By: DaDomz (Br@nw3nand Lestat)
DISCLAIMER: WE DON'T OWN NOTHING.
WARNINGS:
1.) This is a HP/DM fic. But not entirely. Read it and understand.
2.) Also a R/Hr fic so be warned!
3.) Idea derived from the Travelers Incognito.
Chapter 2: Stark Frivolity leads to a Rather Contrary EnigmaThe rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering down on the corrugated roof of the locker room, roaring down onto metal gutters and splashing to the ground in a torrentuous melody. Draco Malfoy sighed, and stared out the window. From the locker room, he could barely see the pitch or the field beyond for it was cloaked in a heavy fog. This wasn't what he expected when he had arrived from the Great Hall.
He groaned, if the rain wouldn't let up soon, the game against Gryffindor would be an even more formidable one.
He rubbed at his forehead and suddenly remembered that he hadn't finished dressing himself, seeing as to he only had a striped sock on his left foot and nothing on the other. His lack of attire can be attributed to the fact that he was momentarily occupied, banging his head against the rough concrete wall and all. He was perched on top of a massive chestnut bench, one of many that dotted the Slytherin Quidditch team's Locker Room, muttering to himself in a foreign language which could be postulated to be French.
He had his trousers on, impeccably ironed, his hair tousled and as if to affirm his total disregard for his appearance, he wore nothing on his upper half except his usual undershirt. The plain mahogany doors opened and a certain brunette entered. Draco bit on his nails nervously out of habit as he apprehensively stared at the looming figure, wishing to see the person he needed to speak to and concurrently wring that certain individual's neck.
But it wasn't the personage he was anticipating. Instead, Blaise Zabini stared back at him, raising a bushy brow, shaking his own head and rolling his eyes. "Just a piece of advice mate," he scratched his head and tried to pretend that something interesting was situated out the window and turned back to the blond, smacking Draco's arm in one swift movement. "PUT A SHIRT ON!"
"Have you seen Parkinson?" was his neurotic reply, staring at his now-chipped fingernails and disregarding the sharp and jagged edge of each. "That bloody pug will owe me more than her life when I see her!"
"I guess she's coming," Blaise shrugged, his look was careless and the he stared back at Draco, caught himself and growled, "And for the last time, Draco, put a bloody shirt on! This isn't just the boy's bathroom- wait, it isn't even a bathroom! It's a public place!"
"Watch all you want, it's for free! Be the only time you'll be accustomed to see me half naked!" Draco declared standing up and raising his chin a bit higher than usual too meet Blaise's eyes. Blaise orbs widened as he shook his head, trying his best not to stare down at the shorter boy, reaching out with his left hand then shaking his head once again, eyes wide with contemplation and well... false disgust.
"Thanks but no thanks." He grumbled. "I'm not interested in either you or your body. Thankyouverymuch!"
Pansy then chose that moment to announce her presence by singing very loudly and very off-key, intruding upon the boys' argument.
Draco, who, like the rest of the team, was used to her boisterous and horrendous voice screamed, running towards the witch. "Parkinson, you lousy cow! Give me back my beige surgical bandage!" He demanded, a hint of authority in his voice. "Give it back you harlot, you low scum maggot-riffraff, I want it right now or Slytherin is never going to win that blasted cup!"
He glared at her vehemently, as she tried to suppress a giggle but failed miserably and in the process ended up lying on the floor and laughing her arse off. Gregory entered with Vincent both engrossed in a friendly conversation about the inspiring book both had just read on how to overcome the trauma of being bitten by a flobberworm.
Blaise was repeatedly polishing the handle of his broom while Millicent was busy combing her hair and dusting the ones from her cat off of her robes. Pansy was still laughing her arse off the floor but laughter had subsided into tumultuous giggles after a few minutes as she caught a glimpse of a pouting Draco on top of her. All of a sudden, he reminded her of a mischievous little elf that was tied to a chair which prevented him from moving about.
