Warning: A sneaky picture but nothing more.
AN: I NEED A BETA! Can nobody help me?
***
The dungeons were cold, and empty. Class had yet to be dismissed, but Draco reflected it would not be worth going. Consequently he sat impatiently waiting for his goons to make an appearance while nursing his aggrieved shoulder.
It hurt like the devil. He figured it had to be some higher power to smite him for his misconduct. Well, may they all go to the devil! Nevertheless it hurt. He had rubbed some pep-up ointment on it but it was taking its sweet time having any effect and in the mean time he had to suffer, which he did gracelessly. Slouching in one of the great armchairs, which only aggravated it further he bemoaned his plight to the walls.
Honestly the whole thing wouldn't have happened if it had not been for Potter, why couldn't he just give up and die or see the light and join them relegating the whole inconvenience to the forgettable past, but NOOO he had to be Potter the insufferable Wonderboy git-face. And that friend; what a brute. No refinement, no money, nothing, only a low brow peasant's wizard, he should never have even been let in. lastly the accursed Mudblood. That bragging, nagging, unquenchable fountain of irrelevant information. She looked a damn side better when she had been paralyzed.
The whole bunch of them irked him no end. What was worst was they had forgiven him. Well, that was not strictly true. Potter had forgiven him, or rather had seen the sense in dropping the conflict. That kind of level-headedness aggravated Draco beyond all whit of reason. How could he remain so calm, so damn mature. Weasley, now that was a reaction. Slightly too explosive, especially about anything involving the Mudblood, that was an interesting piece of information.
Weasley was not bad fun either, Draco reflected. His trigger-happy reflexes and volatile emotions were so easily exploited, especially next to Potter's shy retired demeanor. The Mudblood was even worse. Explosive and unpredictable as only a girl could be, but unprovokeable at others. Draco couldn't stand females. With the exception of his dear mother, males were infinitely superior. That thought at least made him feel better.
The salve had started at last to take effect and he experienced a pleasant tingling warming feeling spread over his shoulder. It, he knew would not be healed, but at least the ache would not effect him for a while. Everything had gone awry today and Draco resolved to retire presently and not bother with supper. It being Friday he could indulge himself without worry of the following day's classes, and could devote all his energies to perusing his copy of Boy's Dark Devilry Volume One which he had smuggled in from home over the holidays. There was always the added thrill of knowing that they were forbidden.
There was something about braking rules that Draco could not find in anything else, even Quidditch. This was partially the reason he was so spoiled. His parents had discovered this fact as a very early stage in Draco's life. His mother instead of forbidding her son to do anything he wanted would permit him to do so; many an elf was lost in this way until Draco tired of the some such exploit. Nevertheless like the Muggle Pavlov and his dogs, so Draco's conditioning had begun.
At ten he had been disgustingly spoiled having been allowed to do almost anything he wanted for torturing the house elves to reading all the darkest books or the Wizarding World. He was also bored out of his skull and all the more eager for rules against which he could filially fight. He had of course no such training for such a campaign against the forces of authority. He had had the desire but not the refinement to tow the line between trouble and consequence and as a result had fallen often dangerously close to the side of sever punishment. This was the reason why he had had to call upon his father in more than one incident. It had not been a pretty occurrence and he was gradually realizing that calling on blood to support you wasn't indeed always the wisest or pleasantest option. He had been trying to cut a more independent path since this realization, but his moral turpitude and spoiled dependant demeanor were major factors against him. He struggled on as best he could, whining while he plotted revenge with an ever if slowly increasing degree of subtly.
This was exactly what he did now. Draco Malfoy, Rebel Without a Cause, which he was.
***
Blaze Zabini woke him, shoving his dark unwelcome head in between the heavy curtains of the great four-poster. Draco had fallen asleep on chapter three of his book. He his nose had been uncomfortably pressed up against the pages. As he shifted he could feel blood flowing back into it and knew there would be an unsightly line across the bridge of his perfect nose. This only added to his lack of desire of dinner.
"Hey Malfoy… you don't want dinner." Statement or question it was hard to tell with Zabini.
"No, tell the two buffoons not to make themselves sick in my absence." With that Zabini's head disappeared and the curtains shut once more around his bed.
Getting up he stretched stiffly, cringing at the jabbing pain in his shoulder. Damn. He cursed before shunting the heavy tome to one side and stretching out more comfortably in the huge bed.
