Author's Note: This deals with child-abuse, non-con, and sentences that
refuse to end. The characters used to belong to J.R.R. Rolling, and I
doubt she wants them back after what I've done to them. I blame this ficlet
on my medication and final papers. Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'd make a pretty good dictator, I think. I pay attention. I read fast. Lots of reading to do, as a dictator. Dictator sounds a lot like dickhater. I could be one of those, too. Don't like dicks. Not a very graceful organ, is it, all wrinkled and vulnerable, hard and going where it really shouldn't.
I had Sprite today. A muggle drink. Clear and bubbly, with a lemon stuck on the lip of the cup. I sucked on it, had the taste of it on my lips the rest of the day, and I wanted to kiss someone. Kiss someone who had tasted my Sprite and I hadn't, someone who wanted to share it with me and kissed me sweet and tasted my lemon lipstick and laughed.
When I am dicktator, I will make Sprite illegal. Maybe all muggle drinks. All the Soduhs, anyway. They make you think thoughts that shouldn't be thought about, like kissing and soft pink lips and messed up brown hair and emerald eyes. I wonder if he likes lemons. I wonder if I like lemons.
I can hear a cricket. I don't know how it survived this long. They're not really winter bugs. Are any bugs winter bugs? How do bugs survive if they all die in the cold? How are there enough left to reproduce come Spring? I wish it would be quiet.
"You shame your family, Draco."
Sometimes I don't want to be a dicktator. Sometimes I want to play quidditch forever, and ungel my hair because I won't have to worry about not looking like my father because he won't matter, and I'll feel it whipping against my ears and in my eyes and I'll laugh and swear and get Harry to cut it for me, and then laugh more because he'd do a piss-poor job of it, and have to go to a professional hair-cutters and get them to fix it for me because as sweet as Harry's effort was, I will have an image to uphold.
Other times, I want to brew potions and live in Snape's quarter's at Hogwarts, and glare at the students and grade their tests too harshly but always make sure none of them ever fail. Snape makes tea that smells like roses and tastes like mint honey, tea that warms me up and doesn't fade 'till after the healing potions have taken hold. He has a large couch that I make my bed every other Sunday night, and I never say thank you.
"Pathetic."
Maybe when he was younger, he wanted to be an auror. Father, that is, not Snape. Snape wanted to be father, when he was younger. Snape wanted to have father. He doesn't anymore.
Maybe father wanted to be a journalist and travel to far-away places and get sunburns and tan unevenly and tease mother into a bikini and gaze at her while she read a book underneath the umbrella as the sun faded away over the waves.
Maybe father wanted to tease Snape into a bathing suit and oh dear, that brings an unpleasant image to mind. So no swimsuit for Snape. It's hard to imagine him in anything other than his school robes and the ones he borrows from Father for the death eater functions. Not that I know about that, or about how blood won't show up on them, how they're never reused and the house elves burn them in the kiln behind the house. It smells like dye and blood, on those days.
"Are you listening, boy?"
I could be a mediwizard, and learn to heal the bruise on my face from where he's going to hit me for not paying attention, I could be a death eater and hit him back, I could turn spy and Snape would heal it for me, except if I did that, of course, I'd call him Severus. Maybe I'll be Harry's, and run away and never come back.
I could leave and never come back, never come back here to father and his fucking cane and the flesh fertilizing the roses and mother hiding in her rooms and laughing all the fucking time and
"No! No I'm not listening to you, no I don't care, no I don't want you to stop, stop."
When I was little, I did not know my parents. The house elves had complete control over me and that is why I hate them.
When I was little, I read story books about Cinderella and Snow White and Rapunzel and I didn't know I couldn't be a damsel in distress, didn't know I had no Prince Charming, didn't know what to say when Father threw the filthy mudblood trash into the fire before I'd finished reading Hansel and Gretel and found out if they got rescued, too. I still don't know. I'm afraid to ask.
"Are you insane, Draco? Letting him do that to you?"
Am I insane? Letting him do this to me? Am I insane? I want to be a dickhater and fly like rose-scented ash away from my home and my father and the house elves who stopped healing my wounds after I turned ten and father forbid them to and now I have a network of scars on my body--all below the neck, of course, and none on the arms.
I wonder what Harry would say about them. If he would lick a trail down the long one that stretches from my nipple to my hip, if his breath would raise goose bumps as the cool air rushed over after it, if I would shudder as he bit softly into my thigh and cry as he told me that I was perfect and if he would cry when I kissed him back and told him he didn't have to save me.
"Get up! Get back up! Malfoys are not weak, and you are a Malfoy!"
The library is full of pictures of Malfoys. A few of them talk, one of them smiles, none of them are happy. They are all strong, ruthless, successful, dead.
Father's portrait hangs above the fireplace in his study. He stares at himself while he works. Whenever I walk in, the portrait licks his lips and winks at me.
I don't have a portrait, yet. According to father, I'll get one when I'm worthy. When I'm worth it. When I'm stronger and faster and taller and tanner and stop crying when he fucks me and stand back up after he curses me and stop yelling at him when he hits mother and stop yelling at mother when she laughs when he hits me and
Snape makes me tea and lets me sleep on his couch and he only asked me the one time, are you insane and then he never asked again and I don't remember what my answer was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things you can say in your review: Do you want me to write a second chapter? Maybe kidnap a plot-line and stick it in there somewhere? What is your opinion on lemon kisses? Anything you'd like to see me write that I haven't, story requests, etc.?