"But Draco, you never did win us a Quidditch Cup," Pansy pointed out. "And besides, I don't really know anything about your watchamacalit, much less do something to it."
"FYI! It's called a surgical bandage!"
"You really have to stop watching American Muggle shows Draco, I think it's twisting your already misconstrued brain!"
"I so do not watch those rubbish!"
"Whatever loser!" she rolled her eyes, her finger and her thumb in the form of an L on her forehead.
Draco stuck his tongue out at her but proceeded to talk.
"And I do have a better chance in winning this year, now that my pathetic excuse for a father has gone on a skiing trip to the Alps, therefore there is a lack of threatening letters and words as to not have my nerves worked up. And I assure you that this year that Cup will be right where it belongs, in my hands! Because I deserve it as the victorious champion who was cheated out of conquest over and over again by a bastard... I deserve it not him, he doesn't deserve it because I do!"
"Keep telling yourself that, Draco," Pansy mocked. "Oh, wait, I think your redundancy already has! Though, I, on the other hand, think we'd even have a guaranteed chance of victory if you'd run around the Quidditch field in your grotesque nude form and in the process distract everyone rather than sitting your fat arse on that shiny broom handle of yours and being a pathetic excuse of a Slytherin seeker!"
Draco's mouth hung wide open, his eyes widened. He gaped for a few moments until some sense was finally knocked into his head causing him to promptly shut it close. He glared at Pansy for a few seconds before rolling his eyes. "Fine then, you can look for another seeker if you think only my stark naked and repulsive structure can be captivating!"
"She was only kidding," Blaise mumbled, not lifting his eyes off of his broom, seemingly engrossed in polishing the shellac off its handle. "Not that I care, alright. Not that your form is not incongruous and I don't even call that captivating but Pansy seems to envy your figure and constantly talks like I want to have Draco's figure because...you know, and shit like that in this really annoying voice."
"I never said that!" Pansy glared, her face as red as a tomato. "I have my own figure to boast of! I'm slightly curvy and I am in other means, voluptuous and very, very arousing!" Draco rolled his eyes and sat at the chair while Blaise let out a loud and low snort, which gradually transformed into convulsive snickering. Pansy's cheeks sported two crimson spots as she fixated her evil squinchie on both Draco and Blaise.
Draco suppressed a half-hearted victorious grin. "Now, keep telling yourself that, my lavishing, egoistic and *ahem* sensual puppy..."
*-----*
"Aye!" Seamus ostensibly roared into Draco's ears. Draco glared at him as he rubbed his own ears in agitation, two solid hours in the field and they were down to zero on both teams, it must've been the hottest game ever played and the most intense. He could see his opponent's insecurity, the great Harry Potter, tugging at his shirt collars every once in a while.
Harry was circling the pitch for what seemed like an eternity, trying to see a flash of gold or any thing like it but was rewarded with the sight of nothing for all his assiduousness instead. The only gold he could see was Draco's hair, radiant under the concentrated heat of the sun. Draco was sat slumped so low on his broom that one would've thought he was in the dawn of old age, slouching as if he were ashamed of himself.
But then again, he had everything to be ashamed of; he hadn't won a single game in his entire life.
Meanwhile, Ron was swinging his beater club with unwavering consternation, lost in his own little world; probably playing a game Harry deemed "The famous Quidditch beater of the whole universe, Mr. Ronald Weasley". But you couldn't blame him for his momentary mind game. The spectators had tired of cheering and some had treated themselves into taking some cold Pumpkin juice and probably some goodies.
Crabbe and Goyle were still animatedly conversing about the newest and most recent book they'd just read- Jack and the Beanstalk, sharing their own points of view. Colin, one of the Chasers, had his camera tucked under his neck and was probably tired of clicking the camera (L: A FIRST!). While Ginny was quite busy staring at a certain Chaser to even pass around the Quaffle.
