HP Divertissement
Warnings: AU; Hogwarts 6th Year; Breathless!Draco; Oblivious!Harry; smuff (eventual); silliness (always)
Di`ver`tisse`ment´
n.
1.
A short ballet, or other entertainment, between the acts of a play.
Part 1: Plotting
Ten days and counting since Hallowe'en. Eleven. Potter no longer seemed to give a hoot that Draco Malfoy was out and about at all hours, obviously up to something which involved lingering mysteriously near the Room of Requirement. Sadly, it was clear there was something else claiming Potter's pitiful excuse for attention…at least to one Draco Malfoy, who had a finely developed sense for all-things-Potter.
For two months and some - all too short a time, considering - all Malfoy had ever felt was Potter's eyes upon him, cool and speculative, judging and scorching, hateful, intense and calmly searching and even, at times, brimful of that very, very warm green-gold light that melted Draco's backbone into a puddle of imbecilic joy… but, absolutely and without a doubt, Potter's short-sighted eyes were always on Draco Malfoy - all the time, every second, no question.
It was hampering, invading, annoyingly rude and patented-Potter-brand-stupid, but Draco loved it, adored it, depended on it - every single moment of the day - and practically danced on air with triumphant glee. Finally, finally, after five long years of bending over bloody well backwards to snag the git's gaze away from Weaselbee and the Muggleblood Braniac, Draco Malfoy had the Boy Who Lived absolutely fixated. And then he'd reluctantly departed Hogwarts to spend a dreary, nemesis-free, soiree-filled 'away' weekend with his oddly untalkative parents –Father recently released from Azkaban and not in the best of tempers; Mother unusually restrained, even about shopping—in his oddly uneasy manor home and then, when he'd returned, terribly eager to get back to lolling suggestively under the veritable Potter-scope, that glorious dependable gaze was irretrievably turned elsewhere.
Something had changed with Potter and it wasn't just that the git had grown again in the forty-eight hours or so that Draco hadn't seen him. He still didn't fill out those ridiculous rags he insisted on wearing – Draco was grateful for that, for if Potter had, then Draco may as well have turned his interested eyes to Crabbe or Goyle years ago and saved himself a cartload of trouble.
No, well, that wasn't the point. It was beside it entirely. The point was that something was very off-kilter with Potter. Something momentous or life-changing or even more out-of-the-ordinary horrible than usual had happened when Draco wasn't looking and (taking into account Potter's curriculum vitae to date) whatever it was had to have been essentially foul. Underneath it all Potter was terribly angry; Potter was grieving; Potter had changed, fundamentally. Potter was that something Bulstrode (the acknowledged Slytherin Muggle-expert) referred to as 'emo'.
For the life of him, Malfoy couldn't figure out what had caused this…this ridiculous 'emotiveness'. Father was notably absent on business more often than not since returning from his brief stay in Azkaban; the Dark Lord – other than his recent terrifying request – ignored Draco entirely. Mother didn't say boo to a goose these days and not one of his fellow Slytherins had any useful gossip to share from their various and sundry summer hols or their close-mouthed furtive-looking parents. Draco knew as much as they did about Potter's private life, which was nil.
Too, he noticed the bloody Weasleyette was now an ever-present irritant, touching Potter whenever she had the slightest excuse and opportunity, knees knocking under tables, whispering and nodding and fluttering attentively as if she was a long-accepted part of the Trio, which of course she'd never been. Malfoy's jaw hardened like QuikStone whenever he noticed it, and being the noticing-Potter-type, that was nearly all the time. He quite thought his perfect teeth might crack from the constant pressure.
Bitch, he raged, internally. Get your bloody paws off him.
Worse, though, the real Golden Gryffindor Trio were all pale and worried-looking, en masse. Potter, especially.
Potter, especially. Draco didn't like it, not one bit. Harry looked as he had after the culmination of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, grey and pasty and super-tired and…bleak. Cold, as if all his habitual warmth had fled him. That was not a time Malfoy cared to revisit, thank so much. It had taken weeks and weeks of carefully devised harassment since the start of term to get Potter riled up and responsive, and even then, the Boy Who Kept Right On Living never quite seemed to have recovered the youthful joie de vivre he'd sported prior to sodding Cedric-the-Perfect's untimely demise.
