Title: The Marconi Room
Author: follow_the_lemming
Email: futurebeethoven@aol.com
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Drama/Romance
Pairing: Harry/Draco (really-no Draco/Hermione.)
Archive: I'd be flattered forever.
Summary: None of the history books will tell you the British Marconi Company's two leading employees had anything to do with each other outside of the Marconi room. They would be entirely (but only politically) correct.
Notes: My very first fic that actually has a plot! *insert fanfare* Except..it's very OOC.. (d'you reckon I can write anything but OOC? Hm.) and.. it's not very good. But it has a plot. Kind of.
Feedback/Criticism:I know you've got the criticism, just let it out! :D
DISCLAIMER: Aw, come on-just a bit? A little? Oh, fine.. here they are back.
Chapter One
Draco Malfoy was impressed by very few things in life. Beauty could not impress him, for his mother did not. Money could not impress him, for his father did not. Grandeur could not impress him, for his life did not.
But the Titanic was all of these things together, and Draco was very, very impressed.
A few starstruck gazes (read: bored, lazily speculating gazes) later he turned his attention from the imposing bulk of the ship and strode up the gangway to the entrance. The interior, however plushly decorated, was much less of a surprise to Draco, and he was able to make it to his cabin without much more awe (read: disdain). His quarters were empty, but an empty suitcase lay open on one of the beds, and an adjoining door was slightly ajar. Draco peered around for a moment before stepping to the door, widening it slightly to find the Marconi room. He was momentarily stricken as he opened the door, but it wasn't because of the radio.
A boy who seemed scarcely younger than he straightened from examining the radio equipment and turned to face him, polite smile alight on his features. He wore a starched shirt with a dark pinstriped vest buttoned snugly overtop, accentuating nicely broad (but not overmuch) shoulders tapered into a slim waist, and black trousers, fitted not perfectly but well enough to show off equally slim hips. He was not stunningly handsome, nor was he immaculately dressed, for his clothes were not expertly tailored, and there was something faintly crooked about his nose and mouth (and was that a scar on his forehead?) But he stopped Draco's heart for just a moment, and Draco for the life of him could not figure out why.
"Are you Draco Malfoy?" he was asking, and Draco blinked and nodded. The boy smiled and began to speak, but Draco cut him off sharply.
"I suppose, then," and Draco was glad to see his voice was still a drawl, "that you are my junior operator. Am I correct?"
He seemed taken aback by the coldness, and Draco was pleased. The warmth in the disarming green eyes dimmed a bit. "Yes, I am. My name is Harry Potter."
"But of course." replied Draco, extending a coldly polite hand. Potter was looking decidedly browned off, but his handshake was disarmingly firm. "I've heard of you, of course. How you've so grandly" he swept an arm across "risen in our ranks in but a few weeks. I'm so enamored, Mr. Potter."
"And likewise, Mr. Malfoy." Potter replied glibly, apparently recovered. "Draco Malfoy, highly esteemed Marconi operator, filthy rich, could run the company if he wanted to, but never one to" he paused briefly, eyes flickering over Draco's tailored clothing and snagging briefly on silver fob, gold ring, "draw attention to his class."
Yes, Draco mused, the boy learned quickly. He would be a good operator.
~*¢*~
Harry smiled slightly under the other boy's appraising gaze. He'd heard of Draco Malfoy. Supposedly his family was richer than the Astors, and Harry guessed that Draco could buy the British Marconi Company with his weekly pocket money. Draco could have become chairman of the company, but no, he was still a lowly operator. A damn fine operator, they said. No, Draco didn't want to be great, the rumours gushed. He was going to be different.
"Just working for the hell of it, then?" Harry continued casually. "Got tired of too many servants underfoot and you just happen to love radio operating?" It was said too sweetly to be sincere. Harry loved his voice sometimes.
