A/N: Hey guys! So it's been a while since I had time to write, so I thought I would start a new story! I would really appreciate reviews so I can know if there's anything I need to work on, since it's been so long since I've written. And I really would love any constructive criticism, or just any comments! That said, hope you guys enjoy the newest Draco story!
I awakened that morning without any blankets on. That usually happens. But what threw me off that morning was my utter lack of pajama bottoms, because I could distinctly remember putting a pair on and had no recollection of removing said pants. In fact, as I lazily ascertained by half-naked status, I found that I was, strangely-enough, not wearing what I went to sleep in. Further exploration discovered satin and lace that probably was meant to be some slinky nightgown but had scrunched up to my bellybutton, something I would never have enough money to own and would never ask my parents to pay for. Conclusion: I was not clothed in my own clothing. As my right hand continued its journey away from my body, it encountered some strange satiny bedding, which did not at all match the expected cheap jersey dorm sheets that I expect. It was this discovery which prompted the premature opening of my eyes, bleary with too much sleep (strangely enough, because by the natural light filtering in from my left it appeared to be sunrise – unless the windows were frosted with pink). I stared straight up into a medieval canopy through a thin film of my somewhat matted hair.
Net result of expedition: utter confusion. Possible explanations: insanity, kidnapped by the Russian mob, and/or dream. Although insanity may have seemed preferable to my Monday morning Psych class that I was, in all probability, late for already, I skirted the option of kidnapping with all the skill of a true procrastinator, and settled on dream. Although kidnapping seemed a bit more romantic. But perhaps that fact ruled it out, due to the boringness of my own existence. I sighed.
The sound I emitted triggered another noise, a clicking noise. My mind, like always, was sluggish with sleep, and I imagined a slow pool of molasses trickling inside my cranium. Great job staying on task in such a crisis situation. Somehow, I wasn't much perturbed. Ah, yes, the clicking. After a few moments I ascertained that it was, most likely, nails of wood. More specifically, someone drumming fingers across a burnished wooden surface. Someone. Another person. I didn't have pants on.
Oh well, freaking out would require more energy then I currently had access to. I stayed staring at the canopy. Even thinking about moving was too strenuous. The tapping was almost in boredom. In agitation. Strange. An agitated, bored person, tapping nails (probably four, from his or her hand minus the thumb) on a shiny wooden surface. Wooden? Most probably. Hmm.
I sat up. A blonde boy, sitting, drumming his nails – impatiently – on:
"A chair," I murmured, sinking back into my cocoon of the silky sheets (green) and my own rumbled hair (brown).
Sitting up was a bad idea. Moving anything quickly in the morning is always a bad idea. I squinched my hands up, bringing fingers in, staring as they curled up like separate little tanned creatures. Then, I released the muscles. My fingers drew back weakly. Still exhausted. The sluggish aspect of my fingers did indicate that I was, indeed, semi-awake, as in, not a dream. But that epiphany could wait until later. I instead used all my brain power to concentrate on moving my toes, making little feet-fists. I rolled my ankles. I sighed again.
The tapping was extremely annoying, the way that my roommate's alarm clock can be, except without that soothing, repetitive quality that turns the siren-beeping into some rhythmic music. Instead, this was annoying. Like, really annoying.
"Please stop," I moaned.
"Stop what?" a harsh voice snapped back. Of course, it came out sounding like a strange foreign language due to his British accent. That took a few moments of my thought to decode it to real English. Then another few minutes muster up the strength to speak and the lucidity to form a coherent sentence.
"The tapping is really annoying." I sounded drunk, but I was too tired to care. I heard him slide his fingers across the wooden surface – chair – and lean back creakily.
"Thank you," I groaned, rolling over onto my side.
From this perspective, I could actually see him, sitting there. He had propped up his face on the chair's arm, and was staring at me as though I was some repulsive slug. A thought occurred to me.
"Am I in your bed?" I asked, seeing the somewhat possessive glint in his gray eyes as he surveyed me.
"Yes," he snapped back.
"Well sor-ry," I murmured back, ending up with a chunk of my hair in my mouth. I attempted to spit it out, but somehow my lips fumbled on it, so I had to actually lift my arm to pull the long lock out from between my teeth. He looked utterly repulsed. I couldn't muster up the energy to care.
My blood was starting to un-congeal from it's hibernate mode, and I was able to blink enough so that I could see him clearly. The blondeness was apparent because he was so platinum somewhere Lady Gaga was crying. His face was alright, albeit narrow with a pointed chin that could be attractive, but I was too tired to decide. His eyebrows were dark and flat. His eyes were really pissed off.
