Rated T for profanity and possible mild graphic content.
All copyrighted material belongs to people who are not me. JK Rowling, for the most part.
Inspiration (and more than a few lines) drawn from Glen Duncan's I, Lucifer.
This story is set in the 6th year, and therefore disregards the final two books.
Enjoy.
A Trifle
1.
I, Draco Malfoy, supposed Junior Death Eater, Prince of Slytherin, Heir to the Malfoy and Black fortunes, Enemy to All Gryffindors, Nemesis of All Members of the Golden Trio, Arch-Nemesis of The Boy Who Lived, known Seducer, Tormentor, all around Bastard, and unquestionably the Best Screw in all of Hogwarts, have decided to tell all.
All? More or less. I am a creature of habit after all. Nothing exciting about the whole truth anyway, right? Can't give all my secrets away. Not me, anyway. Maybe Potter can afford to bath nude in the blinding glow of The Light, but the rest of us mortals have skeletons in the dark parts of our closets. Parts that are dark for a reason. (Except maybe Granger. She's probably only got some argyle socks in her closet. Maybe some books… Romance novels, at a stretch, but Granger's really more of the textbook or biography type.)
Now for your overwhelming torrent of questions – which all, in the end, boil down to the same single one: what is it like… to be me? What is life like for someone rich, pretty (I'm not afraid of admitting what can't be denied. This face? This face on a girl's body would equal one smoking hottie. On a male body, it equals… huh. A smoking hottie. Gosh.), intelligent, pureblooded, and every other kind of talented? Or maybe the cynics want to know what exactly the sting of an ebony cane feels like when it cracks across your spine?
Let me start off by saying, there's the constant impatience that comes with being the only child of a family that is the financial equivalent of some of the countries that used to be in the Soviet Union. It's hard to argue with cash or coins; money makes things move. And lots of money means that the things I want tend to move fast.
But don't expect the same in return. We'll get around to all that lovely, nitty gritty, "human interest" horse manure in due time, sweet cheeks. You'll get your gossip column material, and in the mean time, I get to "right some wrongs". It's not a common practice of mine, but some glaringly obvious gaps in communication just can't go without a bit of recognition.
Namely, the Dark Lord. Not that he doesn't get enough recognition, because honestly, even when the Prophet was jumping through flaming hoops just to keep his name (or rather, to keep his long-ass nickname, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named") off the papers, he was always sort of there. Like a really bad smell of something not-so-innocuous at a dinner party. You can ignore it, but it does something shitty to your appetite.
So, Voldemort – I keep getting off track – is one of the few dark linings around the silver cloud that makes up my life. As a child I had little to no knowledge of You-Know-Who himself, but dark magic wasn't exactly an unfamiliar friend. Seems like maybe Uncle Voldie might shown up at some family dinners when I was a little bundle of soft baby butt skin, and my biggest contribution to the discussion might have been an angry sounding gurgle, but that's about it. I mean, it's not like I woke up in the morning to chirping birds and the screams of torture victims. There's something distinctly off-putting about blood stains next to your coffee stains, anyway, so if anything like that went on under my feet, it was far enough under that I didn't know about it.
Dark magic's a funny thing. If you're around it, you notice it – the same way you notice when there's someone staring at the back of your neck, you just know – but there's not always a visual component. As a kid, the kind of magic I was most familiar with was the stupid little spells and transfigurations that were on toys, or the boring, practical magic that the House Elves used. Dark magic is neither amusing (at least not in that, "Oh, look, Draco, honey, your pillow's been transfigured into a pig with wings. Would you like to ride it? Here, I'll just charm it so it'll carry you around…" way) nor practical. Dark magic spells are of the "death, death, devil, devil, devil, devil, evil, evil, evil, evil…" variety, that's about it, so for the under ten age group, there's not a large audience.
I mean, to be honest, I'm not exactly wetting my pants over dark curses now, either. Maybe it's just me.
Merlin, what was I even talking about before? One moment, don't go anywhere – okay.
Voldemort.