Draco brooded a bit longer over that Diggory chap, jealously worried as to whether Potter had had 'feelings' for a Hufflepuff—a fit Hufflepuff, but now a deceased Hufflepuff, and still a Hufflepuff, sod it. If it were so—unthinkable!— then he was quite pleased that Diggory was no longer mucking about and in a position to return Potter's potential 'feelings' …but no, even he wasn't quite cold-blooded and callous enough to want his maybe-rival dead.
And certainly not if it had that effect on Potter. And it hadn't, actually, in the course of events, at least not in Draco's recollection. Potter had been obviously quite taken-aback by Diggory's death, but that didn't explain his current 'emo'ness. Something else must've happened to shake Potter's world. Perhaps over the summer, or maybe at Hallowe'en.
Draco wished it were him, and the Kiss and the Second Kiss and the—oh!Merlin!—Blowjob in the Lav, but he doubted it, being a realistic chap. Some twelve hundred days of steady Potter-observation, plus or minus holidays and summers off, gave him the absolute edge as to latest on Potter's love life, at least on the surface. He didn't know what was going on inside—and that was the problem—but he had a very good idea of who'd Potter'd been snogging and Cho was all over, the Weasleyette wasn't at up at bat just yet and Diggory had been permanently sidelined.
It had taken rather a lot of courage on Draco's part to return Potter's recent and vastly insulting challenge in the manner he'd ultimately chosen. Draco was still mildly shocked at himself for daring. But he had wanted – had been driven – to drag Potter back from whatever edge he was teetering on emotionally and, to be brutal, what better incentive was there for a bloke than a blow-job? Blow-jobs were brilliant, no argument. One would think even the most pure-hearted of sodding Gryffindors would agree with such sound reasoning. One would think even an obviously-sexually-repressed Saint such as Potter would be suitably grateful—gagging for more. But, no. All he'd been left with—other than a dry throat and wet shorts—was an empty-handed promise to 'Count on it!' that unfairly encouraged Draco to wallow in unfounded euphoria for days on end and which then, woefully, had petered out to simply – simply silence.
Non-reaction. Not even avoidance, which Draco could've understood (had expected, really) or anger (also expected) or even simple shock (a certainty).
Nothing. Not a single, blasted emotion showed in those green eyes when they glanced past Draco; not a telltale twitch touched the tight lines of that beloved face.
Malfoy gritted his already aching teeth when Potter stared straight through him for the twelfth solid day in a row, his gaze masked further by his broken-again spectacles, but still absolutely not in any way lingering covertly on the regal perfection parading by him that was Malfoy and Court, wending their way to Potions class.
"Pot—!" Draco saw his opportunity and took it, advancing with menace.
"Pardon."
Potter was past the little phalanx of Sixth Year Slytherins without so much as an over-the-shoulder insult, and Malfoy had no chance to haul him back physically or even say something. Not without having to punch the git in the gut first thing merely for existing in the same hallway or breathing the same air. And that was a bit much, even for Draco, if he did actually wish to 'Count on it!' – which, naturally, some tiny, hopelessly optimistic part of him still did—was. Counting on it, of course. Counting on having his mouth back on Potter's bits, his lips, his nose awash with Potter's smell, all musky—oh, Merlin!
Say anything, he told himself, screwing up his courage. Even if it's bloody idiotic. Invent it, damn it!
"Pot-ter!"
Then again, exactly how many times had Draco opened his well-bred mouth and let loose exactly that sort of nonsense – 'something' stupid, insulting, intriguing: statements of challenge, designed to rile – just to claim Potter's gaze, his speech, his thoughts for an instant? Badges, Dementors, broken noses and origami: Draco wondered dispiritedly if Potter had ever even noticed it was always Draco who spoke first, Draco who attacked first, leaping boldly into the nettly breach of nastily ignoring silence with his head held up proudly and his pointy chin stuck way, way out, spewing insults—Salazar! practically handing Potter platters full of perfect openings.
Approach me, come closer, he'd quietly implored the insanely inept Gryffindor, knowing his fine grey eyes were perhaps a little mad with the possibility of provoking the Youngest Seeker In A Hundred Years into snatching greedily at l'il old him.
Follow me; chase me! Merlin-on-a-bloody-stick, catch me, why don't you? I'm here for the taking!
