Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, so does Hogwarts, but
the stuff written is the by-product of my mind and my obsession with Draco
Malfoy.
Please review, or I won't post more, ever. If I get at least three decent reviews tonight, I'll post more tonight. Don't be too mean. It'll hurt my non-fragile, non-existent ego.
---------------- He lay in his bed his eyes closed. He didn't want to get up just yet. He didn't want to face the world. The endless pressure from everybody. The ringing of his alarm clock was grating on his nerves, though. Sighing, he opened his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Standing up, he noticed that all his dorm-mates had already had gotten up. He pulled on some pants and a shirt, and a slightly wrinkled robe, the Gryffindor crest's lion staring up at him accusingly. "What are you looking at?" he bellowed at the embroidered golden lion, lately it seemed that everybody had been grating on his nerves, even objects seemed to be against him. Harry felt the stone floor slowly numbing his feet, so he started on the search for his shoes. Recently, he seemed to be so tired that each evening's hours were not imprinted on his memory. Finally finding them, he pulled them on, trying to make his feet as small as possible so that the pressure his too-small shoes applied on his feet wouldn't be too painful. Oddly enough, Harry had stopped thinking about how to evade pain, but more so how to decrease it, for in his life it seemed improbable, even impossible to totally escape pain. Stumbling sleepily to the bathroom, he stared at his image. He was lean, tall, and toned, with bright green wyes and horrible, untidy black hair. His pale face wasn't tanned; no matter how many hours he played Quidditch. Personally, he didn't understand how anybody, least of all Hermione, could find him attractive. It was obvious he would never grow into it, for it was his seventh year at Hogwarts and he was reaching adulthood, and there was no time to be come dashingly beautiful. Splashing his face, with cold water, it stung him with surprise, for in all his years at Hogwarts he could never get used to the early-morning cold water, for the founders thought it would wake the students up, therefore morning water was constantly on the verge of freezing. Vainly trying to comb his hair into something a bit presentable, he thought about Hermione. They now were going steady, as was expected, the perfect boy matched with the perfect girl. Perfection was them, their very being was supposed to be filled with it. After nearly one and a half years of it, it was annoying him, for he could not, and did not like Hermione. Though, once Harry thought about it, his opinion didn't really matter, his job was merely to do what everybody expected of him.
Surprised, he found himself already sitting by Hermione by the breakfast table, their fingers intertwined, which was, as everything else, annoying him, for he couldn't use his right hand, and he was right handed and his left hand was rather clumsy at holding the fork. Harry was also talking non- chalantly to Ron about Quidditch, his responses quite bland. "...And the he did the Wronsky-Feint! Can you believe that? It was incredible!" Ron's extremely emotional voice raised itself above the general murmur of voices in the Great Hall.
"Incredible," Harry agreed, trying helplessly to free his hand from the clutch of his girlfriend's to wipe the flecks of spit from Ron's mouth of his face, but gave up, dropping his fork with a clatter, to wipe it with the sleeve of his left arm.
"Well, it seems that Potter still hasn't learned proper table manners! Didn't his dear, old mum ever teach him to use a napkin?" Draco's sarcastic voice filled the air, and paused, as Draco surveyed the predictable, furious look on Potter's face, it was so cute to see his eyes light up with anger like that, glowing like emeralds, "But, wait...I forgot, our tragic hero lost his mum and dad at a tender young age of two."
"Bug off, Malfoy," Harry replied, his voice weary, his eyes closing from rapture, that the scent of Draco was causing. It was toxic, dangerous yet so alluring, yet forbidden and unthought of.
With an expression of fake, utter disbelief, Draco raised his voice so that its malicious tones carried throughout the Great Hall, for even though the staff was busy elsewhere, many students lingered here, "Alert the papers, the Daily Prophet, at once! Harry Potter is proved to be weary of his duties as Golden Boy! Simply amazing! It must be made front page news at once!" The hall was filled with sniggers and laughter from many in whose mind the articles that degraded "The Boy Who Lived" still lingered in their minds.
"Malfoy! I swear you, you...filthy, low-life, mud-scum insult my Harry once more, I'll..." Hermione declared in shrill tones, before, the mentioned "mud- scum" cut her short.
"Kill me? With what? Avada krevada? Please, you jump at the very words themselves. Though one can't expect more," he replied, shaking his head with sarcastic gravity, "From a mudblood, who can never be proficient in magic because of her humble and rather a bit more low-life beginnings that some were accused of being, mainly myself being the hurt party."
Ron jumped at him, but was not aided and abetted by Harry, instead, Harry stood between the attacker and the 'attackee'.
"Don't bother, Weasely, you'll never win, "the words were cutting, and if one's eyes were deceiving, could have been Malfoy's, but instead were emitted from Harry Potter, friend and staunch supporter of Ron Weasley, with whom he was on first name terms since the first day on the train. Ron gaped at him, in shock, from which he recovered be a surge of anger that caused him to storm away.
"Harry, please, don't. Come with me, tell me what's wrong," Hermione pleaded, for she saw that Harry had had enough of something and was close to breaking point, tears glistened in her eyes, as her hand stretched to Harry's, groping for his hand, as if in the dark.
Harry stood there, battling his attraction, his urge to grab Malfoy's arse and kiss him, probing into him, feeling his body close to his. But he was Harry Potter. And he couldn't do that. Battling with the little strength he had, he won over his feelings, and reached Hermione's hand, trembling as if in rage, bur really in by-product of his inner battle. Grasping her hand harder, he led her towards the large, carved doors of the Great Hall.
