WARNING: bitchy!Ron, suicidal!Draco, insane!Draco
I changed Ron's image here a bit. Now, he has straight, chin-length red hair that's braided on the sides ... if you saw Legolas's get-up at the Fellowship of the Ring movie, you'll get what I mean. It won't be relevant until the next parts. (-_-')
*Chibi means mini or small, for the guys who forgot their Jap. ^^
Ron Weasley skulked the corridors of Hogwarts Castle that dank February afternoon. He sighed, and was just about to turn, when he saw the object of his concern emerging fresh from Qudditch Practice.
"Harry," he greeted him, smiling.
"Ron." He smiled back, though Ron could see that he was rather preoccupied; he kept looking at his watch. "Look, I need to get going -- work on the Manticore research at the library ..."
He wrinkled his nose. "But we had manticores last year for Care of Magical Creatures, didn't we?" Ron argued. "Good thing Hagrid wasn't fired when it rampaged ..."
It might just be his imagination, but he thought he saw his best friend blush. "Uh -- it was for Defense Against the Dark Arts." He shrugged. "I kept on asking about dueling with wizards wielding fire that Lupin made me write an essay. Two rolls of parchment."
"Two rolls of parchment?!"
Harry's tone was rueful. "I suppose it had to do something the wedding I was pressing him when I was asking about the pyro-wizards thing ..."
"Remus and Siriu -- ?!"
"Not to loud, Ron!" Harry hissed. Ron continued, voice lowered. "Remus and Sirius have plans ...?"
He nodded. "Since Pettigrew had been caught and apprehended, in a few weeks time, Sirius would be free." He clapped a hand on Ron's shoulder. "So, see you later, gotta go!" He turned and was about to go down the stairs. A pair of blue eyes narrowed. "Wait."
"Huh?" Ron had grabbed Harry's hand and they went in a hidden corridor beside the History of Magic classroom.
"I have a big problem," the redhead said abruptly.
Harry's impatient expression softened in a concerned one. "Yeah?"
"I need you to kiss me."
His jaw dropped. "What?!"
Ron held him firmly by the shoulders, almost desperately gazing into his green eyes. "I don't know what's happening to me. It's ... it's ..." He took a shaky breath for effect. "Dean. Him ... and Parvati. They were at the common room this afternoon, arguing." To himself, he added, Big surprise there.
"Uh-huh?" Harry glanced discreetly at his wristwatch, though not enough that Ron wouldn't notice the slight movement. His eyes flashed.
"Parvati was saying that there wasn't anything wrong with her and Lavender going out while she's dating Dean ..."
He raised an eyebrow, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "So what are you getting at?"
Ron tucked his scarlet hair behind his ear. "I only want to know ... if what Parvati was saying does makes sense in real life, and not just a theory, as what Dean keeps letting on ..."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, would you?" Harry said as he held up a hand. "Parvati is going out with Dean while she's getting it on with Lavender?" Ron nodded. "And you need to kiss some guy, since you have a gut feeling that you'd end up like that? That you'd develop for a someone else while you have Hermione?"
His fingers twitched, the only visible betrayal of his composure. "Precisely." Buy it, buy it, you have to buy it ...
"Big problem, that is." Blowing his bangs from his forehead, Harry shrugged. "Okay. I mean, if that's what you really want."
"Yep, I'm sure," his voice was casual, albeit serious. "It wouldn't hurt ... would it?"
At those words, though doubtful, Harry pulled him closed and kissed him, deliberate, giving the redhead time to adjust, while trying to maintain the image that he hadn't kissed a guy before. All was going well. Ron held his face in his cupped palms, pressing them closer. What he only needs to do now was not to think of Draco ... not to imagine that it was his mouth on his, his tongue probing inside; the taste of citrus ...
It was a relief that Ron pulled back just in time that he did. He grasped his wrist convulsively, almost hysterically, looking at the time. Damn it, I'm late! Draco's gonna kill me!
"Thanks, Harry," Ron tried his best to be cheerful as he watched his best friend panic. "Didn't do a thing for me. Guess won't have problems like Parvati's, would I?"
When he kept silent, mouthing like a goldfish, staring at his wristwatch, Ron nudged him. "Hey, Harry ... you need to be going, don't you? I'll see you later at the Great Hall." With a last, "thanks" and faint strand of something that sounded like "oh god, I'm late", he followed him with his blue eyes as Harry went down the stairs, snapping out of his hysteria.