"I'm getting up, I'm getting up," I moaned, rolling over once more and half falling out of the bed. My feet hit the carpet and my toes immediately began digging in to the rug – it felt like a Persian. How nice.
Now he was gripping the sides of the chair and his nostrils were flaring. I scratched my head, and my hands caught on the curls. I blinked, and after struggling to disengage my fingers from my hair, I rubbed my eyes. Then I remembered once more that I had no pants on. I was reminded of this by the way his eyes were trailing – quite obviously, without any respect – from my ankle up to where my underwear cut off the curve of my hip.
I was just about awake enough to feel some embarrassment; about a liter of blood that may have aided my somewhat slow mental capacities filtered to my cheeks. I was now officially a strange half-naked chick that ended up in some British blonde kid's bed.
"Bathroom?" I muttered. He jerked his head to the side, and I took that as a crude, masculine attempt at giving directions, and shuffled off incompetently. The second I had left the room, that clicking noise started again. I made sure to slam the door behind me.
Although it took me approximately twenty minutes to get the shower functioning at a condition that near the range of human survival, I was able to fairly quickly remedy my gross situation. I had to use soap, shampoo, and conditioner that I can only assume were his; the musky smell left me feeling like I had become trapped in a bad Axe commercial. It insulted my femininity, but was intriguing. I found myself smelling my own elbows and curls in vague interest. I wondered, is it better to smell like a man or like sweat, but my own girly sweat? But my hair was screaming for attention, so I left that discussion for another time and set to straightening out my matted hair. When I was finally clean (and a strange pink color due to the insane hotness of the water – I never did figure out how to work that shower), I stepped out of the shower and set to fixing my hair. Usually I try to twist it to encourage a few corkscrew curls, but somehow I felt too exhausted and gave up. This may have led to two perfect curls and the rest a somewhat fluffy quasi-curly mass, but I was clearly in no state to care about anything.
I was half-way cleaned up when I ran into the certain probably that you have probably foreseen: clean clothing. The only garments I had access to were someone else's lingerie, lingerie that may currently belong to some psycho-raper-killer-British guy. I felt happily clean and was in no mood to re-don this questionable clothing. The towel was pearly white and smelled clean enough. Anyway, it was fluffy and comforting after that scary silky clothing that was so alien to my college-budgeted fingers.
The bathroom door creaked ominously, and I found him seated exactly as I had left him.
"Hey." I chucked the lingerie at him, and he jerked in his seat as though it was infested with STDs – it probably was, I reminded myself.
He picked it up between thumb and forefinger and deposited the expensive garment on his expensive rug. When he finally looked up at me and realized that I was just wearing a towel, he huddled into the back of his chair as though I were a truly frightening beast.
"Care to explain why I was wearing that?" I pointed at the heap of satin, like I was punishing a small child.
"Don't ask me," he mumbled.
"Alright." I sat down on the bed, swinging my bare legs. "Can you explain where I am? Is this some dorm across the quad?" I glanced up at the tapestries. Whatever it was, it was pricey.
He scowled at me. "Something like that," he replied.
This rankled me. He was hiding something.
"Really." I sounded unimpressed.
"No, not really," he muttered. Now he was staring at the floor as though Christmas had been canceled. I made that annoying huffing noise my dad always hates, the one I always make when I'm completely frustrated.
"Can I have some clothing?" I asked. This made him look more upset. "Some food? Something to drink?"
He was now glaring at me.
"Some tea?" This didn't register. "Isn't that what you guys drink?" I was freezing now, hunching my shoulders and pulling the towel tighter across my body. Unfortunately, this discomfort was coloring my tone.
"Haven't you ever heard of hospitality?" I growled.
"That would imply that you are my guest," he retorted, equally as angrily.
"Oh, so are you implying that I came here on my own volition?" I sneered. He shut up like a clam about to be dropped in a stewpot and resumed his brooding. This proved my guess, that I hadn't just had too much to drink last night and ended up in some strange bedroom. Although that was a plus for my ability to limit my alcohol consumption, the alternative – that I had been brought here – was not that great either. A few more moments passed. He did not move.
"Fine, then, I'm leaving." I stood up and strode angrily to the door. Towel or no towel, I was getting out of that room. The walk of shame in a towel is not completely unheard of, right?
Except the door was locked. I pulled at it fruitlessly for a few moments, then turned angrily on him.
"Key?" I asked. Maybe he responded better to simple, monosyllabic questions.
He glared at me. Apparently not.
I shuffled back to the bed.
"This really isn't alright!" I replied. "I don't know what happened last night, but however you got me here or whatever you gave me, I don't do drugs and I'm underage so I shouldn't be drinking and so I think I have a right to just go home and-"
He cut me off by raising his hand.
