshit"
-The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
Draco Malfoy was having a bad day, though it was the last before vacation. He had just recieved an owl stating that his presence at the Manor was unwelcome. No, scratch that. It was more than merely unwanted, bad enough in itself. He had been strictly forbidden to return over Christmas vacation. Draco Malfoy was not, nor ever will be, a person who takes to rejection kindly. He was upset, to say the least, when his name was forcefully added to the list of those staying at Hogwart's. To make matters worse, the only other people staying were Potter, four Weasleys, Granger, and a group of seven Hufflepuff first-years. He left the breakfast table with less grace than his norm (though it was considerably more than the rest of us have the priveledge of posessing) and stormed up to his dorm.
He did not reappear all day, missing Potions, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy, possibly his favorite classes.
***
How could my father do this?
It's Christmas, and I'm not going home.
Never the love I once had, I grew up and I'm not cute anymore.
Even a family with a Dark side should have some unity.
Invite me home to punish me, at least we're together, beat me, whip me, scald me, hurt me, at least it's contact. You always did, but it wasn't my fault I was Muggle- born. I hurt others to conceal the hurt I felt inside, but I was never rewarded.
My parents adopted me for my golden hair, my pudgy cheeks, my blood-red lips of yesteryear.
I've grown up. My face turned slim, my body lithe but small, my hair silver. No longer a spot of light, I have blended. I do not fit with rooms full of antique crystal and varnished cabinets. I do not match with the black robes of wizarding. I will never fully merge with this magic. I may have been brought up in its strict tradition as a plaything, a game of torture. You never thought I'd turn out magical, did you? You'd never think that my Potions skill would surpass my teacher's, and it does-- but you'd never believe it. That's why he likes me, you know. I didn't deserve the beatings for Snape being nice to me, I wouldn't suck up if I was paid, just like you taught me. Not that I need the money, heir of two rich asses like you. Schooled in the art of cruelty, meticulously trained to be scornful of my own birth. You planned it this way, didn't you? So I'd end up friendless and alone, without anyone to love or be loved by.
And it would be ten times worse if you knew I was bi.
***
It was after Draco's second day of complete absence that Harry noticed it. He mentioned it nonchalently to Hermione at breakfast the next morning. "Herm?"
She "mmmm"ed distractedly, halfway through a pleasingly stout book entitled "Anciente Magick: Ye Olde Guide to The Arte of Symboles ande Connotationes".
"Where's Malfoy?"
"I'd think you'd be glad to have him gone."
"But he isn't gone, his name's on the list of people staying. How come we haven't seen him at any meals?"
"He's probably getting food from the kitchens. Why are you so concerned?" Hermione replied sensibly.
"Good point..." Harry ran off to tickle the pear.
In the kitchen, Dobby swore he hadn't seen the youngest Malfoy. "I is not seeing Draco Malfoy, sir, no, not ever!" The elf's ears bobbled in emphasis. "NEVER!"
Harry stumbled backwards from the force of the tirade. "Thank-you, Dobby!" He ran out of the still life, leaving a bemused house-elf in his wake.
***
Where is he?
Why was he so upset?
Why did he skip potions?
Why do I care?
***
The hunger and cold isn't enough. The soft pain I subject my naked body to will not suffice to mask my inner hurt. It will never be enough. I need sharp pain, pain, a wolf to knaw at me. I'll pace in my empty dorm room for eternity before I can quench the knife stabbing me from the inside. I need to match it somehow... match it... match it...
***
At three o'clock in the morning, the slim blonde woke suddenly from a fitful nap on the floor. He instantly berated himself for allowing his body that rest, that comfort. His eyes were glazed and wild, his face flushed. He went to the wardrobe and drew out a starched, pristine white cotton robe. Feverishly, he spoke. "I can't do it anymore. I can't."
He slid the robe over his bare skin. It was generally uncomfortable, not molding to his form. "I'll never hold out for the slow route. I'm not strong enough." He turned to a small chest by his bed. "You formed it that way, didn't you, Father? Common muggle-born Draco, the weakling. It wasn't Mother's fault she turned out infertile. It was yours, but you aren't intellegent enough to grasp that she'd never become pregnant with the way you raped her. Didn't you know that knives do not enhance fertility? You didn't keep her well enough. It was your idiocy that began her illness. And then you were forced to adopt me, but you weren't happy. Whip me, saying how horribly common I was. Cruciatus, taunting me I'd never be able to do do magic. I grew up with magic, the worst of it. You hardened me to it, but kept me too weak to break free. I'll break free now, though. You'll see."