"Hasta la vista, baby." Ron smirked smugly.
Draco seethed as he paced behind foreboding rows of bookshelves near the Restricted Section in the Library. He had been in this state for the past fifteen minutes, pacing between narrow shelves, muttering to himself.
I can't believe it, he thought, snorting, obviously indignant. He told me to see him here after Gryffindor Quidditch Practice. He said he'd come early. Damn that stupid, pathetic, indolent git ...
Out of sheer frustration and boredom, he grabbed a book and started leafing on it. He flicked randomly at the pages when at one point, something made his heart skip a beat.
It was actually the book he had told Harry about a few days ago. A wave of memories made Draco smile. He checked the copyright page; it was originally published at the times of the Babylonian regime (I knew it was ancient, Draco mused.) but was reprinted and edited by Hibiscus Samba, whoever that person was, just in this decade.
He ran a finger down the page; almost brand new, though dusty. Chapter XI - How Muggle Songs Affect the Mood of the Dance.
In spite of himself, he grudgingly took the book to a table, sat down, and started to read.
Introduction:If there had been any magic that Wizarding Folk felt unmanaged, or rather, not quite achieve to its maximum capacity, it was music. Centuries of extensive research had proven that Muggles, actually, were the ones who incorporated the culture of music ...
"Yadda, yadda, boring, yadda," Draco muttered. He skimmed a few paragraphs until one caught his attention.
Muggle love songs, it seems, have a lot of impact in the dancing culture of the Magical World. It may bring forth any unwanted, unexpected, and unlooked for emotions that need not to be articulated, from simply listening to them, much more if dancing the waltz or any other kind of 'slow dance' as the Muggles themselves call it. So at some instances, like an emotional get-together, Muggle songs are likely more to be played. Indeed, it had been rumored that Albus Dumbledore, current Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, listens to Staying Alive every morning, claiming that it improves his self-esteem.
The blond boy smirked. "Interesting." Suddenly, he scowled, annoyed at himself. What the hell does this mean? Draco narrowed his gray eyes, running his hands through his blond hair. The sudden image of Dumbledore dancing Staying Alive left his mind. It was replaced by the familiar image of himself dancing with Harry Potter in the Trophy Room just last Saturday. The feeling it invoked in him was ethereal, and for some strange reason, he found it irritating. Why am I believing this damn book, anyway? It isn't possible that what we felt ... was just some effect of dancing to Muggle music, is it? "Fat chance," he scorned. Nevertheless, he stood up, chair making a screeching noise that gained him a patented scowl from Madam Pince, and went out of the Library.
No. It isn't possible. An image of Harry's face flashed in his mind. He said he loved me. It wasn't just the song ... I'm sure of it. The meaning wasn't just ...
In his mind popped a chibi*-Draco lounging on a cushioned marble couch, wearing a not-so-modest toga. It took a bunch of grapes and took one in his mouth.
Oh, but little Harry pet is late for our meeting, isn't he? He's only kidding you ... he's just toying with you ... It gave him a disdainful glance. And your non-existent feelings for him.
At one point, he might have believed it. But as he was right now, looking for Harry Potter in the halls of Hogwarts that particular day, it had been preposterous. Yes, he's dumb, he's naive, but in this kind of case, he doesn't lie just to get revenge, or to play with somebody.
Why shouldn't he? the chibi-Romanesque Draco piped up. After all that you did to him?
Yes. Draco might, would, hurt people's feelings like that, and easily too, not to mention that he'll enjoy doing it. Harry, on the other hand, wouldn't, never intentionally. That difference hurt, it really did. What if I'm just leading him on, that it's just a subconscious way of getting back at him? But I love him ... I had said so myself ... didn't I?
His chibi version appeared yet again, with a vengeance. He was carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows were slung on his back. He winked at him, aiming a drawn arrow at a target that had conveniently has Harry's picture in place of the bull's eye. How do you know that's it's not just the effect of the Muggle songs you were listening to? He sniffed contemptuously. And, honestly, call him Potter for godsakes! You hate him!
Shut up! he raged in his head. Chibi-Draco scooted behind the target meekly enough, now devoid of the picture. He peeked out and quailed at Draco's mental glare.
He bit his lip, and hesitantly went to the fastest way he knew to Gryffindor Tower. I really need to talk to him now ... He might still be at practice ... So where should he come up coming from the field? Damn it, he was supposed to meet me in the library half an hour ago!