…Did you expect Carmina Burana to start playing? Or Beethoven's 5th? It's foolish, but we still live in a world where a nine letter nonsense word that happens to bridge the gap in an anagram between "Tom Marvolo Riddle" and "I am Lord __________" (and presumable also, "Shit in your pants, right now." No? Hmm.) can make a fifty year old wizard whimper.
And if you think that imagery's uncomfortable, try imagining it with the man being your own father…
But, anyway, more on that later. I'm feeling kind of… peckish.
* * *
"They've had a pretty good season, except for the first few –"
"Purple! Bright purple! And none of the cleaning spells I know are –"
"I just don't know if that's what I really want or if –"
"Ugh! Do you take breaks to breathe between shoveling food in –"
"'Erryeree, wi' 'oo rah aht, reeee –"
"Don't even try talking to me with food in your mouth! Honestly, Ron! Will you just –"
Ah, the Great Hall. Mudblood Granger was lecturing the Weasel on table manners. I thought about asking her if personal hygiene was the next topic on her Weasley Clan lecture circuit, but I was already past them and I didn't feel like doubling back around just to throw an insult.
And I was, after all, hungry.
I sat down between Pansy and Blaise and began to pile food onto the empty plate in front of me with one hand while Pansy predictably wrapped both of her tentacles around my other arm. The girl is a leech, but she's a friend, and her endless affection can be… endearing… Or stifling. Sometimes she's a doll, and sometimes she can be a bit much.
She tightened her grip, as if in response to my thoughts, and started on the routine monologue about her day-to-day life.
Pansy considers herself to be the ideal girlfriend and has almost no understanding of the concept of boundaries or autonomy. She's got clear skin with an even complexion, hazel eyes, a nice rack, and straight, dark hair that she pretends to be at war with. She can't keep a hairstyle for more than six months and keeps a myriad of pins, clips, scarves, headbands, scrunchies, hair ties, and barrettes lining the bottoms of her purses. Secretly, though, I just know she thinks of it as her crowning (ba-dum, tsss.) glory under which she poses, dramatically, in front of every mirror she encounters.
I considered our friendship while I cut, speared, and ate some chicken, nodded at even intervals, and tried to keep eye contact with her just enough for her to think I was listening.
Obviously, some people believe we're going to get married – some of those people might just happen to be our parents – but I'm not convinced that I want what dear ol' Mummy and Pops want for me. Pansy and I have even spoken on the matter and we both pretty much agree that we won't let ourselves be forced into anything, but really, if we had a choice in the matter, it wouldn't be called an arranged marriage. It wouldn't be so bad, though, I suppose – and technically, we have been dating for the past, you know, two years. 'Dating' in name alone. It's like the beginning of a romantic relationship between two twelve year olds, with less sneaking around and awkwardness. Or simply two good friends, who happen to kiss sometimes and be comfortable around each other. I can lay my head in her lap and just listen to her talk while she combs her fingers through my hair, or she can sit on my lap or fall asleep on my shoulder, and it's safe. We're going out. We're allowed.
She is not a whore.
I have only ever had Pansy once and it was during the summer after our fourth year and the honest reason was that neither of us felt like being virgins anymore. And it was summer after all, so we weren't breaking school rules or doing anything wrong. (As a matter of fact, sometime I'd love to explain exactly how hard it is to get a girl into your bed at this school. I'm not kidding, it's insane. First off there's the girls staircase and it's stupid tricky sliding bullshit, and then there's other jinxes set in place for if you happen to get past that.)
Pansy is – and this is one of those truths that you can and should take and spread around, I mean it – a good person, and a good friend. She is one of the only people in my life who I know is genuinely concerned for my well-being, for no reason other than that she wants me to be well. Obviously our parents encourage our friendship, but she's not with me because of that. She agrees with me, but not because she has to. She puts up with all of my more offensive moods, and she can throw an insult. She can be clingy, but that's because she's better at physical intimacy than she is at verbal confessions. I'll readily admit that in our younger years she could be a bit of a raving banshee, and sometimes she still gets in those moods... That's what makes her Pansy. She's bitchy, crazy, clingy, obsessive, gossipy, melodramatic, staunchly dependable, fiercely protective, and one of two people who I trust completely.