He roughly shoved the lid up, splintering the fragile carving. A sliver of wood imbedded deep into his palm, and he laughed hollowly. "You never guessed I could die, did you? Train me to be invincible and soft, so soft I'd never commit suicide. A toy for your sadistic enjoyment. Never thought you'd spawn a masochist." He grabbed two thick, silver armbands from the pile of ceremonial jewellry. "And I'll die with style, cold splendor that you'll never achieve. You'll die at the hands of Voldemort in a cold, dark, musty cellar. The rats and roaches will eat your body. You will never be mourned. I will be mourned. I will shock the wizarding world and make a headline. I can see it: 'Young magic student found dead in a pile of bloody robes." I'll be beautiful, as I always am. You never could stand it, how beautiful I turned out to be. You picked me for family resemblance. You were so handsome then, pale and cold and handsome. You never considered the fact that you could go old and gray, while I bloomed into my prime, sexy as hell and better-looking than you ever were." He snapped two snug silver bracelets onto his wrists. "And now, I'll overcome the lies you told me. You told me I was good-for-nothing, stupid, ugly, dumb, unattractive." He picked up a quill and parchment. "But I learned I didn't have to listen to your lies. The shit you fed me to make me feel bad and you feel good." He began to write, his calligraphy looping over the parchment in perfect curves. "They'll all weep when they find the true Draco Malfoy, a boy that was misunderstood and abused by his father. They'll read my dying phrase: 'died for lack of love'. They'll read my notebook." He snatched up a heavy leather volume. "I recorded it all. When they investigate, they'll find it's true. A drop of Veritaserum in the wine you love so much, and it will all spill out. You'll never escape. Never." He strode to the door, his legs carrying him gracefully out of the stone halls of the dungeons and onto the snow-coated lawn with his parchment and diary.
His voice echoed into the dark night, rebounding off the trees in the Forbidden Forest: "I'm transcending your bullshit, Father! The muggle book said they did it with drugs, but that didn't work. I found the way, Father, the way no one else has ever found!" He dropped his book next to the lake and drew an ivory-handled knife from his pocket. "I'm transcending the bullshit..." He sliced into his forearm with the knife. It did not hurt. He hurled the knife, wet with crimson, scented iron, into the snow, and raked long fingernails over the scrape, drawing blood, and blood, and blood, and blood... "I'm transcending the bullshit..." A scarlet waterfall stained the stiff cloth he wore. "Transcending the bullshit... transcending the bullshit..."
His voice trailed off and was swallowed whole by the trees of the Forbidden Forest as his concious ebbed away onto the snow with his blood.
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 2
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to the prestigious JK, who has managed to keep the shaggable boys from doing so thus far. Applaud or curse her self-control, it's up to you.
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism
"I've looked at love from both sides now/ From in and out/ And still somehow/ It's love's illusion I recall/ I really don't know love/ at all."
-Clouds
Joni Mitchell
Harry stared pensively out the window of Gryffindor tower, watching the landscape illuminated by the half-moon. It was after two in the morning, but he couldn't sleep. It was almost lulling to watch the lap wind-driven waters against the snowy banky of the lake.
He was mearly nodding when a sudden vision jerked him awake: a blonde boy in a pale robe that didn't shift as he glided over the snow. Harry wondered briefly if he was wearing skis under his outfit, but the footprints showed each toe in perfect detail, all ten of them.
Harry was about to placidly watch the figure when he suddenly realised that those footprints belonged to someone who wasn't wearing shoes when it was about three degrees below zero outside. He sat up, now curious.
An old Japanese proverb says that bad luck comes in threes. Harry found out that the same rule applies to the things that come to shock you in the middle of the night, because he recieved the third one monents after the second.
A knife blade glittered eerily by virtue of lunar illuminescence. Harry reached absently for his snow boots. When the knife cut into one pale arm, Harry shoved the boots over his socks, grabbed three cloaks, threw the invisibility one over him, and glanced out the window, where the figure was tearing at his own arm. Harry's eyes blurred in horror as the crimson sploch began to obscure his vision. He hastily adjusted his glasses and burst out of the Fat Lady, who was disgruntled at such a rude awakening. Without opening her eyes, she called down the hall: "Eh, leave a portrait to her sleep, why don't you!"
Blood pounding in his ears, Harry didn't hear her as he tore down flights of steps and out the door.