He cursed. Screw you, Potter, I need to see you right now!
He made an about-face, just as when he heard Ron's voice, chattering about something.
"It wouldn't hurt ... would it?"
The hell with Weasley, he thought mutinously. Can't even shut his filthy mouth. "It wouldn't hurt ... would it?" he mocked in a squeaky falsetto. The blond snorted, rolling his eyes. Honestly. That stinking fag, kissing Harry where anybody can see them --
What?!
He slinked back, spying on the two Gryffindors. He hissed softly, clenching his fists, narrowing his eyes into slits. There was Ron Weasley, practically devouring on his Harry! It was very obvious from Ron's face that he was enjoying the kiss immensely. They were even explicit enough to moan softly; it echoed through the narrow corridor, amplifying the sounds before it reached him. As much as he wanted to tear them apart, to slap those fingers on threading through the sable strands of hair of his Harry, he didn't.
Somebody ... anybody ... tell me it's just a nightmare ...
He quivered on the spot, tears threatening behind his closed lids. No ... I'm not going to cry ... not over Ha -- not over Potter.
I told you so, The chibi image of himself was back, now starting to chow on strawberry and cream. He leered, scooped some cream into his mouth before continuing. He's just toying with you. In a mock conspiracy, I'll bet the whole Gryffindor House will get a laugh when your precious Harry slips ... and tells that the worst Slytherin emissary they have is gay. Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's just too bad.
He stood up; the Roman setting was gone, and the toga he wore turned into a cheerleading outfit. It was barely covering his midriff, and his skirt reached down six inches below the hips. Waving his silver and green pompoms, he chanted, with a dance routine to match. "I'm a fag! I'm a fag! I'm a bloody, bloody fag! Yay! Go me!"
Go to hell, slut. Giving his cheering/dancing self a mental glare, Draco wiped the unshed tears in his eyes, rashly. His feet, at first frozen by the sight of the Ron and Harry kissing, finally obeyed him and he walked away from the scene, fists still clenched; blood trickled at each step from ten crescent marks in his palms.
"I'm so stupid ..." Draco whispered to himself that night. He curled into a ball, holding himself as tight as he could, feeling that if he loosened even just a bit, he would die. Loneliness and something else was eating through him now, tearing him, pushing him to the brink of insanity. Betrayal.
He was now at the Slytherin dorms, crying his eyes out. His roommates were fast asleep: Crabbe and Goyle were snoring, disguising the sobs coming from Draco's part of the room; Nott was, as usual, tossing and turning; Blaise was the only one silent.
They're presence were barely, if not, totally ignored, by Draco.
"I hate you," he hiccupped, tears freefall. He swiped at them but no matter what he did, the tears were still there, running down his cheeks in streaks upon streaks. "You're a liar, Harry Potter ... I don't know what I saw in you ..."
You deserve the betrayal.
You love him ... and he doesn't love you back.
Lord Voldemort is waiting for you ... he's waiting for us, Draco Malfoy ...
Death is the only viable option. He rejected us again ... we're going to take him with us ... we need to kill Harry Potter ...
We can't face this kind of humiliation. We need to die, Draco Malfoy ...
Voices. They were distracting him. Too many voices.
Am I going insane?
Insane ... insane ...
He clawed at himself, five long angry scratches down the length of each arm. It drew blood; the smell woke up the panic, and he began crying, shaking as he was racked with sobs. He banged his head at his knees, not stopping until he was bruised.
"Stop," he whispered. "No ... please ..." He tore at his pajama bottoms, shredding the rich fabric; he scratched his legs violently, weeping, pleading the voices to stop, to leave him alone.
His head swam, sweaty white-blond hair was matted on his forehead in ropy strands, but the most prominent feeling was the desolation, deceit and the voices; he stood up, and sagged against the wall, kneeling before it. Draco slammed his head against the wall repeatedly, beating at it with his fists, kicking almost hysterically. The pain in his whole body did not register; the only thing he was aware of was the emotional distress he was harboring inside, lashing to get out and make itself known.
I hate you ...
Die, Harry Potter ... Draco and I will join you afterwards ...
"Stop it ..." he choked out.
"Draco! What happened? Oh, shit!"
Blaise Zabini had woken up, and found Draco bleeding, slumped on the floor, crying.
"Draco?"