Draco replied immediately and unsettlingly. "Precisely. You *are* a clever boy, aren't you, my dear?" He moved from the doorway to the unoccupied bed and set his suitcase down, clicking it open as he spoke. "My father desired me to go into politics, join the House of Lords, marry into the royal family.or at *least* join the services.." He drawled out the last word penitently, doing a credible impression (as far as Harry could see) of a typical, if overly haughty parent. Draco shrugged as he placed his shirts in the top drawer. "So I went into radio-operating. My father wasn't particularly pleased," drily, "but he still had aspirations for me to become chairman. Naturally," Draco smirked, "it became my goal never to be exactly that." He stepped to the radio table, and Harry squirmed slightly as he came closer. He traced a long finger over the headphones. "Don't tell me you've never rebelled."
Harry paused. "Not against my parents," he said finally, wondering if he was making a grave, grave mistake by telling this odd acerbic creature. "My parents died when I was a baby. Car accident. I've been brought up by my aunt and uncle," said with no little derision, "and been treated like budgie shit. So I left when I was eleven." He watched as Malfoy's eyes (strange, that-grey eyes) flickered over him and almost gained a bit of warmth. Or at least thawed a bit. Or maybe it was just Harry's imagination.
"Oh, so you're THAT type, eh?" Harry had a moment of cold shock before he realized Malfoy wasn't talking about.that. "The everyone-should-pity-me, I've-had-a-bloody-hell-of-a-life git?"
Yep. It had been Harry's imagination. Harry sat upright indignantly and shook his head. Malfoy only laughed. "I'm sorry that I don't have any pity for you, but I seem to have used that up when I saw your clothes."
Harry's eyebrows had knit together, but he still said coolly, "Yes, well, at least I look my place."
"Oh?" Malfoy smiled, dangerously. "I wasn't aware that that was a good thing."
"Quite," Harry replied, unruffled. "Especially when some Marconi operators seem to think that they're Colonel Astor's wife."
Harry was coldly pleased to see Malfoy's mouth tighten. He muttered something that sounded like "Well, I suppose YOU would swing that way," and then turned heel and left, leaving Harry goggling after him.
Harry had been quite taken with the Titanic as a whole, the sheer bulk of the ship, the smart ship's officers, the gleaming Grand Staircase. He was just marvelling at the size of the Marconi room, large enough to be a cabin, when the creak of the door announced his senior operator. Harry turned and found himself just as taken with this man as he had been with the rest of the ship. Immaculate would have been the word to describe him, Harry reflected now. Blond hair shimmering, combed back smoothly to curl at the nape of his neck, pale, glittering eyes set in a thin, aristocratic face. Everything about the young man was thin. He wore an immaculately tailored black suit, carried a spotless black suitcase. Highly polished shoes gleamed, golden cuff links sparkled. Harry hadn't known what to make of him. This man looked like he belonged in a stateroom next to Sir Cosmo, eating caviar with the best of them. Certainly not in steerage with the crew. And now that Harry had met him, with his coldness and abruptness, he did not know any more than he had what to make of Draco Malfoy.
~*¢*~
Draco did not like dwelling. On people, thoughts, places.. or people. He did not like dwelling on Harry Potter. It was with this thought that he violently shoved away any thought of his junior operator, composed himself again, and stepped up to the Pursor's Office, where a young attendant took his name and then looked as if he'd like to sniff and turn up his nose to a lowly Marconi Operator and was utterly disappointed because he was a Malfoy and therefore richer than all the stewards (and perhaps all the third class) put together.
"Yes, boy, you aren't above me in the least," Draco said smoothly, making the lad redden slightly. "Now be a good mate and get Pursor McElroy for me." The boy harrumphed and disappeared behind the counter, almost immediately replaced by McElroy.
"Draco!" The man said heartily upon recognition, holding out his hand. Draco shook it, gracefully, and replied politely "How are you?"
"Never better, never better," McElroy answered, cheerfully. "What can I do for you today?"
"I'd like to see if Ms. Hermione Granger has checked in yet. Would you happen to know?"
"Indeed!" McElroy replied, clapping his hands together. Draco wondered idly how people could be so.energetic. "Our papers say she is in First Class Stateroom 17, if I'm not badly mistaken." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And how are you and the lady, eh?"
Draco was on the verge of replying (or rather, working out what to say) when the Pursor's Office was suddenly accosted by a horde of American ladies in garish hats and loud colors.. Draco stepped back quickly to avoid injury by high heel, nodded a quick goodbye to McElroy, and hastened to make his way toward the Promenade Deck, away from the loud chattering of the gaggle of women. He grimaced inwardly and wondered to himself exactly how long the White Star Line would force him to stay in New York.