By the time he got there, the blonde was slumped over in a dead faint. Upon closer inspection, the boy was strangely beautiful. The pale unity of the moon, the snow, and the boy's white robe, pale skin, silver jewelry, and blonde hair was stunning contrast to the dark, dead, black winter night. Harry wrapped his spare cloak around the other boy, wondering who he was. The thought crossed his mind that he might be Draco, but then he glanced at the parchment lying on the snow next to the boy. 'Died for lack of love'. Definitely not Draco, Harry thought. He also picked up the leather-bound volume lying by the boy. He'd read it later, Harry decided, it was far more important to get this guy cleaned up. He lifted the parchment and the volume after gathering the boy into his arms. He was surprisingly light, which worried Harry. The boy desparately needed to gain some weight before he starved to death.
Some gut feeling told Harry not to go to Madame Pomfrey, so he headed towards the Prefect's bathroom after he re-entered the school.
When he arrived the door, he prayed to whatever deity that might be looking after either the boy or him that the password hadn't changed. "Pine fresh," he hissed urgently, and the door swung rather drowsily open, as if it hadn't really listened to the password.
It worked for Harry. He walked in and turned on the single plain faucet. Excessive amounts of bubble bath would only irritate the boy'd injuries, he reasoned.
He stacked five towels and lay the boy on top of them gently while he closed the door, then he rushed back to the boy's side, where he promptly did a double-take of the events of the last twenty minutes or so.
"Let me get this straight. I was looking out the window when a boy walked outside in bare feet and started to slash at his arm with a knife. Then, I ran outside, wondered who he was, figured out who he wasn't, gave up, and instantly carried him to the *prefect's* bathroom, god knows why." Harry spoke aloud, then laughed at his own words. "Gosh, I'm going batty, aren't I? This is probably all a dream." He shook his head. "Even if it is a dream, I'll feel pretty bad if I don't fix him up."
Blushing profusely, Harry stripped off the boy's robe. He wasn't wearing anything underneath, which startled Harry, who merely blushed harder.
He lifted the boy again and snatched one of the towels. He tied it to two of the taps as sort of a seat to put the boy in, then set the boy down again.
After he shed his own robes, Harry slid into the water. It wasn't as deep as he remembered; he could stand comfortably now. He reached for a towel, wet it, and began to stroke it over the boy's bloody arms, wondering what was so terrible that it could make someone, anyone, do this to themselves. As the blood began to run away from the boy, Harry noticed it was better than it looked, though it wasn't good at all. He decided that whoever it was needed counselling more than medical attention. He didn't even need stitches; the single incision and jagged-edged fingernail rakes were already beginning to form scabs. Harry was trailing the towel over the boy's body methodically, the rhythm beginning to lull him to sleep. Shaking himself firmly awake, he finished cleaning the still-unconcious boy up and dried them both off.
Not bothering with robes for either of them and too tired to work the clasps if he had tried to put them on, Harry lifted the boy and covered them with the invisibility cloak before rushing up to Gryffindor tower.
The Fat Lady refused to be roused easily. After Harry poked her for the umpteenth time, she crankily spoke, not bothering to look at him. "What is it?"
Harry blinked. "Uh... velvet night?" At the password, the portrait swung open, so Harry took the opportunity and let the Fat Lady go back to sleep as he carried the boy up the stairs.
He tucked the boy into his own bed, then realised that Ron would be suspicious if he used Seamus's bed. He crawled under the covers and shut the curtains, sealing, locking, and soundproofing them with a charm Hermione had taught him earlier that year, when Neville's snoring and Dean's nocturnal lavatory visits were keeping him awake.
Sleepily, he curled up to the blonde, not even putting on pyjamas, just attracted to the source of warmth.
The next morning, Harry was woken by a loud fluttering of wings. Hedwig had flown through the top of his four-poster to deliver a letter. He caught the parchment automatically as she looked for somewhere to roost. He was unrolled it and began to read.
"Dear Harry,
Don't worry about it, lots of wizards are bisexual. However, quite a few of them are still afraid to come out. Voldemort was reputedly very intolerant of homosexuals, even for him. Keep your chin up!
Your godfather,
Sirius."
Harry smiled. So it wasn't abnormal after all.
A sudden angry hoot from Hedwig made him look up. The owl, looking disgruntled, rose from her perch on the blonde's arm and flew out the window. The blonde stirred. "Am I in Heaven or Hell?" He said, drowsily.
Harry stared.
The blonde's eyes fluttered open. Silver. "Oh, no, I'm dreaming. But if I'm asleep, I'll die soon enough. My body won't stand the cold. I thought I'd stopped having these goddamn wet dreams about you, though!"