Maybe she's not as clean as the Virgin Mary, but she's not as loose as people tend to think she is, and neither am I. We've both had our share of partners and conquests, possibly more than our share, but sometimes the stories that Pansy overhears and retells to me are completely off the mark.
I don't know how these rumors about Slytherins and their sexual habits get thought up. Pansy, Blaise, and I have never had any bet or dare to see how many members of other houses we could screw in a month. We are not on a campaign to see which one of us could get to one of the Golden Trio first. I don't have a private bedroom with a king sized bed. Who comes up with these things? And who perpetuates them? Not the Gryffindors, although I know they're responsible for most of the, "Malfoy kills puppies and steals candy from children" stories. I suppose I'm not meant to know, I'm just supposed to nod along and –
Oh, right. Pansy.
"…told her that it was totally useless, 'cause, you know, you've got to try harder than stalking to impress someone these days…"
Good. Sounds like I didn't miss anything.
Blaise, on the other side of me, is very nearly catatonic by now. He puts in a little more effort to listen to her than I do, and it only ends up leading to things like this – where he's stuck looking like he's fallen into a fatal coma with his eyes open. It's the same thing in Binns' class, but he can keep himself awake with writing notes… And that method works for maybe half an hour. We've got ten minutes left for Dinner, and Pansy's still going strong.
I'm still not sure exactly why she finds it necessary to inform us of the ongoing drama in absolutely everyone's lives. And how does she even know? She knows the names of first year Hufflepuffs… I don't even know what the first year Slytherins even look like!
"…already has them for Potter and Weasley, and she's working on a new series for you, I think, Draco, or at least she was when we…"
Wait, what? Rumors that mention me, Pothead, and the Weasel are not uncommon, but they hardly end pleasantly. And who is this 'she'? Granger?
I caught Pansy's eye and furrowed my brow. She stopped and cocked her head to the side. I squinted. She frowned. I glanced at Blaise – this little interlude seemed to have roused him from his stupor. About time, too, since we'll be leaving for the Common Room in just a few minutes. I turned my gaze back to Pansy, and she seemed uncomfortable.
"What, Drake?" She asked. Her nails were still embedded somewhere in the bone marrow of my upper arm, but she pulled away slightly in order to look directly in my eyes without bumping her forehead on my chin.
"What was that about Weasley and Potter?" She frowned, annoyed to find that I had obviously not been paying attention to her.
"Romilda's made sets of fan stuff of them." At the look on my face – which was one of disgust and confusion, with some amusement, I suppose – she continued. "She's got buttons, shirts, hats, and scarves with their faces on them, plush dolls of them, and posters. I think she's even made those little moving figurines, like the ones you could get of Krum at the Quidditch World Cup. Her house elves make the stuff that she can't transfigure or charm herself."
"Seriously? Romilda Vane? She must be mental." That was Blaise, who had apparently woken up enough to participate in human interaction. Good for him.
Pansy looked delighted that her gossip had paid off in the form of conversation, and responded with enthusiasm. "Maybe, but it's also brilliant. There's lots of girls with crushes on those two, especially in the younger years, so she's selling these things at an amazing profit. I thought about maybe buying one of the moving figurines, so I could practice charms on it, but it was like forty galleons."
"You should get one." Blaise, who had been looking at Pansy mutinously, seemed surprised that I agreed. "When you're done with it, I could give it to the beaters in Quidditch, to practice their aim with."
Pansy gave a little giggle, and Crabbe – who had started listening sometime around the word "Quidditch", I presume – let out a low snort.
"Anyway," Pansy said. "I told her no deal and she asked for me to try to advertise to the other girls in Slytherin. She's doing a whole line of this stuff for various famous and attractive wizards. She says Potter and Weasley don't know about it yet, but I guess it's just a matter of time – her biggest client base is in Gryffindor, after all."