Before he could work up a terribly bad mood thinking about his destination, however, he was startled by a squeal and two gloved hands clasped about his neck. "Draco!"
He blinked and almost smiled. "Ms Granger." He disentangled himself gingerly from her and promptly stuck his hands in his pockets, ears slightly pink. "How are you?"
The girl smiled impishly, wagging a finger at him, the other gloved hand at her hip. "Always trying to be the Ice Prince, I see. I know what you're thinking," she teased. "You're glad to see me."
"You?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Never. I was actually quite terrified at the thought of meeting you again-the simple notion of another one of those hour-long physics lectures is enough to make me wet my pants." Hermione simply laughed and swatted him idly, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began to steer him towards the Promenade. He was unusually pleased to see his friend; they had been mates at uni, when he'd wanted to smack her for acting a know-it-all and then found out she'd wanted to do the same (before he decided to drop out because his father looked like an over-inflated rooster whenever someone brought up the subject. "Yes, and MY son is at OXFORD, imagine that. Where did YOUR son, go, eh? Oh, he didn't GO to university. Pity.") She was one of the few people he was civil to, or, now that he thought about it, the only one.
"You've met your coworker, then?" She asked as they strolled along the bustling deck. Draco paused for a fraction before replying with an unreadable expression, "Yes."
She studied him keenly for a moment, clearly puzzled, then cracked a smile. "What, does he have a potbelly and a spotty face?" She cut in before he could reply, with a loud "Oh! I know-he's wearing a plaid shirt with striped trousers! That's it, isn't it!" She swooned, mockingly, and Draco scowled and shook his head. Hermione paused for a bit, her fainting spell forgotten. Cocking her head to one side, she regarded him with an eyebrow raised, and asked him again, "So..? Why the inscrutable expression?"
Draco scowled again. "He's fine, Hermione. Just like any other bloke. A normal, reasonably fashionable," he curled his lip at her, "average, unassuming, boring bloke." Hermione seemed dissatisfied, but fell silent. They walked a bit more before she spoke again, making him sigh in exasperation. "What's his name, then?"
"I don't remember." Draco replied obstinately, then hastened to add "Potter something" as Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. She stopped walking.
"Potter?" She repeated.
~*¢*~
Harry Potter was just wondering what exactly he was supposed to do until the ship set sail, because the radio was still obstinately silent, when a brilliant mop of red hair flashed into the room and onto the immaculate bed of-Harry winced-Draco Malfoy. "Oy! Harry!"
"Ron! Get off the bed!" Harry said quickly, scandalised, and the boy bounced once before complying, waggling his eyebrows and grinning.
"What, is your ickle senior operator going to give you detention? Extra hours on the radio? Handcuff you to the bedpost?" Ron sniggered as Harry blushed. "Only joking, mate. Who is he, anyway?"
"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, wrinkling his nose a bit. "He looks like our old Professor, if you ask me. Only younger and-" Harry paused. "more goodlooking."
Ron tactfully disregarded the last comment and pounced on Harry's own bed instead. "Oh, so he looks like he has a pile of pooh under his nose at all times, then? Rough."
"Yeah." Harry looked momentarily crestfallen. "A week of nothing but..him."
"Aw, c'mon, Harry!" Ron sat up on the rumpled bed. "They have to let you off sometimes. The passengers can't ALWAYS be sending telegrams." Even so, he looked slightly doubtful. "And besides," he continued breezily, "even if they do you'll be working most of the time-no opportunities for talking."
"Yeah." Harry stopped himself from saying that maybe he did want to talk to Malfoy, and shortly after he wondered if maybe he was going a bit daft. "You're a deck steward, then?"
"Yeah. Mum'll be pleased, she thought I was going to be a cabinboy like last time." Ron was on the verge of saying something else when an arrogant drawl and female giggling accosted their ears. Harry groaned.
"He's brought a girl, Ron. God save us." Harry would have buried his head in his hands, had he not a moment later had his arms full of shrieking brunette girl. "What the hell-"
A pause.
