Disclaimer: I am in no way, shape, or form, implying that either JK Rowling's beloved characters are homosexual, that I own these characters, or that Daniel Radcliffe or Tom Felton are gay. This story is based purely on some weird idea I had.
Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself,
and covered with a perfect shell,
such a charming beautiful exterior.
--"The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most" Dashboard Confessional
"Do you have anything better to do with your time, pauper, than gang up on me?"
"Opposed to you and your minions ganging up on us?"
"Three on three is not ganging, idiot."
"Grow up, Malfoy," retorted Potter. Draco shot him a frosty glare and returned his attention to Weasel.
"I hope we get to use nifflers this year, right, Weasel? Maybe you can steal one and get some gold."
Weasel looked ready to attack Draco again, but Granger tugged him away, and tried to pull Potter with her. Potter gave Draco a withering stare that for some reason struck a deeper chord than any curse Weasel had shot at him. Regardless of how petite Draco looked, he was still quite strong for size. He stepped forward, grabbed Potter by a bundle of robes at his neck and slammed him against the wall of the train. Potter sucked in his breath and fixed Draco with an intent look of both fear and anger.
"Don't piss me off, Potter!" Draco growled, his face inches from Potter's. Potter opened his mouth to speak…
A horrifying, thrilling moment lingered when Draco wanted desperately to close the space between he and those lips, to keep Potter pressed against the wall for a very, very long time.
But hands grabbed him from behind and yanked him back. Potter settled back on his feet and said loudly, "Just what the hell is wrong with you?" and stalked off, Weasel and Granger in tow.
Draco felt his feet moving back to the compartment where Crabbe and Goyle sat, discussing the World Quidditch Cup that played this summer in Germany. Since intelligence was never a key factor in any conversation with them, Draco contented them with nodding at random places. Regardless of whether or not those nods went with whatever they said, they were obviously accomplishing something, as neither Crabbe or Goyle called on his lack of attention.
All Draco could think of was that rosy tinge around Potter's cheeks, the way his eyes widened when Draco slammed him against the wall, the feel of his breath on Draco's cheeks. 'I think I'm gonna be sick,' Draco moaned silently. He wasn't thinking straight. He couldn't stand Harry Potter. The boy was the most annoying thing at Hogwarts, falling short of Weasel and that Muggle lover Dumbledore.
But Draco so recklessly wanted to hold Potter until his arms were too weak to hold anything…
"No! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" Draco yelled out loud. Goyle turned a blank face to him.
"But, Draco, I thought he was your favorite seeker?"
"Who?"
"The Germany Seeker."
"Er…yeah." Then, horrified, Draco realized he sounded like Potter. He stood and looked around, suddenly very confused and scared to pieces.
'This is all some really bad dream that is going to go away. I'm going to wake up and my mum is going to be taking pictures of me in my Hogwarts robes. Bad dream, bad dream...'
The compartment was all of a sudden too small, and Draco slipped from it, rubbing his eyes and chanting his mantra of bad dream over and over again.
He sat against the wall nearest the bathrooms, one of little traffic, and buried his face in his knees, his fingers in his hair, curling his fingers back and forth in frustration. He felt the train finally begin to slow. It jammed to a stop that was much more noticeable when sitting on the floor, and people began to walk out of the compartments. A couple of them cast curious glances at him, but more were so delighted to get off the train that they continued walking with no questions. Sighing resignedly, Draco pushed himself to his feet…
And was faced with Pansy Parkinson. She began to chatter incessantly, squealing as she led him down the train hall and bounced—literally—onto the platform. "Oh Draco, how is your face? Honestly, that Potter thinks he is so high and mighty. He could get away with everything. He and his little Muggle loving friends. I just can't stand them! I swear, if we have to spend another Potions class with them I'll just scream, won't you? Oh, Draco, this year is going to be marvelous!" She looped her arm around his and led him, at a brisk, lively pace, to the carriages waiting to take them to the castle. "I hope that horrible giant Hagrid left," she spat as they climbed into the nearest one. "He is the worse professor we have, don't you think, Draco?" She obviously didn't care what Draco thought, since she continued without pausing, "But I am quite tired of getting new Dark Arts teachers, aren't you? Heavens, I'm hoping this new one will stick around. AND that he won't be a Muggle loving freak."
Draco leaned against the side of the carriage nearest him and closed his eyes. He felt emotionally empty, not even able to build up enough energy to tell Pansy to shut her mouth. Her voice never wavered all the way up the bumpy road to the castle.
She thankfully saw someone else she wanted to torture and scrambled from Draco as soon as they stepped off the carriages, leaving him with Crabbe and Goyle, who seemed to not have moved from the same conversation they were having an hour ago. Crabbe was arguing with Goyle about whether or not the Wronski Feint should be a legal move, and he was slaughtering the Quidditch terminology so horribly Draco wanted to claw his eyes out. The group of older students moved en masse to the Great Hall, and within moments, the new first years were ushered in by Professor McGonagall. They all carried the same look of worry on their faces, and they stared at the ceiling, or at the floor, or at each other, anything to take their minds of their nervousness.