Goyle spoke up in a low, dull tone. "Not going to like that."
Crabbe corroborated, saying, "At all."
"That's not all, though," Pansy said, now frowning at me. "Like I said, Draco, she wants to do a series of stuff of you."
Oh… Oh, fuck no.
I mentioned the rumors, right? The sexual rumors? I do not want to think about what "lots of girls", "especially in the younger years", would do with a six inch high replica of, you know, me. It should be flattering, but that is completely overridden by how very, very creepy it is.
Next to me, Blaise in convulsing with what he'd better hope is not laughter.
"Pansy," My voice is flat. "When is she going to start selling the… merchandise?"
"I'm not sure… Could be anytime in the next week."
It's Friday. At best, I have until next Friday, and at worst… I only have 2 days to convince Romilda Vane not to sell me out. "And you didn't think to tell me about this sooner?"
Pansy scowled at me. "For your information, I only found out about Romilda's business right before dinner." Her expression screamed, 'You would know that if you had been listening to me.'
A voice came from further down the table, and I turned, looking directly at Daphne Greengrass's somewhat curious expression.
"Romilda's business? Ooh, are you talking about her wizards' fans products?" She asked. She seemed doubtless, which proved to me that she had been listening longer than she let on. Nosey bint.
"Yeah, Malfoy's getting cast as a character in her puppet show." Yeah, fuck you, Blaise.
Daphne looked confused, and then the cogs in her brain ever so slowly connected the dots, and she was elated. "Really, Draco?! Oh, I can't wait! I bought both of the figurines, so she gave me a discount. I wonder if she'll let me get yours for a reduced price, too!"
Blaise snickered next to me and I wanted to punch him.
Malfoys are not sale items. We're haute couture, not the bargain bin! I had better cost twice as much as those knuckle heads, and be at least an inch taller!
Why am I even thinking about this?! She must be stopped!
"Ooh, do you have them with you?" Pansy, no-
"Yeah, I just bought them!" Oh, fuck you, too, Pansy.
Daphne reached into her schoolbag and seemed to be groping around inside it – her arm disappeared farther into the bag than it appeared it should have been able to – but stopped when we realized we were a bit behind the rest of our house and needed to hurry the fuck up and leave.
"I'll show you in the common room!" She announced cheerfully, then stood and I swear to every deity that's listening that she skipped the hell out. Frolicked, even. She's bloody mental. All of the girls in the school are mental.
Speaking of which, Pansy latched back onto my arm for the walk back to the Dungeons, and with Blaise at my side, and Crabbe and Goyle behind us, we did like Slytherins do and glided on out.
* * *
While I have a minute, maybe I should explain something. I haven't been completely honest with you, you see, and that's starting to get to me, you know?
This, you know, this thing. This story thing. I'm not actually writing it. (Can you tell? I can't imagine I'd be a very good writer. They say good readers make good writers and quite honestly I haven't read anything other than a textbook since maybe second year. You don't need literature to be a wizard, you just need spells and potion recipes, and, well, magical blood. Ahem.)
This? This isn't just shits and giggles. This is practice.
See, what I did was that I found a book in the library, and that book had a spell for recording thoughts for a pensieve, and for means other than a pensieve. So this is like a pensieve, basically, in a way. The things that I'm thinking, the things I hear and see and notice, all get recorded on parchment by a quill that I cast this spell on. This is a practice, and a safe guard, for my greater goal. I figured that since these are some pretty goddamned exciting times, I might as well record my side of things, so that years from now, people will remember my words. I doubt anyone else in this school is using this spell, so it will be my record that is highly credible.
This war will not be forgotten. There are already scores of books about the Dark Lord and Potter, and there will be hundreds more. Mine will be an in-the-moment, eye witness account. My testimony will be revealing and revolutionary.
My name will be immortal.