"..Hermione?"
Author: follow_the_lemming
Email: futurebeethoven@aol.com
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Drama/Romance
Pairing: Harry/Draco (really-no Draco/Hermione.)
Archive: I'd be flattered forever.
Summary: None of the history books will tell you the British Marconi Company's two leading employees had anything to do with each other outside of the Marconi room. They would be entirely (but only politically) correct.
Notes: My very first fic that actually has a plot! *insert fanfare* Except..it's very OOC.. (d'you reckon I can write anything but OOC? Hm.) and.. it's not very good. But it has a plot. Kind of.
Feedback/Criticism:I know you've got the criticism, just let it out! :D
DISCLAIMER: Aw, come on-just a bit? A little? Oh, fine.. here they are back.
Chapter One
Draco Malfoy was impressed by very few things in life. Beauty could not impress him, for his mother did not. Money could not impress him, for his father did not. Grandeur could not impress him, for his life did not.
But the Titanic was all of these things together, and Draco was very, very impressed.
A few starstruck gazes (read: bored, lazily speculating gazes) later he turned his attention from the imposing bulk of the ship and strode up the gangway to the entrance. The interior, however plushly decorated, was much less of a surprise to Draco, and he was able to make it to his cabin without much more awe (read: disdain). His quarters were empty, but an empty suitcase lay open on one of the beds, and an adjoining door was slightly ajar. Draco peered around for a moment before stepping to the door, widening it slightly to find the Marconi room. He was momentarily stricken as he opened the door, but it wasn't because of the radio.
A boy who seemed scarcely younger than he straightened from examining the radio equipment and turned to face him, polite smile alight on his features. He wore a starched shirt with a dark pinstriped vest buttoned snugly overtop, accentuating nicely broad (but not overmuch) shoulders tapered into a slim waist, and black trousers, fitted not perfectly but well enough to show off equally slim hips. He was not stunningly handsome, nor was he immaculately dressed, for his clothes were not expertly tailored, and there was something faintly crooked about his nose and mouth (and was that a scar on his forehead?) But he stopped Draco's heart for just a moment, and Draco for the life of him could not figure out why.
"Are you Draco Malfoy?" he was asking, and Draco blinked and nodded. The boy smiled and began to speak, but Draco cut him off sharply.
"I suppose, then," and Draco was glad to see his voice was still a drawl, "that you are my junior operator. Am I correct?"
He seemed taken aback by the coldness, and Draco was pleased. The warmth in the disarming green eyes dimmed a bit. "Yes, I am. My name is Harry Potter."
"But of course." replied Draco, extending a coldly polite hand. Potter was looking decidedly browned off, but his handshake was disarmingly firm. "I've heard of you, of course. How you've so grandly" he swept an arm across "risen in our ranks in but a few weeks. I'm so enamored, Mr. Potter."
"And likewise, Mr. Malfoy." Potter replied glibly, apparently recovered. "Draco Malfoy, highly esteemed Marconi operator, filthy rich, could run the company if he wanted to, but never one to" he paused briefly, eyes flickering over Draco's tailored clothing and snagging briefly on silver fob, gold ring, "draw attention to his class."
Yes, Draco mused, the boy learned quickly. He would be a good operator.
~*¢*~
Harry smiled slightly under the other boy's appraising gaze. He'd heard of Draco Malfoy. Supposedly his family was richer than the Astors, and Harry guessed that Draco could buy the British Marconi Company with his weekly pocket money. Draco could have become chairman of the company, but no, he was still a lowly operator. A damn fine operator, they said. No, Draco didn't want to be great, the rumours gushed. He was going to be different.
"Just working for the hell of it, then?" Harry continued casually. "Got tired of too many servants underfoot and you just happen to love radio operating?" It was said too sweetly to be sincere. Harry loved his voice sometimes.