For a moment, Draco reminisced about his first day. He had immediately been sorted into Slytherin, and at first he had been pleased, but now it was so old. The evil thing just didn't thrill him anymore. His dad had angrily recounted all that had happened the night of the final task in June of last year to Draco and Narcissa, and while Narcissa has sympathized with his father and had joined in the laughter when Potter's torture was described, it made Draco sick to his stomach. He didn't understand what enjoyment there was to be from torturing a boy as young as Draco himself, and Draco felt stabs of pity for Harry, try as he might to suppress them.
He also had a mounting dislike for Voldemort. For entertainment during his father's long diatribes about Draco's lack of respect for the Dark Arts, Draco would find the things wrong with Voldemort's ways of doing things. One was letting Lucius be an insider. The man couldn't keep a secret worth a damn.
The whole Dark Arts thing was such bollocks. Putting Voldemort in power was as intelligent as Germany's decision to put Hitler in power. All show and no actual decision of what to do once this little coup went through. The Death Eaters would find themselves in charge of thousands of witches and wizards who despised them, and under a leader who had no political intelligence, and was hated by most. There were only so many enemies you could kill. And Voldemort talked a lot about "life after the ministry of magic" yet never really laid plans for this supposed life.
There was probably nothing special about Potter. His mother had died for him, and that sacrifice had reflected the Avada Kedavra curse. Lucius admitted to not knowing why Voldemort killed Lily and James Potter, but Draco suspected it was for the simple reason they openly opposed and worked against Voldemort. Muggles and Wizards alike had died for less. The Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore, and everyone probably knew that already.
And what, exactly, Draco sometimes wondered, is so bad about the ministry of magic? They had yet to do him any great grievance.
Pansy nudged him sharply with her elbow and Draco was sent back into reality in time to watch the Sorting Hat yelp out "Slytherin" and the little first year bound over to his new house table. Draco had been lost in thought the whole Sorting Ceremony. Dumbledore climbed to his feet, and the already mostly somber room quieted. Hufflepuff, the load of duffers, were especially subdued this year.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, both new and returning students. I have the normal start of term announcements. The Dark Forest is still forbidden to all students. No magic is to be practiced in the corridors, the common rooms, or the dormitories.
"With the events of last year fresh in our minds, it is more important than ever for civility between wizards." His eyes glanced between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, or, between Draco and the Wonder Trio. "I ask that this year we all show each other kindness, courtesy, and yes, even love for our fellow witch or wizard.
"I would also like to introduce the newest member of the Hogwarts staff, Professor Achera Clio. She has graciously taken the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts, a class that will be of the utmost importance now. She is completely trustful to all." His eyes definitely went to Potter this time, who was looking at the new teacher with a great wariness. And with that said, let the feast begin."
With a clap of his hands, Dumbledore smiled as the plates filled with food. Draco realized he was famished and loaded his plate with everything that was within fork stabbing reach. With his cheek bulging, he got into a conversation with Blaise Zabini about Germany's crushing defeat in the Quidditch World Cup finals that summer. Brazil had destroyed Germany in a 200 to nothing defeat. They both agreed that last year's game was remarkably more exciting, but that the finals this year had certainly gotten a lot of attention.
"When I am minister of magic," Pansy said haughtily, "the World Cup will always be held in England. And only purebloods would be allowed to attend."
"You certainly have a one track mind," muttered Draco, taking a bite of the kidney pie he had ladled onto his plate seconds before. She didn't hear him.
Blaise countered with, "So you're going to be Minister of Magic? There has never been a female minister of magic, and I sincerely doubt the first one would be you." Pansy shot him a dirty look and went back to her food. Draco and Blaise grinned at each other, and Draco took the brief moment to glance over Blaise's shoulder. Potter was laughing along with the Granger about something Weasel had said. He threw his head back and laughed clearly. His jet black hair fell back onto his face when he straightened his head again, still grinning, glowing.
"Draco!" Pansy said sharply, and then looked in the direction he was looking. The other Slytherins around them followed suit. "Look at him," Pansy hissed. "You would never know what happened to him. Draco, did your father tell you?"
"Um…" replied Draco, looking back at everyone. "He told me a little of what happened," The Slytherins leaned in excitedly.
"Oh, come on, Malfoy, tell us!" urged Blaise. With a sigh, Draco resigned to repeating the story his father had recounted almost every night at dinner. He tried to inject some feeling, some pleasure in his words, but all he knew was exhaustion these days.
No one seemed to care, though. They hung on his every word, laughing cruelly as Draco talked about the use of Crucio many times. They cut him off before he could recount Harry's escape, and their delighted looks turned sour.
"The Dark Lord will get him one day," scoffed Blaise, and Pansy nodded in agreement.
Draco just felt sick.
If someone wants a job as a beta reader, I would like to have someone do that for me, if they wanted the favour returned. As you can probably tell, I don't have a beta reader, and need one. Thank you.
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When Draco walked from the bathroom, grateful to breathe in the cool, clean air of the corridor, he found himself face to face with Weasel, Granger, and Potter. Only Potter looked like he really didn't care for confrontations in tight corridors. Weasel looked like he thrived on them. Granger tagged along with both of them relentlessly and would do anything. Like a really bushy puppy dog.