But for all of Draco's considerable trouble to date he'd been merely been gored half to death by a wild hippogriff, transformed into a ferret by a bloody imposter, punished with unearned detention after unfair detention after unwarranted detention by misguided Transfiguration professor-sorts-who-shall-not-be-named-specifically-for-fear-of-additional-punishment and, all-in-all, been thoroughly mishandled, misunderstood and grievously maligned almost from Day One—that very first moment of Potter's momentous rejection. This wasn't fair or right or true and Draco knew it, but what was one to do when one's crush was so criminally blind?
"Pot-ter, you bleeding nincompoop, you nearly knocked me over!"
Draco huffed in exasperation and gave chase, silently acknowledging his archrival had done no such thing. If anything, the Saint had given him a very wide berth, as if Draco were contagious or had oozing boils.
Like a friggin' brick wall, a puffing Draco decided, that git Potter was, and wished heartily to Salazar's sacred memory he'd been satisfied years ago with someone just a tad bit easier to handle, like Boot or Parkinson or even Zabini. But, no—he had to want Potter, sod him, and want him so much he could practically taste it.
Had tasted it, actually. Merlin! Bodily fluids had never done much for Draco—oh, icky!—but now he was a rabid convert. Potter tasted like mint and tea and cream mint tea and shortbread biscuits and anchovies and oh, how Draco wanted the slippery slide of Potter's cum on his chin again. He wanted to venture so deep into Potter territory, he'd be gagging on gobbets and picking messy black pube hairs from his teeth for days afterwards.
If wishes were hippogriffs, Draco Malfoy would have a full stable.
In the meanwhile, the Slytherin contingent had thundered after him, not willing to miss a single second of the latest Potter-Malfoy confrontation. Draco sighed; the last thing he needed—an audience.
"Are you deaf or just plain mental, Scarhead?!" Draco shrieked at the mop-headed form ducking 'round the corner just ahead. He was gaining, though.
"Come back here and face me like a real Wizard, Pot-ter!"
Gads, but this was so humiliating—hunting a bloke down just to witter at him about a knock in the shoulder that never happened, but.
But.
Really, Potter had given up on stalking him far too soon—and something had to be done about it. Draco Malfoy really was up to something reasonably nefarious this year—sodding Dark Lord; blasted Cabinet— and Draco's official stalker was definitely now not paying attention as he should be. And Draco needed Potter to be alert. Had relied on it, in fact, and bloody well engineered it, tromping about Hogwarts after curfew with all the subtlety of that monster Hagrid in tap shoes, practically frolicking for hours before the bloody Room of Requirement, dancing Ring-'Round-the-Rosie with Crabbe and Goyle at the recalcitrant doorway, and even going so far as to pencil into his schedule several blatant public tiffs with his poor, put-upon godfather Severus, to be staged precisely for those times when Draco was absolutely certain Potter's damnably well-shaped ears would be turned his way. And he'd gone leagues out of his way to make it sickeningly apparent there was something sneakily suspicious going down in the Malfoy quarter, so if Mr. Can't Find His Arse For A Hole In The Ground managed to miss Draco's personal life-altering drama, then surely the Braniac or Ginger-snap would notice and pass it on.
Surely.
"Pot-ter!" Draco howled, and the corridor echoed with the force of his ire.
Draco was giving the 'emo' performance of a lifetime here, and this time he meant it.
If 'effing Potter was going to go all Muggleblood 'emo' on him, then Draco would be even more 'emo'—a Pureblood, frenzied, out-of-control 'emo': stalking, looming, haggard, wan, pale, clad all in blackest black and utterly Gothick—and be right up the prat's nose twenty-four seven! If that's what it took.
He'd tripped the prat last Tuesday and then hung about the corridor, looking shifty and hunted.
At dinner three days ago, he'd barely consumed enough to keep a mouse alive, fiddling with his food and being gloomy and mysterious, but Potter was too busy brooding over his own toad-in-the-hole to glance up.
Just yesterday he'd moped about the Prefect's Bathroom for hours on end, sighing over his predicament and muttering the words 'cabinet' and 'hopeless' very loudly, but Potter—and his damned Invisibility Cloak—had never shown up to peep. Only Moaning Myrtle, and while she was acceptable company for everyday sulking, she hadn't a patch on the fit git in glasses.
No, Potter did nothing. Nil, nixie, non. If Draco had actually been attempting to follow through on the Dark Lord's preeminently foolish command to exterminate Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of the century and his school's highly respected Headmaster, then certainly he'd have been breathing easy with thankful relief at Potter's complete lack of mental acuity instead of the righteous annoyance he currently felt.