Thank you for your time!
--Dov
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'd make a pretty good dictator, I think. I pay attention. I read fast. Lots of reading to do, as a dictator. Dictator sounds a lot like dickhater. I could be one of those, too. Don't like dicks. Not a very graceful organ, is it, all wrinkled and vulnerable, hard and going where it really shouldn't.
I had Sprite today. A muggle drink. Clear and bubbly, with a lemon stuck on the lip of the cup. I sucked on it, had the taste of it on my lips the rest of the day, and I wanted to kiss someone. Kiss someone who had tasted my Sprite and I hadn't, someone who wanted to share it with me and kissed me sweet and tasted my lemon lipstick and laughed.
When I am dicktator, I will make Sprite illegal. Maybe all muggle drinks. All the Soduhs, anyway. They make you think thoughts that shouldn't be thought about, like kissing and soft pink lips and messed up brown hair and emerald eyes. I wonder if he likes lemons. I wonder if I like lemons.
I can hear a cricket. I don't know how it survived this long. They're not really winter bugs. Are any bugs winter bugs? How do bugs survive if they all die in the cold? How are there enough left to reproduce come Spring? I wish it would be quiet.
"You shame your family, Draco."
Sometimes I don't want to be a dicktator. Sometimes I want to play quidditch forever, and ungel my hair because I won't have to worry about not looking like my father because he won't matter, and I'll feel it whipping against my ears and in my eyes and I'll laugh and swear and get Harry to cut it for me, and then laugh more because he'd do a piss-poor job of it, and have to go to a professional hair-cutters and get them to fix it for me because as sweet as Harry's effort was, I will have an image to uphold.
Other times, I want to brew potions and live in Snape's quarter's at Hogwarts, and glare at the students and grade their tests too harshly but always make sure none of them ever fail. Snape makes tea that smells like roses and tastes like mint honey, tea that warms me up and doesn't fade 'till after the healing potions have taken hold. He has a large couch that I make my bed every other Sunday night, and I never say thank you.
"Pathetic."
Maybe when he was younger, he wanted to be an auror. Father, that is, not Snape. Snape wanted to be father, when he was younger. Snape wanted to have father. He doesn't anymore.
Maybe father wanted to be a journalist and travel to far-away places and get sunburns and tan unevenly and tease mother into a bikini and gaze at her while she read a book underneath the umbrella as the sun faded away over the waves.
Maybe father wanted to tease Snape into a bathing suit and oh dear, that brings an unpleasant image to mind. So no swimsuit for Snape. It's hard to imagine him in anything other than his school robes and the ones he borrows from Father for the death eater functions. Not that I know about that, or about how blood won't show up on them, how they're never reused and the house elves burn them in the kiln behind the house. It smells like dye and blood, on those days.
"Are you listening, boy?"
I could be a mediwizard, and learn to heal the bruise on my face from where he's going to hit me for not paying attention, I could be a death eater and hit him back, I could turn spy and Snape would heal it for me, except if I did that, of course, I'd call him Severus. Maybe I'll be Harry's, and run away and never come back.
I could leave and never come back, never come back here to father and his fucking cane and the flesh fertilizing the roses and mother hiding in her rooms and laughing all the fucking time and
"No! No I'm not listening to you, no I don't care, no I don't want you to stop, stop."
When I was little, I did not know my parents. The house elves had complete control over me and that is why I hate them.
When I was little, I read story books about Cinderella and Snow White and Rapunzel and I didn't know I couldn't be a damsel in distress, didn't know I had no Prince Charming, didn't know what to say when Father threw the filthy mudblood trash into the fire before I'd finished reading Hansel and Gretel and found out if they got rescued, too. I still don't know. I'm afraid to ask.
"Are you insane, Draco? Letting him do that to you?"
Am I insane? Letting him do this to me? Am I insane? I want to be a dickhater and fly like rose-scented ash away from my home and my father and the house elves who stopped healing my wounds after I turned ten and father forbid them to and now I have a network of scars on my body--all below the neck, of course, and none on the arms.
I wonder what Harry would say about them. If he would lick a trail down the long one that stretches from my nipple to my hip, if his breath would raise goose bumps as the cool air rushed over after it, if I would shudder as he bit softly into my thigh and cry as he told me that I was perfect and if he would cry when I kissed him back and told him he didn't have to save me.
"Get up! Get back up! Malfoys are not weak, and you are a Malfoy!"
The library is full of pictures of Malfoys. A few of them talk, one of them smiles, none of them are happy. They are all strong, ruthless, successful, dead.
Father's portrait hangs above the fireplace in his study. He stares at himself while he works. Whenever I walk in, the portrait licks his lips and winks at me.
I don't have a portrait, yet. According to father, I'll get one when I'm worthy. When I'm worth it. When I'm stronger and faster and taller and tanner and stop crying when he fucks me and stand back up after he curses me and stop yelling at him when he hits mother and stop yelling at mother when she laughs when he hits me and
Snape makes me tea and lets me sleep on his couch and he only asked me the one time, are you insane and then he never asked again and I don't remember what my answer was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things you can say in your review: Do you want me to write a second chapter? Maybe kidnap a plot-line and stick it in there somewhere? What is your opinion on lemon kisses? Anything you'd like to see me write that I haven't, story requests, etc.?
Thank you for your time!
--Dov