"Shut. Up."
Now he was holding his head between the thumb and pointer of his right hand, massaging his temples as though he had the greatest migraine.
"I'm not going to shut up," I replied, equally annoyed. "I want some clothing and some food and something to drink and some explanation and I think—"
This time he actually pulled something out of his pocket and waved it at me, muttering some Latin gibberish.
I snorted. "What was that?" I asked.
He stared at the long slender piece of wood he was holding like a conductor's baton. I heard him mutter something that sounded like, "Why didn't it work?" and then my words registered on him. He looked up very slowly, as though I was a rabid raccoon.
"What do you think this is?" he asked, looking horrified.
"A stick?" I asked, swinging my legs irritably. He now looked like he had just been told that Britney had shaved her head.
"What is it?" I asked, trying not to sound as interested as I was. "A baton?"
He was now staring at his shiny shoes in utter horror.
"A pencil?"
He was pinching along his strange instrument as though it contained something important with magical qualities.
"That isn't some freaky sex toy, is it?" I asked cautiously. This got his attention.
"No," he snapped, shoving it back into his right pants pocket.
"You never know," I replied, embarrassed. It was apparently something really important. At this point my annoyance was wearing off and I was left feeling sincerely embarrassed.
"Can I please have some clothes?" I begged, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
This registered on his face, and his crinkled brows relaxed somewhat. With a world-weary sigh, he got up, walked to his bureau, and pulled out a large green t-shirt with a snake emblazoned on the front.
"Thanks," I murmured, fleeing to bathroom to change.
When I emerged, he still hadn't moved.
"Cool shirt," I replied shyly. It at least covered the edges of my underwear, and it was soft and worn as though it had survived many washes. It felt nice, and, I hated to admit it, it smelled nice to.
Now that I was actually fully awake and fully clothed, I was actually able to be fairly-human. He didn't seem like a bad guy. Certainly wasn't Russian mob like I feared, and he just looked like a normal college dude that found some half-naked American chick in his bed. This whole thing was probably just as unsettling for him as it was for me. That didn't make it alright, mind you, but it did not condone my behavior either.
I was never one for many apologies, but this one could prove necessary to my survival, so I set my jaw and turned to him.
"Sorry I attacked you, you just really freaked me out with the whole different place/different clothes thing, and my mom always says there's no talking to me before breakfast."
He seemed to respond more favorably to my normal, quieter speaking voice that was no longer barking at him. But unfortunately, he made no move to speak.
"This is usually the part where you tell me it's okay, and then explain how the hell I got here," I encouraged gently, sitting down once more on the bed and curling my bare legs up under my crossed arms.
"Usually?" he replied, his morose tone somewhat colored by amusement. "Does this sort of thing happen to you on a regular basis?"
Once again I felt that betraying stain of warmth filter into my cheeks.
"No," I replied shortly, hugging my legs closer. "You?"
He shook his head.
"Should we start with names?" I asked. "Since I don't know where I am and how I got here, I think I should at least know who brought me here."
"What makes me think I brought you here?" he asked. He no longer sounded angry or anxious – only intrigued by my intuitive leap.
"Well, you are the only person I've seen, you were waiting for me to wake up…"
"I could have been brought here and locked in here, same as you," he reminded me.
"Fair point," I replied. "It's plausible."
He relaxed somewhat.
"But not true," I continued.
Now he was searching my face intently. "What makes you think that?" he inquired harshly.
"I dunno," I replied honestly. "You said it was your bed, and then that whole magical stick thing…"
"'Magical'?" he repeated, squinching up those eyebrows again.
"Religious. Whatever. I don't mean to insult your beliefs, I'm fine with it, but if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm just going to have to make assumptions."
"No, magical was a better word," he replied, too-casually. Now it was my turn to stare.
"Alright, you're insane." I stood up and walked to the door, but couldn't bring myself to try to open it – I knew it was locked. He sighed again.
"I'm Draco," he replied resignedly, looking close to tears at this point.
"Is that your name?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes," he snapped, scowling.
"Sorry, I've just never heard that before." Shock still affected my tone, and he noticed it, but chose to ignore it.
"Vera," I replied.
"Is that your name?" he asked in a mocking falsetto. I scowled.
"Can you just tell me what happened?" I asked.
He stared at me for a minute. "Fine," he snapped. "I wanted to bring someone here," he continued, waving the stick around a little more absentmindedly, "but instead it was you and it was a mistake and now I can't send you back."
"And the lingerie?" I prompted. I was fascinated when his face colored.
"A mistake," he replied, but there was something else in his voice. Regret? Embarrassment? Prevarication?