Botheration! Draco panted, and ran faster, hoping to catch out his Golden Boy before the second staircase. Behind him—far behind him, for Draco was as fleet on his feet as he was on a broom—the other Sixth Years chased after, both Houses now, betting odds on outcomes of possible fisticuffs breathlessly amongst themselves like utter plebeians.
Of course this particularly Very Important Year had gotten off to yet another bloody poor start, Draco fretted, hanging a sharp left by the skin of his teeth and skidding.
Was there anyone out there in the ether—a Dear Tabby, perhaps— who might instruct the curious as to exactly how a Malfoy might humbly apologize for ably confronting an unseen threat and consequently hexing his very own unrequited light 'o love out cold by accident? Malfoys didn't do such things. They behaved appropriately, always. How was he to know that it was Potter on the floor of the Slytherin's Express compartment, anyway? Bloody anyone could lay hands on a bloody Invisibility Cloak these days and he knew for a fact Potter's parents had left him rolling. The git probably had two or more of the things lying about, and lent one out to his bestest mate Weasel on a regular basis, just for jollies.
More than that, Draco had been under duress of a stress-induced migraine, for Merlin's sake, plus the very understandable, ongoing crise de nerfs brought about by the Dark Lord's most recent demands of fealty and self-desecration—oh! Dark Mark! Icky!—and Father's equally unceasingly irascible idiocy. But Potter had known it was Draco in the Slytherin-claimed carriage, peaceably minding his own business, doing a little perfectly quiet recreational brooding – how could he not, since the twink was spying? Thus Potter had known exactly whom he should dislike a little more, hadn't he? Especially after the Nose Incident. Draco regretted that, he really did, but Potter had been treading hard on his very last nerve ending and Draco had always had a hair-trigger temper.
And that was the crux of the problem, was it not? This alarming lack of control Draco was experiencing on practically every level when it came to Harry Potter. Wasn't it? Wasn't it always all about what Potter thought and never about what Malfoy wanted; wasn't it?
Yes.
"Hah!" he gasped, red-faced and stumbling, coming at last upon the Gryffindor Golden Boy just outside of Snape's classroom.
"Got you!"
So of course Draco tripped the unfortunate blighter on that very last step down the final stairwell to Potions' short hallway, in the afternoon of the twelfth day since the unforgettable 'Blowjob Incident', and then swept a hasty and wordless levitation spell under his awkwardly fumble-footed objet d'amour to keep the stupid arse from bashing his handsome speccy face totally into the unforgiving floor and destroying his various attractive features forever.
Draco could do nothing else, as Potter was not cooperating. 'Count on it'? he ranted wildly, albeit inwardly—Draco smirked at that, feeling suddenly very malicious indeed—and powerful. Nothing like an outright challenge to keep him on his Slytherin toes!
More like, 'make it happen, Potter'!
"Hah! Pottyhead, is it?" he taunted, grinning evilly. "Toilet for a noggin? Clogging up the passageway again, are you? You're just like a bad tuppence, Potter! Always turning up where you're not wanted!"
Draco was practically dancing in glee at his success capture, mixing his metaphors right and left and still a little short of breath from his dash down the hallways but also very admiring of the way Harry's broad-but-elegantly-long-fingered Seeker's hands were stretched futilely after his books and parchments, the ones the near-nasty spill had scattered just out of reach. Gods! But Potter looked shaggable like that, all stretched out at Draco's feet, ready for the taking!
"Sodding bastard!" Potter spat. And coughed out a gasp of dusty air—Filch was utterly suckworthy as a janitor.
Draco actually mislaid his mind sufficient to cackle venomously at the ridiculous picture Potter made, completely losing track of his original plot.
Potter swore viciously at the floor and the dust and his scattered texts, and spun his entire body 'round, kicking off the nearest wall; a wicked sharp turn counterclockwise engineered to knock Malfoy off-kilter with a sudden unexpected blow at knee level.
The acknowledged Slytherin Prince was abruptly leveled, sneezing uncontrollably as the dust of Hogwarts ages was blown up his flaring patrician nostrils, his own carefully tidy books and belongings joining Harry's in the unholy mess on the floor.