Draco replied immediately and unsettlingly. "Precisely. You *are* a clever boy, aren't you, my dear?" He moved from the doorway to the unoccupied bed and set his suitcase down, clicking it open as he spoke. "My father desired me to go into politics, join the House of Lords, marry into the royal family.or at *least* join the services.." He drawled out the last word penitently, doing a credible impression (as far as Harry could see) of a typical, if overly haughty parent. Draco shrugged as he placed his shirts in the top drawer. "So I went into radio-operating. My father wasn't particularly pleased," drily, "but he still had aspirations for me to become chairman. Naturally," Draco smirked, "it became my goal never to be exactly that." He stepped to the radio table, and Harry squirmed slightly as he came closer. He traced a long finger over the headphones. "Don't tell me you've never rebelled."
Harry paused. "Not against my parents," he said finally, wondering if he was making a grave, grave mistake by telling this odd acerbic creature. "My parents died when I was a baby. Car accident. I've been brought up by my aunt and uncle," said with no little derision, "and been treated like budgie shit. So I left when I was eleven." He watched as Malfoy's eyes (strange, that-grey eyes) flickered over him and almost gained a bit of warmth. Or at least thawed a bit. Or maybe it was just Harry's imagination.
"Oh, so you're THAT type, eh?" Harry had a moment of cold shock before he realized Malfoy wasn't talking about.that. "The everyone-should-pity-me, I've-had-a-bloody-hell-of-a-life git?"
Yep. It had been Harry's imagination. Harry sat upright indignantly and shook his head. Malfoy only laughed. "I'm sorry that I don't have any pity for you, but I seem to have used that up when I saw your clothes."
Harry's eyebrows had knit together, but he still said coolly, "Yes, well, at least I look my place."
"Oh?" Malfoy smiled, dangerously. "I wasn't aware that that was a good thing."
"Quite," Harry replied, unruffled. "Especially when some Marconi operators seem to think that they're Colonel Astor's wife."
Harry was coldly pleased to see Malfoy's mouth tighten. He muttered something that sounded like "Well, I suppose YOU would swing that way," and then turned heel and left, leaving Harry goggling after him.
Harry had been quite taken with the Titanic as a whole, the sheer bulk of the ship, the smart ship's officers, the gleaming Grand Staircase. He was just marvelling at the size of the Marconi room, large enough to be a cabin, when the creak of the door announced his senior operator. Harry turned and found himself just as taken with this man as he had been with the rest of the ship. Immaculate would have been the word to describe him, Harry reflected now. Blond hair shimmering, combed back smoothly to curl at the nape of his neck, pale, glittering eyes set in a thin, aristocratic face. Everything about the young man was thin. He wore an immaculately tailored black suit, carried a spotless black suitcase. Highly polished shoes gleamed, golden cuff links sparkled. Harry hadn't known what to make of him. This man looked like he belonged in a stateroom next to Sir Cosmo, eating caviar with the best of them. Certainly not in steerage with the crew. And now that Harry had met him, with his coldness and abruptness, he did not know any more than he had what to make of Draco Malfoy.
~*¢*~
Draco did not like dwelling. On people, thoughts, places.. or people. He did not like dwelling on Harry Potter. It was with this thought that he violently shoved away any thought of his junior operator, composed himself again, and stepped up to the Pursor's Office, where a young attendant took his name and then looked as if he'd like to sniff and turn up his nose to a lowly Marconi Operator and was utterly disappointed because he was a Malfoy and therefore richer than all the stewards (and perhaps all the third class) put together.
"Yes, boy, you aren't above me in the least," Draco said smoothly, making the lad redden slightly. "Now be a good mate and get Pursor McElroy for me." The boy harrumphed and disappeared behind the counter, almost immediately replaced by McElroy.
"Draco!" The man said heartily upon recognition, holding out his hand. Draco shook it, gracefully, and replied politely "How are you?"
"Never better, never better," McElroy answered, cheerfully. "What can I do for you today?"
"I'd like to see if Ms. Hermione Granger has checked in yet. Would you happen to know?"
"Indeed!" McElroy replied, clapping his hands together. Draco wondered idly how people could be so.energetic. "Our papers say she is in First Class Stateroom 17, if I'm not badly mistaken." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And how are you and the lady, eh?"
Draco was on the verge of replying (or rather, working out what to say) when the Pursor's Office was suddenly accosted by a horde of American ladies in garish hats and loud colors.. Draco stepped back quickly to avoid injury by high heel, nodded a quick goodbye to McElroy, and hastened to make his way toward the Promenade Deck, away from the loud chattering of the gaggle of women. He grimaced inwardly and wondered to himself exactly how long the White Star Line would force him to stay in New York.