Please review, or I won't post more, ever. If I get at least three decent reviews tonight, I'll post more tonight. Don't be too mean. It'll hurt my non-fragile, non-existent ego.
---------------- He lay in his bed his eyes closed. He didn't want to get up just yet. He didn't want to face the world. The endless pressure from everybody. The ringing of his alarm clock was grating on his nerves, though. Sighing, he opened his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Standing up, he noticed that all his dorm-mates had already had gotten up. He pulled on some pants and a shirt, and a slightly wrinkled robe, the Gryffindor crest's lion staring up at him accusingly. "What are you looking at?" he bellowed at the embroidered golden lion, lately it seemed that everybody had been grating on his nerves, even objects seemed to be against him. Harry felt the stone floor slowly numbing his feet, so he started on the search for his shoes. Recently, he seemed to be so tired that each evening's hours were not imprinted on his memory. Finally finding them, he pulled them on, trying to make his feet as small as possible so that the pressure his too-small shoes applied on his feet wouldn't be too painful. Oddly enough, Harry had stopped thinking about how to evade pain, but more so how to decrease it, for in his life it seemed improbable, even impossible to totally escape pain. Stumbling sleepily to the bathroom, he stared at his image. He was lean, tall, and toned, with bright green wyes and horrible, untidy black hair. His pale face wasn't tanned; no matter how many hours he played Quidditch. Personally, he didn't understand how anybody, least of all Hermione, could find him attractive. It was obvious he would never grow into it, for it was his seventh year at Hogwarts and he was reaching adulthood, and there was no time to be come dashingly beautiful. Splashing his face, with cold water, it stung him with surprise, for in all his years at Hogwarts he could never get used to the early-morning cold water, for the founders thought it would wake the students up, therefore morning water was constantly on the verge of freezing. Vainly trying to comb his hair into something a bit presentable, he thought about Hermione. They now were going steady, as was expected, the perfect boy matched with the perfect girl. Perfection was them, their very being was supposed to be filled with it. After nearly one and a half years of it, it was annoying him, for he could not, and did not like Hermione. Though, once Harry thought about it, his opinion didn't really matter, his job was merely to do what everybody expected of him.
Surprised, he found himself already sitting by Hermione by the breakfast table, their fingers intertwined, which was, as everything else, annoying him, for he couldn't use his right hand, and he was right handed and his left hand was rather clumsy at holding the fork. Harry was also talking non- chalantly to Ron about Quidditch, his responses quite bland. "...And the he did the Wronsky-Feint! Can you believe that? It was incredible!" Ron's extremely emotional voice raised itself above the general murmur of voices in the Great Hall.
"Incredible," Harry agreed, trying helplessly to free his hand from the clutch of his girlfriend's to wipe the flecks of spit from Ron's mouth of his face, but gave up, dropping his fork with a clatter, to wipe it with the sleeve of his left arm.
"Well, it seems that Potter still hasn't learned proper table manners! Didn't his dear, old mum ever teach him to use a napkin?" Draco's sarcastic voice filled the air, and paused, as Draco surveyed the predictable, furious look on Potter's face, it was so cute to see his eyes light up with anger like that, glowing like emeralds, "But, wait...I forgot, our tragic hero lost his mum and dad at a tender young age of two."
"Bug off, Malfoy," Harry replied, his voice weary, his eyes closing from rapture, that the scent of Draco was causing. It was toxic, dangerous yet so alluring, yet forbidden and unthought of.
With an expression of fake, utter disbelief, Draco raised his voice so that its malicious tones carried throughout the Great Hall, for even though the staff was busy elsewhere, many students lingered here, "Alert the papers, the Daily Prophet, at once! Harry Potter is proved to be weary of his duties as Golden Boy! Simply amazing! It must be made front page news at once!" The hall was filled with sniggers and laughter from many in whose mind the articles that degraded "The Boy Who Lived" still lingered in their minds.
"Malfoy! I swear you, you...filthy, low-life, mud-scum insult my Harry once more, I'll..." Hermione declared in shrill tones, before, the mentioned "mud- scum" cut her short.
"Kill me? With what? Avada krevada? Please, you jump at the very words themselves. Though one can't expect more," he replied, shaking his head with sarcastic gravity, "From a mudblood, who can never be proficient in magic because of her humble and rather a bit more low-life beginnings that some were accused of being, mainly myself being the hurt party."
Ron jumped at him, but was not aided and abetted by Harry, instead, Harry stood between the attacker and the 'attackee'.
"Don't bother, Weasely, you'll never win, "the words were cutting, and if one's eyes were deceiving, could have been Malfoy's, but instead were emitted from Harry Potter, friend and staunch supporter of Ron Weasley, with whom he was on first name terms since the first day on the train. Ron gaped at him, in shock, from which he recovered be a surge of anger that caused him to storm away.
"Harry, please, don't. Come with me, tell me what's wrong," Hermione pleaded, for she saw that Harry had had enough of something and was close to breaking point, tears glistened in her eyes, as her hand stretched to Harry's, groping for his hand, as if in the dark.
Harry stood there, battling his attraction, his urge to grab Malfoy's arse and kiss him, probing into him, feeling his body close to his. But he was Harry Potter. And he couldn't do that. Battling with the little strength he had, he won over his feelings, and reached Hermione's hand, trembling as if in rage, bur really in by-product of his inner battle. Grasping her hand harder, he led her towards the large, carved doors of the Great Hall.