Zabini was a good enough mate, no questions, a bit of the secretive type. Silent and slightly suspicious to boot, but that was to be expected of any Slytherin. Looking up in the darkness of the canopy he felt the oppressive closeness of the little space around him and longed for some fresh air. Sitting up he yanked aside the aside curtains and was assailed by the damp cold air of the dungeon dorm. No fire, no matter how intensely it blazed could ever seem to conquer the damp. He flopped back lazily into bed, not wanting to face the cold just yet. Letting himself fall back into his dreams. There had been ankles.
With some effort he struggled to remember a fragment of the dream that he had just stumbled. Ankles, ankles something about ankles. They were elegant, yes, and white. Damn it all! It had escaped again. He hated not remembering him dreams. As a kid he had always seemed to be able to remember what he had dreamt. As he had gotten older he found himself retaining them less and less, as if the revels of the night were no longer permitted to his older waking self. Denial of his pleasure annoyed him no end, but why for all of Merlin's magic was he dreaming about ankles?
He pondered his as he lay back down for a third time, wriggling his way under the covers, and unbuttoning his robes and underclothes. After a bit of a struggle he flung them triumphantly form the bed to crease on the cold floor. His toes battled with the tight tucks of hospital corners, struggling for freedom from their confines. Ankles, a girl's ankles.
His brow furrowed with the effort of trying to retain the elusive image in his mind. Yes they were indeed a girl's ankles and very elegant and graceful. He didn't know anymore than that. With a sigh he let the dream go. Nevertheless he found the fact that they were clearly a girl's ankles subtly disturbing. Although he would not have admitted it under pain of sever torture or ridicule. His fantasies had never run along such lines. Boys were what had filled his erotic dreams and caused the soiled sheets that were the inevitable effect of puberty. To have a girl's ankles invade his dreams was an intrusion of the worst kind. Had the dream been an erotic one? He could not tell for sure, almost all his dreams were in one way or another, this one was most likely the same, but why?
Tired he closed his eyes. Trying to redirect his thoughts, something more befitting his character, revenge on Potter and his gang was his usually choice. With happy thoughts of supreme triumph over the Golden Boy dwelling fermenting in his mind, he drifted in an out of sleep until finally leaving the realm of the conscious entirely.
***
It was probably early morning. No light could ever find its way into the Slytherin dorm so time became a habitual game of guesswork. Gentle snores still rose from the beds around his. Good, He was still alone just the way he liked it. Picking up his wand, which he always kept safely under his pillow, he waved it gently muttering a familiar light spell. When illuminated his watch read 'You still have 5 hours and 38 minuets before breakfast, so go back to bed.' One day he was going to have to get a less bossy watch, but for all it's faults his mother had given him this one and so he had felt obliged to keep it.
He had woken mysteriously minutes before with what seemed to be no external prompting. On moment he must have been fast asleep the next he had been lying eyes open staring up into the darkness around him feeling slightly disoriented. This had happened before. Not often, but enough for him to have found that after such strange awakenings sleep was an elusive and unsnareable beast.
There was noting for it. Pulling on a robe over his pajamas he slid out of bed his feet making contact with the cold stones of the dungeon floor. Damn but they were cold. He tiptoed to the door more to lessen contact with the floor than for stealth. His shoes were just inside the dorm were he had left them earlier. Slipping them on over bare feet, he eased open the door, making his way down the stairs and creeping though the common room, in short order found him self in the pitch-blackness of the dungeon halls.
Were to now, he asked himself. His broom was back in his dorm, and it was still to earlier in the year to put in any serious Quidditch practice. Despite the claims of diehard fans, Quidditch was a summer sport and should have been confined between autumn and spring. Winter Quidditch, though he was know to participate, was by no means to his taste.
The library was always a good option, but then he ran the risk of running into Filch, he had taken to prowling that area of the school ever since Potters little escapade in their second year. Just like him to go and ruin it for the rest of them. Not knowing exactly were the crotchety caretaker was headed Draco crept softly though the dungeons and into the main halls of the school. There were a couple portraits with which he tried to keep up relations, the portraits at Hogwarts were notoriously gossipy, so being on good terms with one or two had struck Draco as essential. It was form them that he got most of the inside scoops on what was happening in class or occasionally choice pieces of personal information with which he could harass his fellow students. So it was immoral, but there was nothing else to do in this god forsaken school.