"So you think you cast some spell with that stick of yours and I magically poofed here but you wanted someone else?" I recapitulated.
"Yes." He replied, sounding surprised by my apparent attention to his insane mutterings.
"Yeah, definitely crazy," I mumbled, turning back to the door.
"I can't let you out of here," he mumbled, reclining now in his chair with a comfort that upset me and threatened to shatter the calm I had been so carefully building.
"Why ever not, Mr. British?" I asked snarkily.
"Well…" he hesitated for a moment, and then I saw this little evil glint in his silver eyes, as though he was legitimately enjoying my situation and the reaction he was sure the following explanation would warrant. "We're in a school of wizardry and we aren't technically allowed to have muggles on premises, especially since the headmaster increased security following the return of the Dark Lord."
I stared at him, and then replied slowly, "So you think that you are a wizard in a school of magic being attacked by a dark lord and I'm a muggle who can't leave but also can't be here."
He raised an eyebrow. "Correct."
"How nice," I replied nastily.
"What do you think?" he asked, leaning forward in true interest.
"Me?" I asked, turning and pulling on the door. "I think that you are" – I huffed, pulling on the wrought iron – "crazy and this is some insane asylum. Which means I am" – more huffing – "also crazy. Which, although not very comforting" – huff huff – "is at least possible."
"It's plausible," he agreed dryly. "But not true."
I gave up on the door and turned to glare at him. He glared right back, a somewhat attractive, simmering glare. I felt my face go numb as I stared at him for too long, my scowl melting away into that awestruck, insipid expression I seemed to carry around attractive men. At least his expression seemed to soften somewhat also, although a little teasing smile remained.
"So, solution?" he inquired facetiously.
"Kill you and leave." I offered angrily, regaining control of my expression.
"How do you open the door?" he sounded politely interested as though we were discussing this over tea in his little British home somewhere.
"At least I get rid of half my problems," I growled back. He actually laughed, but it was a dark laugh.
"Don't try to convince me," he warned, a nasty note in his voice. But there was something playful in his gray eyes.
"How about you Mr. Wizard?" I asked as insultingly as I could manage. His face fell again.
"Me..." he stared at the ground. His words came slower, as though he was just thinking them through for the first time, an epiphany as he spoke. "I am in a lot of trouble." His fingers began massaging the forearm of his opposite arm.
"And how do you figure that?" I asked archly.
He turned to look at the door as though this held the answer, and I turned also. As I watched, a beam of yellow light shone through the lock mechanism, and then the knob slowly began to turn.
The door suddenly swung open to reveal a tall man in a black dress. He had stringy black hair that was in some unflattering bowl cut that had grown out for several years so that it swung, choppily, at his chin.
"Mis-ter Mal-foy," he said. I say it like that, because he drew out every word as though tasting it on his tongue. But to be fair, if I had a voice like his – so deep, so sonorous – I would have talked just as slowly to hear my own luscious voice. Then it all made sense: that beautiful voice allowed him to wear that black gown with matching black cape. No one questions a dude with a voice like that. Alright. I can live with that.
The British boy – Draco Malfoy, what a horrific name, his parents must be evil – glanced with faked innocence at the man in the black dress. In a snappy movement, the tall man turned to look at me, so that his black androgynous hair swung in the breeze. I flinched at his twitchiness.
"And you are?" he inquired. His eyes were black like tar and glared at me the way Draco had, like I was something disgusting, but without the softness that Draco's somewhat softer, unjaded expression offered.
"Vera," I offered timidly. He turned back to face Draco.
"A mistake, I gather," the tall man said, rolling his eyes.
Draco scowled. "It was just an attempt."
"Mistakes cannot be tolerated." His voice like velvet made me want to like him, but the sneering tone and the words pouring out of him made me want to wring his neck.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Draco stared defiantly at the tall man.
"The headmaster wants to see you," the man intoned, finally breaking the silence. These words must have implied something more than expulsion because Draco blanched but put on that stupid male-unconcern that painted him a douchebag – had it not been for the terrified look in his still-baby eyes.
The man swirled – enjoying the dress too much, I think – and gestured brusquely for us to follow. Out the door led to a small corridor, and at the end of the hallway came a wave of cool air that carried the voices of what sounded like hundreds of students. We paced towards this noise, single-file, me as far from the man with the beautiful voice and evil words as I could manage.
"Draco," I murmured. He turned, his face open and his eyes surprised, as though it was nice to hear me finally speak his name despite the predicament he found himself in.
"Yeah?" he murmured.
"I'm still not wearing any pants."
He grinned, despite the fear that was still clinging to his gray eyes. And I could have sworn that I heard that tall man in the black dress snicker to himself.