Harry's eyes widened. It looked so much like--no, it couldn't be. There could be two people with this strange, pale colouring. It was coincidence that this boy had the pale skin, silver-blonde hair, and overall look of his nemisis. Besides, the boy next to him was far too lovely to be someone he'd despised for that many years. And lastly, there was no way in Hell, Heaven, or earth, or anywhere else, that Draco Malfoy had had wet dreams about him. "Who are you?" he asked the pale apparition at his side.
"Draco Malfoy. Don't play dumb, Potter, it doesn't suit you at all."
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 3
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: Does my writing style look even remotely similar to JK's? We all know who wrote the books, right?
All: Yes!
Me: Then I didn't, right?
All:Yes!
Me: Then they're not mine, right?
All: Yes!
Me: Damn! ...I mean, don't sue me, I know they're JK's.
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism.
Thanks to all the lovely reviewers. I didn't realise that the muggleborn Draco was new (conciously). It's so nice that you said that! *smile* You really make this worthwhile, even though it's new and flowing pretty well.
"...we made love, I suppose inevitably. Sex can do wonderful things for fear."
-"I Sad Seen Castles" by Cyntihia Rylant, "Cicada" magazine, volume one, issue four.
Harry's face contorted. "Uh... Draco... it isn't a dream."
Draco smiled condescendingly. "You always say that. If it isn't, then why are we naked, in bed, together?"
"Because I rescued you!" Harry told him, mending the hole Hedwig had made in his four-poster with a flick of his wand to block the noise.
"And why would you rescue your arch-enemy? Or even call him by his first name?"
"Because-- because-- oh, hell-- you were beautiful. Lying in the snow like a fallen angel, silver pale--"
"Okay, that's enough, Harry, I know I'm sexy without you trying to be eloquent. Leave that to those who have talent and experience, will you? Stop trying to prove it with fragments from my subconcious mind."
"But--"
"But nothing, dear boy. If I'm going to have this dream again, at least follow the script properly."
"So why are *you* using my first name?" Harry challenged.
"Because you're about to shag me, that's why."
"I'm what?"
"Do you need everything spelled out for you?"
"Yes, I do!" Harry replied peevishly. "If you've had this dream before, I haven't. D'you take Divination?"
"Goodness, no. I could hardly stand that old bat and her lectures about the 'inner eye' and 'psychic aura'. Why do you mention it? Did she see an irresistably hot Slytherin in your tea leaves?"
Harry snorted. "In your dreams."
"This is one, remember?"
"Why do you dream about me, of all people, anyways?"
Draco was taken aback. "What, don't you know? You're perhaps not quite the peice of eye-candy I am, but you certainly are a looker. You underestimate yourself, my dear."
Harry blinked. "But I'm a guy!"
"So am I! But you're *obviously* at least bi, and I'm nearer to 'gay' on the continuum myself."
Crossly: "I'm *not* swishy."
"Of course you're not, dear."
"My mirror said that to me once."
"Oh, really?" Draco was suddenly delighted. "That's so cute!" He ruffled Harry's tousled hair.
Harry looked even more cross, if that was possible. "OK, so you're dreaming about shagging me?"
"Well, among things. There are other things I do to you, too. One of my favorites involved a tray of sliced peaches, vanilla ice cream, a thin silk rope, and a feather."
Harry blinked. "What usually happens next?"
Draco leaned over Harry and kissed him. "That. Except you usually don't ask so many questions."
Harry let out a small whimper, wondered where it came from, and decided to ignore it. "So, how do I prove to you that this isn't a dream?"
Draco grinned. "Make me scream."
Harry gave Draco a decisively odd look. "Why?"
"One, because if I'm screaming, you're doing something particularly nice-feeling--"
Harry rolled his eyes and remained silent.
"And two because I've been spelled to remain silent during dreams. As a child, I used to scream very loudly when I had nightmares, and Father decided that it would reflect badly on him if I woke the castle by screaming. Are you quite satisfied, and can we get on with it already?"
"One more thing: why would you have nightmares? You don't seem like a monster-under-the-bed-trying-to-eat-me-up sort."
Draco's face darkened. "You don't want to know the answer to that, Potter."
"Tell me anyway."
"I'm muggle-born--" (Harry gawped) "and my father adopted me as a torture toy. I have some fairly unpleasant memories to build nightmares on. It was especially bad when I got my letter. He hadn't wanted magic out of me."