The only people who were probably participating were Pansy, who was busy intercepting the bright red ball and passing it off to Blaise who in turn was invariably urging Adrienne, the Keeper, to resume guarding the Slytherin hoops. Seamus, Dean and Dennis were probably the only ones participating in the Gryffindor side, Seamus as the Ron's other half, Dean as a Chaser, constantly being riled by Ginny's actions, or lack of it and Dennis as the Keeper.
Even the Bludgers seemed bored, lacking their usual vindictiveness, and were now moving slower than usual, not even bothering to attack anybody. Harry was busy, though, setting to observe the plans he and Ron had gone through in the early hours of the morning. He was to divert Malfoy's attention as often as he could and hope for the best after that. He and Ron just weren't good at scheming, at all.
Their lack of plans, or lack of it, was a failure not because of their idiocy to not have thought out every single detail to the end, it was partly because if Draco for he had paid no attention to anyone and was busy checking his own nails, admiring how glittery they got under the sun's glare, a bit worried that he might freckle under its heat and suffer rashes for the rest of the week.
Finally, the moment they were waiting for had arrived. Harry caught the glimpse of a certain glimmering gold ball. He smiled at himself, assuming his own victory. He directly guided his broom towards the tip of one of the iron rings on the Gryffindor sideof the court. But his luck expired quickly as he noticed that he was racing side by side with his opponent's broom.
Draco was apprehensive, striving hard to reach out for the luminous ball, the one that had shone in favorable inkling, the tiny thing that would ensure his victory and his father's admiration. He was tempted to move his elbow for inch, to knock the man beside him out of the game but he wanted a fair game, a tad bit more challenging and on his own terms.
Harry stared at the broom handles, Malfoy's an inch further and closer to the estimated place. Harry shook his head and concentrated, he felt a certain and distinct rush of turmoil inside of him as he was pleading with God to allow him to beat the dragon beside him.
They were about to reach the gold when it left instantaneously and without warning, sending both of them to pull back, causing their brooms to collide in mid-air. The two Seekers catapulted off their brooms and went airborne before landing on the soft and wet ground with a loud thump. Harry was situated on top of Draco, both too stunned to either move or speak.
The piercing whistle of Madam Hooch's calliope brought Harry back to earth, where he could once again detect the all too familiar scent of apples, cinnamon and the other alluding scent, which to him was marvelous and beyond narration. He stared at the other boy, feeling a great wave of heat emanating off him as he drowned in a sea of ice.
Almond-shaped eyes were wide with shock; Harry could almost detect the body stiffen. Their legs entwined with one another, his long legs strong and filled with muscles while this other boy's shorter more feminine legs were made of firm and pliant sinews but were rather bony and slender in structure. He could feel Draco's slight abdominal muscles contract as he inhaled together with some rather oddly big chest muscles that were too soft to consider as thew.
The Slytherin boy's head was nestled in the crook of his neck, the weight not uncomfortable but a bit unsettling. His hands settled on the blonde boy's waist as he tried to pull him off but only succeeded in bringing Malfoy down onto him even more as the blonde tried to struggle out of his grasp.
He shook his head repeatedly, trying to clear his head, pushing away the strange feel of Malfoy on him, feeling slightly lost and confused before an echo rang through his ears. "Get off me!"
*-----*
The game had been cancelled. Though it was a close match, they had to stop on account of the commotion located in the field below. The two Seekers were brawling with each other, rolling around in the grass and succeeding in giving one another fractures which weren't really permanent and besides, it was raining once again and Quidditch was surely scheduled to be played on a bright and sunny day- according to Professor Trelawny.
Draco stalked into his room, though his sullenness couldn't have been perceived for he walked as he had always had, slightly gliding on the floor mixed with an air of arrogant sauntering. His room was located in a secluded corner a few paintings away from the Slytherin Common Room. Tucked away in a corner where no light could penetrate his solitude.
His father had specifically asked for his own room, at first Lucius Malfoy had told his son that it was due to the fact that Malfoys were never supposed to mingle with such common rabble, he had even enlightened him with some twisted knowledge of him possessing his own room during his time at Hogwarts, which was absolute bull, as Draco had later surmised.