Before he could work up a terribly bad mood thinking about his destination, however, he was startled by a squeal and two gloved hands clasped about his neck. "Draco!"
He blinked and almost smiled. "Ms Granger." He disentangled himself gingerly from her and promptly stuck his hands in his pockets, ears slightly pink. "How are you?"
The girl smiled impishly, wagging a finger at him, the other gloved hand at her hip. "Always trying to be the Ice Prince, I see. I know what you're thinking," she teased. "You're glad to see me."
"You?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Never. I was actually quite terrified at the thought of meeting you again-the simple notion of another one of those hour-long physics lectures is enough to make me wet my pants." Hermione simply laughed and swatted him idly, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began to steer him towards the Promenade. He was unusually pleased to see his friend; they had been mates at uni, when he'd wanted to smack her for acting a know-it-all and then found out she'd wanted to do the same (before he decided to drop out because his father looked like an over-inflated rooster whenever someone brought up the subject. "Yes, and MY son is at OXFORD, imagine that. Where did YOUR son, go, eh? Oh, he didn't GO to university. Pity.") She was one of the few people he was civil to, or, now that he thought about it, the only one.
"You've met your coworker, then?" She asked as they strolled along the bustling deck. Draco paused for a fraction before replying with an unreadable expression, "Yes."
She studied him keenly for a moment, clearly puzzled, then cracked a smile. "What, does he have a potbelly and a spotty face?" She cut in before he could reply, with a loud "Oh! I know-he's wearing a plaid shirt with striped trousers! That's it, isn't it!" She swooned, mockingly, and Draco scowled and shook his head. Hermione paused for a bit, her fainting spell forgotten. Cocking her head to one side, she regarded him with an eyebrow raised, and asked him again, "So..? Why the inscrutable expression?"
Draco scowled again. "He's fine, Hermione. Just like any other bloke. A normal, reasonably fashionable," he curled his lip at her, "average, unassuming, boring bloke." Hermione seemed dissatisfied, but fell silent. They walked a bit more before she spoke again, making him sigh in exasperation. "What's his name, then?"
"I don't remember." Draco replied obstinately, then hastened to add "Potter something" as Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. She stopped walking.
"Potter?" She repeated.
~*¢*~
Harry Potter was just wondering what exactly he was supposed to do until the ship set sail, because the radio was still obstinately silent, when a brilliant mop of red hair flashed into the room and onto the immaculate bed of-Harry winced-Draco Malfoy. "Oy! Harry!"
"Ron! Get off the bed!" Harry said quickly, scandalised, and the boy bounced once before complying, waggling his eyebrows and grinning.
"What, is your ickle senior operator going to give you detention? Extra hours on the radio? Handcuff you to the bedpost?" Ron sniggered as Harry blushed. "Only joking, mate. Who is he, anyway?"
"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, wrinkling his nose a bit. "He looks like our old Professor, if you ask me. Only younger and-" Harry paused. "more goodlooking."
Ron tactfully disregarded the last comment and pounced on Harry's own bed instead. "Oh, so he looks like he has a pile of pooh under his nose at all times, then? Rough."
"Yeah." Harry looked momentarily crestfallen. "A week of nothing but..him."
"Aw, c'mon, Harry!" Ron sat up on the rumpled bed. "They have to let you off sometimes. The passengers can't ALWAYS be sending telegrams." Even so, he looked slightly doubtful. "And besides," he continued breezily, "even if they do you'll be working most of the time-no opportunities for talking."
"Yeah." Harry stopped himself from saying that maybe he did want to talk to Malfoy, and shortly after he wondered if maybe he was going a bit daft. "You're a deck steward, then?"
"Yeah. Mum'll be pleased, she thought I was going to be a cabinboy like last time." Ron was on the verge of saying something else when an arrogant drawl and female giggling accosted their ears. Harry groaned.
"He's brought a girl, Ron. God save us." Harry would have buried his head in his hands, had he not a moment later had his arms full of shrieking brunette girl. "What the hell-"
A pause.
"..Hermione?"