* * *
So after dinner for the first hour or so, we forgot about the dolls that were probably squirming about somewhere in Daphne's purse, crushed under a pair of high heels or whatever it is that she carries in that "book" bag of hers. We just lounged in the high backed leather chairs in the common room – near the fire, since we were nearly the oldest, and entitled to kick the first years out of those seats if we felt like it – just sort of bumming around, like we do. Blaise had a book and some parchment in his lap… Hopefully that essay he's scribbling away at isn't for transfiguration. God only knows what kind of ass-kicking he'd get from McGonagall if he turned in something that shabby to that crony old witch. Pansy sat halfway in my lap, with her arms still in a death grip around my arm, her head on my shoulder, and one of her legs draped comfortably over one of mine. She was prattling on about something, maybe. ("Oh, Draco, did I tell you? I found out that my house was built on an ancient burial ground, and now Mother's having the whole manor cleansed. She and Father aren't even sleeping at home, they've gone to Diagon Alley for a few weeks – Draco, are you listening to me?")
It wasn't until close to nine-thirty that Daphne realized with a sudden bolt of self-awareness that she still hadn't shown us her new toys. So she grabbed that big ridiculous bag and stuffed her entire arm and her head in it, did the smart thing, and accio'd those suckers. She emerged from her voyage into the inside of her bag, with two small, wriggling figures.
Shit, its Weasley and Potter. It's not even just a little male figure with black hair and glasses and a scar, its really Potter. They're each about six inches tall, maybe, and correctly proportioned, which is just big enough for you to see how insanely detailed she made them.
Have I not said before that Romilda is mental? She must be bloody mental. Who has time to do this sort of thing? Really?
Daphne put them down on the low table in the middle of our chairs and they started looking around curiously. The little Weasel scratched his head, even.
"They're charmed to be life-like," Daphne said. "But not to act toward us the way they usually would. They're just curious and they don't know anything, like children."
Pansy got up and sat on the floor close to the table. The two mini Gryffindors looked at her, and at her smile, started wandering over to her.
"They really don't recognize you, Pans." Blaise said, smirking. "Otherwise they'd be running like hell."
They stopped, and swiveled around to look at Blaise.
…The fuck?
He frowned, too. "They heard me?"
"Of course." Daphne answered, looking a bit smug. Tch. It's not like she made these little monstrosities. She just bought them. "They can see, hear, feel… They also talk."
Pansy reached forward and prodded the Weasel in the stomach, hard. It – he – was knocked over, and sure enough he let out a tiny, indignant, "Ow! Bloody hell!"
The fucking doll even had Weasel's voice.
Little Potter wandered over and helped little Weasley up. Mini friends already. What a surprise.
Millicent Bulstrode – who had been upstairs – came over and leaned over the top of Blaise's chair. She and Blaise are related, somehow, and anyway, they get along very well. They don't look at all alike, but from the way they act, you'd think they were siblings. They pretty much grew up together. Well, then again, all of us were fairly well acquainted before we got to first year…
"Whose figurines?" She asked. Her voice was low, for a girl, and rough. She's built sort of like Goyle – tall, stocky, a bit shapeless, but muscular – except for the obvious fact that she has, you know, cleavage.
"Mine!" Said Daphne, who had joined Pansy on the floor. "I got them from Romilda Vane for a discount, because I bought two, and she's also selling -"
"I know. I bought a Potter." And suddenly, six pairs of eyes locked on her with expressions that ranged from horror to amusement.
"Did you really, Millie?" Blaise craned his neck back to look up at her. She nodded, then crossed the room to the wall by the fireplace, where we had all unceremoniously dumped our bags. From her beat up canvas bag, she drew out yet another small figure, flailing its arms and kicking its legs.
And then there were three.
The new Potter was set down a bit away from the other Potter, but they definitely seemed to recognize each other. They ended up coming together and standing in a sort of triangle – both Potters facing each other, and Weasley to the side, between them, looking back and forth in confusion.
We went quiet and listened to their little conversation.
"Bloody hell…" The Weasel. Second time its said that. She must had even charmed their mannerisms into these creepy little things, which only makes them all the more creepy.
"Are you, me?" One of the Potters. Daphne's. The other Potter looked a bit cornered.
"I.. I don't know. Maybe you're me. Maybe we just happen to be identical."