He threw himself onto his bed, reveling in the feel of the velvet on cool damp skin. He had not changed out of his Quidditch robes, too angry and disappointed at the game whose outcome was left undecided due to Potter's complete idiocy. He slammed a fist on the bed, the soft cotton enveloping his delicate fist, which only fueled his frustration.
He leaped off the huge bed, landing softly on his feet, kicking off his shoes and burrowing his feet in the ankle-deep silver bordered jade carpeting. He then walked to his oak desk, and with much exertion, lifted the heavy leather cushioned armchair and with a great deal of vindictiveness, threw it against a cool stone wall.
It did not break as he expected, and he growled, tears nearly springing to his eyes as he cursed out loud. Why did he have to be as weak as he was? As delicate as the world had believed he was. Why did he have to be what he was? His palm balled up into a fist and at swiftly connected with the smooth limestone partition.
He yelped in pain, clutching at his hand. When the pain subsided into an incessant throbbing, he brought it up to his face and sneered at the scrapes that surrounded his knuckles. It had reminded him of the bruises on his face, stomach and arms. Scars that Potter had given him. Scars which would take a great deal of time to fade.
He had not been rushed to the Infirmary as soon as he and the Potter boy had been separated. Pansy had tried to persuade him to have that Pomfrey heal him, but he did not want anyone to see that he needed any kind of help. He had long passed that stage where he feigned injuries for attention.
His father had not believed him and had finally had enough and had taken him by the ear and told him the men never got hurt and if they did, they never showed their pain. Well, he only lived to please his father and had complied with such a request, and who knew what Pomfrey might see had she looked under his clothes?
He frowned, shuddering, then realized the cause of his discomfort. He still wore his damp robes on. He quickly shrugged out of them, wincing at the stench of aged grass and humus. His frowned in consternation as another more powerful smell emanated off his robes. A particularly strong mint musk yet not so fervent as to overpower the odor of the damp Quidditch field and rain-slicked soil.
He grimaced at Potter's aura and hastily pulled off his sweater and stepped out of his soiled trousers. He made his way to his private bathroom, turning on the sink faucet and gathering the steaming hot water in his hands, splashing the scalding liquid onto his face, scrubbing at his skin until it turned red due to the friction, trying to rid himself of the grime from both the earth and Potter.
He lifted his head and scrutinized his appearance in the gold-framed mirror. Too long elegantly curled lashes cast shadows on porcelain skin, framing distinct hoary eyes, a refined nose with full crimson lips only contradict with what he was supposed to be, what he was meant to be. He growled at his too feminine features, hating how they all came together perfectly, how he resembled his mother more than he did his father. His hair which now fluttered over his delicate jaw only seemed to confirm his lack of masculinity.
He'd need a hair cut soon. If he was lucky, he could bother Pansy into doing it for him. She never did see the need to keep his hair precisely faultless.
He snatched a towel off its holder and roughly scrubbed at his face, knowing that his epidermis would acquire a reddish tint to it, and in his view, make him seem unappealing. He re-entered his bedroom and laid his hands on the brass knobs of his wardrobe and pulled. It would not open.
The gods seemed to mock him today. He struggled with it for quite some time, banging his shoulder into the fine mahogany until he noticed the bluish-brown uneven sphere that appeared on his shoulder. He winced. Another bruise. He needed to be more cautious. His mother might decide to drop in unexpectedly and seeing him with so many contusions might cause her to meet with Dumbledore once more to firmly discuss her child's delicateness. He shuddered at the thought of more special treatment.
Yes, he loved his mother, but her over-protectiveness was embarrassing. Remnants of Pansy's mocking laughter still reverberated in his ears every time he thought of Hippogriffs and the way his mother had bullied Lucius into firing Hagrid because his idiocy had harmed her 'baby'.
Pansy seemed to enjoy teasing him with her seriously lacking wit about his need to constantly keep Crabbe and Goyle by his side to assure his safety. That he wasn't *man* enough to win a fistfight.