One particular portrait was of a decidedly seamy variety, a boy in a be-plumed hat who's Flemish brushwork gave him a hearty windswept look. Handsome rogue. Draco could hardly stand the competition at times, but the picture was a great sport when it came to finding out what one wanted to know. Draco did not like to think about what he did with the other portraits to get such an extensive knowledge, but he figured he would likely be the least to mind being woken up at such an hour. His portrait was up in the gallery on the other side of the school in a comfortable corner by the stairs to the trophy room. Draco bent his steps in this direction.
The flights of stairs in this school were long and old and often creaked most terribly. On these nightly rambles he had established a game for himself, counting how far he could get with out prompting them to creek. After six years he had nearly memorized where to step on almost all the main staircases of the first and second floors. Having no form of protection from the powers that be, other than his own wits, this kind of practiced stealth was most useful.
8, 9 10… cree… Merlin! He had almost made it up the whole flight with out a sound. Draco had by now reached the hall in which his painted acquaintance resided, and quietly he slid towards the picture. The grossly over weight chamberlain on the adjacent wall was snoring soundly so there was nothing to fear.
"Sweet prince would it not please you to rise." He hissed at the sleeping picture. He had claimed to be the portrait of Edward VI, and thought Draco didn't believe a word of it, he none the less followed along with the portrait's pretence.
"By all that is blessed, it is the lad Draco, what brings you here at such a retched and uncouth hour?"
"Couldn't sleep." Draco glared, Edward was particle to calling him boy, despite the fact that if Edward was indeed the real king Draco was now a year older than him, This irked Draco. He had however long decided that Edward be he genuine of an imposter was too useful a tool to alienate and so he played along.
"Seeing as you have come preethy why not tarry and talk a bit, anon there are such things afoot now that would I am sure hold you in great rapture." The portrait's eyes slid surreptitiously to the door leading into the trophy room.
Draco really wished that Edward would give up the overly formal dialogue, which he knew the portrait was fully capable of, but it seemed that Edward was again in one of those moods, which meant that something of interest was happening.
"What is it" Draco asked managing to sound only slightly irritable at not being told straight away.
"Hark yea well!" Draco stopped for a moment, straining to hear anything but silence, then he heard it, a low pant, and a rustle. He tensed immediately.
"What is it?" he mouthed frantically to the portrait praying that it was not some teacher, and that they had not herd him talking.
"Look not so pale 'tis merely youth relishing the delights of May Day, though I own tis for sooth a trifle to early yet." Draco feared to know what this meant. But the portrait shot him a daring look, jutting his chin towards the door, which Draco now noticed, had been left open a crack. Taking a deep breath he slid across the room gathering up all his limited courage, preparing himself for the worst.
Again he caught a faint a squeak, as if something concealed were in pain. Harry prickled on the back of his neck and he felt cold. Despite the wool robe, his arms were covered in goose-pimples. He looked back at the portrait, and saw that it was laughing at him, shooting it a glare and a rude gesture he took the final step, grasping the door handle and pushing it as gently as a gust of wind.
And it slowly swung open.
***
Random Minion's Reviewing Made Easy
Merely copy and past the form below into the review box after checking the appropriate options, come on everybody you can do this, can't you… please!?
( ) This fic is great, write more! ( I am the generic reviewer! I have the power!)
( ) I don't need your dinky form I can make my own review!
( ) This was a very amusing fic.
( ) I love the part when (enter random part here)
( ) I HATED this fic because (enter random part here)
( ) I hate you, for I am a troll!
( ) I want Sex-God Draco back! (enter comment here about character portrayal, or not.)
( ) You suck!
( ) I really should be doing my homework… but I'm not. If I fail (enter class here) I'm holding you responsible!
( ) What the hell! You have written six thousand words and still nothing has happened!
( ) I hate cliffhangers : (
( ) Purple monkey dishwasher!
( ) Why is this a Draco/Hermione fic if he doesn't like girls?
( ) This fic is too slow! Can't you speed it up a bit?
( ) What is up with the ankles!?!!?
( ) My grapefruit rotted :'-(
( ) Who is this crazy picture?
( ) ED ROCKS! (we love ed, WE LOVE ED!)
( ) I can beta for you!
( ) Can you notify me when you update.
This version edited on March 23, 2004.