It made sense, in some demented way, to Harry. "Okay, since you're so determined to have your way, I'll let you believe it's a dream." He sighed and reclined back on the pillows.
Draco's lips curved into a rather seductive smirk that refused to stay put, instead, it played around his mouth in such a way that drew attention to itself. The effect was lost of Harry. His eyes were closed. Giving up, Draco leaned over, decided against leaning, and collapsed onto Harry's bare chest.
"Oof." Harry told him, rather unconvincingly.
Draco gave him a Look. "What do you think you're doing?"
Harry sighed again. "I *was* going to go back to sleep," he replied petulantly, allowing his lower lip to jut out just the slightest bit, turning himself into a picture worthy of pity, a pat on the head, and a doggy treat for sheer adorableness.
Draco wasn't fooled. He dipped his head and nibbled gently on said bottom lip.
Harry tilted his head back, remembered who was doing the nibbling, and shoved Draco off. "What the hell!"
"This is the way the dream goes. Stop playing hard-to-get, it's quite obvious you'll enjoy this just as much as I will."
That gave Harry pause. The blonde, unfortunately for Harry's rational mind, had a point.
While Harry was mulling that over, Draco maneuvered himself in closer to Harry, trailing a hand over the other boy's chest.
Harry was snapped from his thoughts with a jolt, which was not half so unpleasant as he might have expected. A smile began to sneak over Harry's lips.
Draco noticed it. "See, you are enjoying it."
The smile cursed and retreated, shaking a figurative fist at Draco. Draco took the point, then wondered why he was communicating with a smile. He gave up wondering and decided that he liked it on Harry, so he'd ignore it and hope it would settle there.
Harry looked at Draco.
Draco looked back. He realigned his body with Harry's, then started a slow, throbbing kiss to a low beat he cast into the air.
Silver eyes fluttered shut as thier owner began to pur himself into the kiss. Green eyes followed shortly after Harry, quite against his will, gave up trying to resist and let himself enjoy Draco's lips.
After a bit, Draco broke the kiss. "See, you're liking it enough. You always do."
Harry's eyes were a bit glazed. He didn't say anything.
***
By the time it was all over, both boys had screamed.
Draco looked at Harry. "It's not a dream."
Harry shook his head no.
Draco stared, ruffled. "Damn."
Harry looked away.
Draco grabbed a cloak, hastily threw it about his shoulders, and ran from the room.
Transcending the Bullshit, Chapter 4
By Goddess JacquesPierre
Disclaimer: JK wrote it. D'you think she'd sell the rights to me? Maybe if I was having a *really* good dream, but not in life. Therefore, I don't own it. Please don't sue?
Rating: R
Warnings: Frequent shift of format, possibly shifiting POV, slash, angst, masochism.
"But they wouldn't listen-- or watch us dance! Our stories were wasted, and so were our songs."
-Version of Cinderella
"And then I saw it. A circle. A circle where dancing feet had worn away the moss. A circle whose outer edge was a hand's-breadth away from the crumbling cliff edge."
-Visitors, by Sarah Ellis, Cicada magazine, Volume 3, Number 4.
Harry was extremely confused. He had just rescued his nemesis, *slept* with said nemisis, and then, if it wasn't enough then, gone all out and SHAGGED his nemisis!
The issue was not the two-boys thing. The issue was that it was Malfoy--Draco? They'd been fighting since forever, but was it time to reconsider and lay aside old grudges?
He closed his eyes and flopped back on the pillow to think.
***
Draco was just as confused. Why had Harry done that? Why?
***
My wet dream and nemisis in more ways than one
Since second year!
Rescued me-- when I didn't want to be rescued.
Death-- it was all I wanted.
Pain to block out my mental suffering.
I was nearly there,
away from it all,
out from under the shit
that held me back,
tons of it,
brown and oozing and putrid and decaying,
And I came out.
His arms around me, snuggled up to me--
Do I have a reason to live?
He can't like me-- that had to be pity sex
But Potter-- Harry-- doesn't seem like the type.
Stand up to your foes, brave Lion,
But stand up in which way?
Does he get off on beating Voldemort?
Fight them, love them--
I don't know where he stands.
I don't know where I stand
To be or not to be,
To live or not to live,
Muggle hauntings,
classic, I suppose,
painted against the bloody arm Potter cleaned
And I don't know if I have the willpower,
either to go on and find out
Or die.
I'll just sleep.
***
Harry tossed under his comforter, and finally decided to stop trying to second-guess Draco's mind. It wasn't necessary, Draco should know himself. Just ask, he must mean something more than a fuck-toy, because Draco was acting as in a dream.