"Prick! I'll get you for that!" Malfoy snarled in return, momentarily forgetting again all about 'making nice' as the usual red tide rose in his addled braincase. Merlin! But he couldn't concentrate! Shag! Kill! Shag! Kill!
The rest of the Slytherin gaggle slid down the steps just as Draco was in the midst of hissing vicious imprecations.
Malfoy scrambled sideways, scraping his nice, clean robes through the filth Filch always managed to miss as he scrabbled for purchase, thrusting his long arms and flexing hands as far towards the git as he could possibly reach, intent on outright murder of Potter via strangulation, until it struck him.
Horizontal. Ooooh! They were both delightfully horizontal. That just reminded Draco of so very many lovely things: cold bathroom tile and hot, salty cum and Harry—
Harry—
"I'll annihilate you, Potter!" Malfoy hissed, now very definitely in 'Shag!' mode, and only Potter saw the hidden wink and the sudden wickedly knowing half-grin.
"I'll fecking punish you!"
"Get him, Draco!" Parkinson urged in her usual bloodthirsty way, jumping up and down in excitement. "Wipe him out!"
"Yah! Yah!" yelled Crabbe and Goyle, in unholy chorus. "Go on, Malfoy—show 'em what for!"
"Blowhard," Harry snapped. "Nancyboy. Ponce! Finite!"
"Bugger all, Harry! What's the matter, mate? What's happened!?" The Weaselbee burst in on the scene, his freckled features suitably horrified.
Idiotic Weasel, Draco bitched—silently, of course—can't you see he's on the floor? What? Are you physically blind in addition to being an inexcusable arsehole?
"Harry!" echoed the Brainiac, glaring 'round her at all the attentively sneering Slytherins and waving her wand in a vaguely threatening manner. "Did Malfoy strike you, Harry? Wait—I'll go call the Professor!"
Weaselbee and the Mudblood must've arrived just after the Slytherin contingent, Draco decided, walking very close together and nattering away over sweet nothings, as was now usual. Malfoy promptly determined to ignore the pair of them entirely, as they just weren't important to this, especially now they were so wrapped up in each other's insignificant, despicable presences so as not to even notice what was going on with their all-important Golden Boy. He'd no time to insult them over their idiotic adolescent attraction to each other now, certainly, not when he finally had Potter's full attention.
He'd go after them later, and happily rub it in Saint Scarhead's face he'd been virtually abandoned by his two most aggravatingly loyal minions—and was now all alone and in dire need of a new best mate.
Potter, however, was up already, efficiently avoiding the Weasel's outstretched hand in favor of a fast shove off the stone floor. It sent him reeling athletically to the vertical. A quick gesture with his wand and he was no longer floating. Malfoy, composing his features quickly to wipe the lingering smirk away, gathered his natural-born grace to rise elegantly to his well-shod feet but a half-second after Potter, shooting a meaningful glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction—all that was necessary for them to scuttle off after his own possessions.
Undaunted by the Gryffindor glares and the mutters from the Slytherins, Malfoy stalked forward, dusting himself off, needing to absolutely ensure Potter truly understood his intentions.
"Scarhead! Freak," he hissed.
They were practically nose-to-nose now, and narrowed eyes of lovely emerald met his dead-on, glinting. Draco was well aware that he was foolishly, foolishly exultant at that moment.
"Pointy git," Harry growled. It sounded like a compliment to Draco's burning ears. He sighed soulfully.
"Fucker, I'll get you," Draco promised, with fervor. He would, too. With his fingers and his mouth and maybe even some Amort—
Potter winked at him—or he could've been clearing the lingering haze of floor dust out of his one eye, since he was sticking his fingers into it like that and fiddling with those stupid broken spectacles. Draco spent a fruitless second longing to Reparo them, even going so far as to thrust an abortive hand in their direction.
"Yeah?" Potter mocked, blinking hard and fast. "Well, just try it, Malfoy—I dare you."
Draco blinked himself and swallowed back another glorious half-smile. Oh, Salazar, yes! Just getting better and better here, wasn't it? His plan was working! At this rate, he wouldn't even need any mood-altering potions!
"Oh! Believe me, it will be with the greatest of pleasures, Potty—" he began, abruptly struggling with the precise wording necessary to elicit the response he so desperately required; challenging enough to fix Potter's attention where it should be—him—but beastly enough to throw their gathering audience off track entirely.
"Gentlemen!"
*