AN: Draco is going to have a bigger role in this thing later on… maybe, I'm thinking of cutting out his part…I could fill it with random sex. And by random, I mean random. Like. . . Dumbledore and the giant squid. Ha, ha, just kidding. . . or am I?
I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt
Wednesday (lunch time)
Blaise POV
The enchanted ceiling is pouring light into the Great Hall; no clouds mar the perfect blue sky. I see azure, clear and endless. It's perplexing to study, so deep and pure it looks artificial; speaks of a depth that I cannot possibly comprehend.
Azure. The sky pales in comparison to his eyes.
"What do you think, Blaise?" Draco's drawl is as unoriginal and uninspiring as the rest of him.
What I would like to say is 'shut the fuck up.' Childish, I know, but after listening to this egotistical dick for 5 years I'm ready to throw maturity to the wind. Or maybe, it would be better if I rip out his vocal cords and do all mankind a favor. Unfortunately, neither is an option right now; so I settle for: "Come again?"
"Oh, were you distracted by the Gryffindor table? Is it that Weasley girl?" Pansy says as she slips a plump hand into Draco's lap and turns her hideous face towards me.
"Who would be looking at that poor bitch?" …witty as ever, Draco dear.
Encouraged by Draco's response, Pansy continues: "Lots of guys like her. She is good looking; I mean, our Blaise is so hard to please, and he obviously likes her."
I suppose 'hard to please' is referring to the fact that I think with the head on my shoulders, not the head in my pants (which is more than I can say for Pansy's boyfriend). Then again, compared to that pug-faced whore, Draco's a monk.
Draco begins to repeats his story, and I realize that tuning him out the first time around was a wise choice indeed. This 'amusing' little anecdote is on the same subject matter as everything out of Draco's mouth: Harry Potter. He can talk of no one else, and it makes speaking with Draco less like conversation and more like enduring word-vomit.
Yet, there is something so captivating about this obsession. I'd like to think of Draco as a pathologist's wet dream. He could be expertly cut apart and preserve in sterile glass containers, so an old man with white hair and poor eyesight can present him to a distinguished audience and announce: "This is hatred. This is what it looks like. This parasite has no other goal than survival. Fascinating how it can dictate all thought and action. Highly destructive, grotesquely beautiful, a truly marvelous thing; I believe it dose more for the soul than any creation of doctoral material."
Draco finishes his pathetic little tale, and I scowl as the rest of his audience chuckles. My mother use to tell me: if you don't have anything nice to say, then you're probably surrounded by assholes. Wise woman; I think I'll sit alone at potions.
I'm sure many would describe the atmosphere in Snape's classroom to be ominous or sinister, but for me the only word fitting this room would be 'stagnant'. The air is stale and flat. Everything within the room is immaculate, even the countless glass jars are meticulously organized. The décor is masculine; with straight lines, sharp edges, and rich, dark colors. Every time I sit on one of the hard wood chairs, a feeling of detachment falls over me; in here nothing can affect me, and I can't affect anything.
I've already unpacked my things when Ron walks in, characteristically late. He freezes at the door and surveys the room. There is, of course, a seat open next to Longbottom, but the disdainful look Ron is sending the would-be-squib is telling me he is not going to take it. Ron's eyes now drift to the empty seat beside me, then move up to lock with mine. He doesn't look away. I answer the silent question by rearranging my books, and he makes his way slowly and hesitantly over to me.
I've often noticed how his shoulders are slightly pulled together as he walks. It makes him look cold. Like he has never had enough of anything, so he is grasping desperately at the little he dose. And the way he eats, always with such hunger and fervor, like the food before him is the sweet ambrosia of the gods and he is starved within an inch of his life…I wonder if he has ever been full, content.
Snape makes his usual theatrical entrance and begins the lecture. Megalomania tendencies aside, Snape is, without a doubt, an expert in his field. His instructions always go above and beyond anything I could find in the library.
Our potion for today is Huzuni Moto, a rather nasty poison and a difficult brew. This is unfortunate for me, seeing as how I'm constantly being distracted by the redhead sitting a few feet away.
We work in silence for about twenty minutes before I realize that his scales are terribly, terribly off balance. Accuracy is crucial to this potion…I shouldn't say anything. I'm not going to say anything…that's not something I would do.
Fuck.
"Those scales are off balance." Don't look up, keep your voice monotone.
"Huh?" Ron spills the newt eyes he spent the last five minutes carefully grounding while he jerks his head towards me. Ron's hilarious, unintentionally at times, but hilarious all the same. "Fuck!" he yells.
Mmm, I know what you mean.
"Your scales ar-"
"Shit, I always forget to check for that. These things are so old…" His face is coloring impressively now. "Stupid potions…stupid Snape…stupid antidote", I hear him mumble under his breath.
"Did you just say antidote?"
"Yeah, the Huzzah Moto, uh, thingy."
"It's not an antidote." I say incredulously. Where has he been the past week in class?
"Umm, wait; it's the one that takes away pain, right?" I have his attention now, but he won't meet my eyes.
I shake my head and say: "No. That's only half right. Huzuni Moto is classified as a poison because it does not simply remove pain, but removes the ability to sense pain altogether by damaging key portions of the central nervous system."
"That would…suck?"
"Oh, it would definitely suck. Have you ever chewed on your tongue after eating those Numb-y Bunnies they're always shoving down our throats on Easter? Imagine that on a larger scale…People who take this poison don't live long, and their deaths are always gruesome."
"I guess, in a way, we're all masochists." Ron says with a wry smile on his face. This thought makes me smile.
"That would be very much in your favor, then." I say.
"Why is that?"
"It has been found that redheads experience pain differently than others, more intensely." From where I'm sitting, the pain seems well worth it… "I'll help you with that. Empty out your cauldron."
"Oh…thanks."