Weasley scoffed. "Right, like that's likely." Both of the Potters look a bit annoyed at him. He glanced between them again and shrugged. "Well, if you're Harry Potter," he said, addressing Daphne's. "Then who are you?"
Millicent's Potter frowned. "I'm Harry Potter."
Oh, this is way too surreal.
Pansy crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on top of them. "You're both Harry Potter."
All three of them look at her in surprise, and one of the Potters took a step forward. "But, how? How are there two of us?"
Pansy shrugs. "Don't worry about it."
"What I'm wondering is…" The girls and Blaise turn to look at me. "…How are they recognizing each other? I thought they weren't supposed to know anyone."
A puzzlement.
"Oh!" Yes, Pansy? "Right! Um, they don't recognize humans. They only recognize the other dolls."
We all regarded the dolls, who were sitting together in a small circle, talking in quiet voices. They were intricate enough just based on how detailed they looked, but we were only slowly recognizing how complicated they really were.
Millicent collected her Potter and Daphne put her dolls back in her bag. Their little indignant voices were the only noises until Blaise started scratching at his paper again. Pansy reclaimed her spot at my side and took up her speech again, until we all dispersed for bed.
* * *
So. Romilda Vane.
She's mental, but we've been over that already.
She's also hot.
Romilda Vane would be the most desirable girl in the school if she weren't so very obvious about something not-so-attractive. She's had her knickers in a twist for Potter since her first year. It's disheartening, it really is, that a girl like that is wasted on Potter. She's got a body that makes you care about curves, and I mean all of them. I got distracted once in History – which is all too easy, understand? – and found myself imagining the curve of her neck. Her neck.
But its like I said, her crush on Potter is a big smelly turn off. She's a lot like Pansy, except that she is less subtle and more obsessed (which, honestly, frightens me).
I mean, these dolls. They're fucking nuts, okay? She must have taken samples of their hair for really complicated potions to get the appearances and voices right, and the spells and charms just to make them move independently – to think independently. I'm in classes with her and I know she's not the brightest of the bunch, but this clearly shows what some real self-application can do. Even Granger would have to be impressed at the amount of work she's putting in.
Third mention of Granger in four pages. Or, no, fourth. Huh.
It's actually quite interesting to watch the quill scribble as I'm thinking. I can't help but feel a little, you know, proud of myself. So maybe there's some random tense changes and, okay, there's definitely going to be some problems with grammar… I suppose I should have thought ahead enough to use a self-correcting quill. Well, next time.
Oh.
Right, I've remembered something (something other than the fact that I just completely derailed my train of thought) that I needed to do. There's another spell I wanted to try out, I'm only hoping it'll, you know, work, since it's a bit tricky. You know the Weasleys' Extendable Ears? Well, the spell they used is, ah, related. I'm going to have to combine two spells – which is not easy, and requires a bit of complex arithmancy.
Basically what's going to happen, or what's supposed to happen, is that one of my eyes is going to leave my body - the sensation is considered painless, so I'm not too nervous - and that eye is going to be able to see and hear and move on its own. Then it's a simple matter of connecting what that eye sees to a quill, a different one from the one that's connected to me, and letting that quill write the eye's observations in third person or some such nonsense. The last spell vanishes the eye and has it reappear somewhere else, like the vanishing cabinet, or apparition. Supposedly, though, just sending the eye should work on Hogwarts grounds, even with the wards...
Supposedly.
I'd really rather not splinch my eye, particularly if it's somewhere I can't reach it, but all in the name of experimentation, right?
Right...
In continuing with the idea of this being a manuscript, I'm going to have the second quill write in this paper, just under this.
So, for a moment I'm just going to have to disconnect the one that's writi
New chapter will be posted in about a week or so, I already have it planned out and started.
How was the length? Too long? Too short? How about the pacing? How obvious is it that I dislike Pansy-bashing? Any concrit is appreciated. The pairing will probably end up being HGDM… Opinions?
Until next time, please and thank you for reviews!
Godzilla