He grunted. Screw her, at least *he* wasn't the one mooning over Zabini.
He took his wand from the discarded pile of clothing he had left on the rug just minutes ago. Muttering 'Alohamora' under his breath, he hurriedly threw the channeling object onto his study table, as if his using it to aid him in such a simple task degraded his manliness. Made him unworthy to be Lucius Malfoy's heir.
He paled at the thought. He would do absolutely anything for his father, kill for him, even. He quickly smothered that trail of thought, lest he eventually contemplate suicide. He pulled out a green cashmere sweater, expensive beige trousers and a pair of patent leather boots.
He put them on swiftly but with utmost care, ensuring that the fabrics had not a single wrinkle in them, should his reputation as a descendant of a still lucrative and old-blooded family be tarnished. He tugged open one of the drawers situated underneath the paneling for his shoes and grimaced at the sight of all those inappropriate garments. Sniffing disdainfully, he pulled out one particularly long, three-quarters of a metre, to be exact, silk wrap with wire and elastic hand-sown into the fabric.
He still had absolutely no idea an how to put the confusing garment on and usually needed Parkinson's help, though he'd deny ever saying he needed anyone's help, especially from that cow. He stuffed them into his robes, hating it as much as he hated Potter, though for different reasons, and proceeded to exit his room as he walked down the hallway and into the Slytherin Common Room, screaming Pansy's name at the top of his lungs.
* * * * *
Harry rolled his eyes for only God knows how many times, as Ron's ceaseless rant continued on from the Gryffindor Quidditch Locker Room, to the Great Hall, for the rest of the afternoon and now, as they were heading for dinner and once again into the Great Hall. He was complaining about the injustice of it all. Quidditch games were never supposed to be cancelled. And Hermione's matter of fact interjections about how it was *not* a real professional team that played out there, the Headmaster had all the right to postpone the game.
Then, he had gone on to rant about Draco Malfoy and the Slytherin boy's insipidity. Harry shared some of Ron's animosity but knew that the game was not entirely the pale teen's fault. It takes two to start a fight but if he hadn't retaliated to Malfoy's senseless, though not painful attacks, his reputation would have been ruined. Though it would have been easier and much less exhausting if he had just taken the Slytherin by the wrists and pulled the slight boy off him.
That would have been humiliating for Malfoy. He was rather light, nearly weightless and his attacks had been full of anger, yes, but without much force behind them. He wondered why the game was cancelled, Quidditch was a game that should be played until a Seeker caught the Snitch. It was rather suspicious.
While he mulled those over in his head, he ran into Ron.
He rubbed at his nose. "Ron, what's wrong with you?"
He ceased his rubbing and looked over Ron's shoulder and saw what had caused the hold-up. He didn't have to stand on his toes to see over Ron's shoulder, he was up to the red-head's forehead, but what Ron's frame had overshadowed was by far shorter than even Hermione.
"Malfoy."
"So glad of you to join the 'Let's frighten Malfoy with useless verbal abuse' gang, Potter," he drawled, delicate mouth curled up into a disgusted sneer.
"We wouldn't be here if you hadn't decided to insult Hermione, Malfoy," Ron spat, grabbing the brat by the front of his robes with one hand and pinning him to the wall.
"Well, at least I can come up with one."
Ron drew back his other arm, hand balled up into a fist, face scrunched up in fury, ready to seriously mar the Slytherin's face. Harry stepped forward, catching Ron's hand in his own, ceasing its destructive path while Hermione tugged at his other arm, begging him to release Malfoy.
Harry gently set down his best friend's fist, though his hand still encased Ron's own like a steel manacle, lest his fist continue its want for blood on its own accord. Harry kept his other hand on Ron's arm as he pinned it to the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain's side.
"My, my, my, you should learn to control that temper of yours, Weasel, lest your mudblood girlfriend and your famous friend won't be able to save you next time."
Harry turned to glare at Malfoy. The nerve of that brat! If he and Hermione hadn't intervened, who knows what Ron might've done to him! He might have been placed in the Infirmary for months.