Blaise was aghast at the sight of his roommate. His blond hair was plastered on his forehead by a steady crimson trickle, his fingertips mangled and bloody, knees and legs purpling with bruises, body nicked with scratches. His eyes were glazed, glassy, unseeing; tears were a continuing stream. He quickly grabbed his wand under his pillow and performed the necessary healing spells to stop the bleeding. He could do nothing more for the bruises and the barely sustained hysteria. All he did was go to the hospital wing, with Draco on an invisible stretcher before him.
"Madam Pomfrey," he addressed the nurse, after the blond boy was bandaged. She was now opening shelves, looking for the Sleeping Draught. "Is he going to be all right?"
"He will be, Zabini. Just don't upset him, he's still fragile. And yes, you may see him, if that was troubling you. Honestly, I wouldn't try talking to him at the moment, but he will be civil enough. Now scoot."
Obediently, he ducked and got out of the way before a cabinet-door hit him on the head. He approached Draco silently, wary.
There was no need though. Draco was very different now, compared to his condition ten minutes ago. His face was emotionless; there were almost no sign of his tears, save the slightly swollen eyes, rimmed pink at the edges. Actually, the only part of his body that was bandaged was his head, but after the salve applied on it was set, it would be off, too. He was sitting up; Blaise noted ghosts of nail marks on his arms. The wounds were healing in full speed, and will be gone the next morning. Nothing serious, he thought, relieved. Draco was clutching a letter in one hand, while his eagle-owl was perched on his shoulder.
"Zabini." The voice was hoarse from crying, but nonetheless normal.
"Yes."
Gray eyes pierced through his blue ones. The hand with the letter tightened with a vice grip.
"Are you willing to help me?"
He was startled by the unfiltered emotion on Draco's eyes. He went through so much ... Before he could think, he answered. "Yes."
He closed his eyes, fist still clenched on the parchment. "Then you won't let this get out. This never happened. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Blaise answered again. He felt curious of the whole matter. Why had he woken up with that blond crying and bloodied? It must be serious; he wouldn't cry over something so petty. Then he remembered something.
"What about Potter? You two are ... you want me to tell him ...?"
He glared at him, silver orbs narrowing to steel daggers. The eagle-owl flew away, exiting through the open window with a sympathetic hoot to its master. He did not take notice of the owl; however, his gaze was intensely on Blaise. "This never happened," Draco repeated.
Madam Pomfrey then bustled in, fussing with Draco, shielding him from view. She handed him a goblet full of purple potion, and started taking off the linen around Draco's head. Blaise then decided to go and catch some more sleep before their first class. It would be no point of guarding Draco Malfoy; besides, with him being that volatile, he wasn't sure if he'd even appreciate the company.
Something that fluttered on the floor caught the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he turned and bent over, noticing a balled-up parchment. It was the letter that Draco had received. Intrigued, he picked it up, cautiously glancing at the blond boy. He was dozing off.
He went out of the hospital wing, and at the foot of the winding stairs nearby, he sat down. Smoothing out the creases, the Slytherin boy read the simple note.
Stay away from something I've claimed as mine, Malfoy. He doesn't want you, anyway. Keep your paws off him. He's mine.
Draco sure is in deep shit, Blaise thought as he stuck the letter deep in his pocket. He stood up, and descended the stairs, making his way to the Slytherin Dungeons. Maybe it has something to do with Potter, he mused.
He shrugged, partly aware of the portrait that stared at him and shrugged back, What the hell do I know, anyway?
He got so occupied with his thoughts that he almost missed the secret entrance. Dutifully, he stood before a wall, and gave the password. "Basilisk," he said, and entered the common room. No one was there. Really. What do I expect at quarter past one in the morning? he thought to himself sourly. Trudging to his room, he sighed, suddenly weary.
What have I gotten myself into?
Author's notes: Yup, I know ... (shudders) It's weird ... not much snogging, but the next parts will make up for it ... if I ever finish it ... (-_-')
Yes, I'm bad, and left this totally hanging. But the third one is on its way ... so, hopefully ...
I'm sorry for the delay ...
To Isys (who'll hopefully review this ...), the Voldemort ficcie is going to take a little more longer than expected ...
Please review ... should I make this a R/D? (kidding ...)
Oh, the owl Blaise sees here is Dilandau, the once-constipated pet of Draco's. And, yeah, he is named after the Tenkuu no Escaflowne psychopath. ^^;