After a scribbled question, Harry tied a scrap of paper-bag brown parchment to Hedwig's leg, shooed her out the window, and emerged from his bed to wait.
***
"Draco--
what was last night?
was it just because?
-HP"
***
Ron was waiting for Harry. "Took you long enough!"
Harry blinked tiwice, clearing sleep from his eyes. "What? What time is it?"
Ron smiled. "Three PM! Sleepyhead!" He gave Harry a soft punch on his bicep.
Harry smiled back. "I guess I missed breakfast, then, eh?"
"Oh, and that's not the least of it! Fred and George were out prowling last night. Suddenly, Snape dragged them into a broom closet-- you know the one, next to the stairs on the fourth floor?"
Harry grinned, startled. "You're kidding."
"Nope! See, what happened was..."
Harry linked arms with Ron. "Tell me all about it."
***
The snowy white owl pecked hard on the pale forehead of a boy tangled in sleep. "Go away, Terence, not today," he muttered sleepily. Hedwig kept pecking.
Draco rolled up in bed, peevish. "Wha--" He saw the owl and calmed. "Oh." He untied the scrap of paper. The torn edge was soft under his finger. "Thanks," he told her. She stayed, as if waiting for an answer.
Draco dutifully flipped the parchment over and read it.
Then he read it again.
And a third time, for good measure.
He blinked, then selected a roll of pale pink, faded parchment. A pair of scissors, a bit old, perhaps, musty, black handles, served to snip off the amount Draco thought he would need.
He paused to consider. What was his connection with the Boy who Lived? Did he feel anything for him?
He didn't need love in his life, did he?
Harry couldn't love him. No. Harry's pure, innocent, untouched... but then why'd he write?
Draco didn't understand. It's just...he couldn't get Harry out of his mind.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
He crushed the thought that began nibbling on the corner of his brain. //I do NOT!//
After a bit, the thought came back. //Didn't I tell you to go away?// he told it peevishly.
The thought stayed firmly put. //You know I'm right.//
Draco ignored it.
The thought, however, was annoyingly persistant. //I'm right and you know it.//
Draco glared daggers at it. //What was it you said?//
//You like Harry.//
//Let me get this straight. Me, Draco Malfoy, son of Voldemort's right-hand man, I am in LOVE with the Boy who Lived? Me. Harry Potter. Me. Harry Potter. Is there something I fail to comprehend here?//
//You look good together. You're sexy, he's sweet. It's perfect. You're bitter, he's your cure. He's too selfless, you're his counter. Don't worry, it'll all come out in the wash.//
//I love the fucking Boy who Lived. Love.//
//Yup!//
//You're kidding.//
//No.//
Draco paused, thought a bit, and decided that, gosh darn it all, the darn idea was right. He dipped his quill in his elaborate inkwell and spun matching words with an extra flourish.
***
"HP--
I think I love you.
--DM"
***
Harry was in the bathroom when Hedwig returned with a letter.
After untying a golden thread, he skimmed it and almost collapsed in shock. That was certainly not what he had expected. He flipped the note over but decided against defacing it. Harry wondered why he hadn't noticed Draco's beautiful penmanship before, wondered why he'd used the word 'beautiful' in conjunction with his oldest enemy, desparately tried to forget that it was that beauty that had sent him racing out of the warmth of Gryffindor Tower to rescue the blonde, and grabbed a slip of paper to scrawl a reply on.
***
"Malfoy, what the hell?
Meet me by the lake at ten tonight; we seriously need to talk.
Harry"
***
The owl was tired, but sensed it was close to rest. She flew.
Draco recieved the parchment, and read it. His face fell, then he relaxed. It was an improvement,
Resolving to take care of that later, he hastily scribbled a reply in his excitement.
***
"K.
-D."
Harry stared at the initial. It surprised him, but he already knew Draco's script. But why was the bloody Slytherin signing the parchment as if they were already lovers? Presumptuous, as usual... Harry let his thoughts drift off on thier own, so he didn't notice when they started playing with a daydream of Draco.
***
When Draco reached the lake at 9:55, there was no Harry.
There was no Harry five minutes later.
Or ten minutes after that.
When it was 10:30, Draco was extremely worried. Somehow, he knew that Harry hadn't stood him up.
A black silhouette of one figure carrying an unconcious one passed before the moon just above Draco. Harry's glasses, bridge broken, fell onto the ground beside him.
Draco stared a moment, horrified, then turned and ran for Dumbledore.