"Shut it, Malfoy," he growled, staring down at the shorter boy.
It was a wonder that Malfoy had remained as small as he was this late in his teenage years. It was unlikely that his diminutive stature would change now. He trained his gaze on Harry, seeming to look down at the Boy-who-Lived with his aristocratic upbringing and training.
"And who gave you permission to enter this conversation, Potter?" He appeared to look even more disgusted at the sight of him, if that was even possible.
"You did, when you insulted my friends."
"Well, if you aren't playing the hero that everyone thinks you to be," he lifted one gossamer eyebrow. "Careful, your head might just explode with all those compliments. Though your faithful hound and whining bitch might hopefully still-"
He hadn't been given the slightest chance to finish his sentence for Harry had heard enough and grabbed him by the front of his robes and with both hands, had lifted him in the air, their eyes seemingly level now. Draco could now see the hate in those eyes, hate that had been called on too often that they seemed world-weary, cynical, even, about everything, even towards Malfoy.
"Don't ever insult my friends to my face, Malfoy, lest I leave you with something worse than those bruises," he growled, their faces centimeters away from one another's, their breathing consecutive, though the smaller boy's was erratic, bordering on panting.
"You wouldn't recognize an insult until it danced naked wearing Dumbledore's hat while whistling a Christmas tune."
Harry could hear the strain it had brought him as he spoke, his words precise but without his usual effortlessness. Had he hurt the scum too much back in the Quidditch field too much?
He considered following in Ron's footsteps and physically abusing the blonde, but what good would that do? He had already caused enough damage and that hadn't solved anything. Besides, he'd probably run off to his father and have him do something to all three of them.
Besides, how could he harm such beauty? It had to be a sin to even touch one with such seraphic likeliness, though it was pure irony that the gods would endow one with such a horrid soul with such countenance. The ethereal strands that were styled to avoid distractions seemed finer that silk, and more costly. The regal arch of his brows perched atop gray orbs with just enough naturally curled lashes to frame a face enough to rival even Aphrodite's own beauty. A long fine nose, and full lips shaded with just the right color of cherry confirmed the old aristocratic bloodlines of the Malfoy family. If one were to glance at him without ever knowing who he was, one might have taken him for a woman, a beautiful one with goddess-like qualities.
"Put me down, Potter," he disparaged. "Now."
Harry glared at him for a moment before setting him on his feet, roughly, and turning towards the Great Hall.
Ron and Hermione gave each other furtive glances. Ron with utter disdain and confusion while Hermione frowned at him and stared at Harry sympathetically but not without curiosity. She turned back to assess Draco Malfoy and found the Slytherin huffily dusting off his robes then clutch at his chest, as if catching his breath.
Hermione could admit that he was very good-looking, bordering on beautiful even. Anyone with eyes could see that but who would have thought that Harry fancied boys?
* * * * *
A/N: The Locker scene, well, as you have noticed, Draco was wearing an undershirt. By this we mean just a sports bra. She and Pansy sounded like Americans because my co-author wanted them that way and since this was supposed to be Lestat's chapter, I guess I could give her that after all my editing. Blaise will play an important role soon. The part after the Quidditch match wasn't very funny, though, bordering on angsty, I would think. Oh, and Louis, if you'd happen to be bored and read this, I kinda 'borrowed' the last part from you. I absolutely loved your description of Draco's lips. 'Lips that challenged even the authenticity of crimson.' That was inspired!
Thanks to the lovely reviewers, too! Chapters might be posted every month or two, just because! And don't forget to REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW
P.S. Did anyone know that pumpkins were squash? Yuck!!! Ice cold squash juice? Disgusting! Scaldingly hot squash soup, yes, but never squash juice! Hey, anyone ever wonder what they give students who are allergic to it? Should Draco be allergic to it? Anyone want to vote in this useless poll? Oh, should there be some more Ron/Hermione in it? Dun, dun, dun, dun…