IDIOPHONE, PART I
By BUNNIEXTRAMSG
It's Potter, he thinks feverishly, that's it, that's the second thing that's been bothering him. Potter's the answer. It's been two months, or three, and Draco still hasn't caught an eye or hair of the dodgy bastard. It didn't bother him at first; au contraire, he smirked a lot, and haunted the hospital ward, waiting to make fun when Potter stumbled out with his body broken, no doubt after another of his rule-breaking adventures; but Madame Pompfrey waved him away too many times, and he eventually found himself replacing his looking for the violinists with looking for the unruly brown mop. Both were elusive and he would turn in class, feeling something itch out of the corner of his vision.
The bottle-glassed git had been absent from all of his classes and none of the professor batted an eye nor said anything to the class, as if everything was fine, as if the insidious castoffs of music wasn't slowly poisoning Draco, as if there wasn't this empty seat with Potter's shadow on it. And then, yesterday, he had caught Weasley's sleeve before class, and with his best sneer, said, "So where's your Potter, weasel? Ditched you and the Mudblood, has he? Not to mention, all his bloody classes?"
Oh, the weasel had shaken his hand off rudely and told him to leave him be unless he wanted a wand stuck up a very uncomfortable place, but after he made for his seat next to Hermione (and the empty space), all Malfoy could think about was how blank Weasley looked when he talked about Potter. Attention had been hard to pay that day.
He shivers. From the cold, of course, he tells himself. The hall after hours is cold, so he speeds his pacing. He should've brought out a wrapper, but he couldn't wait a moment to get out of the room, away from everyone acting like nothing was the matter. Crabbe and Goyle have been getting on his nerves with their loud snuffling and prancing around the room — alright, so they always have, lumbering around like blasted fools, but that was the dependable thing, wasn't it, the thing he could count on, not like this fucking. Stupid. Noise.
Potter must've put a spell on him, that's what. He must've gotten a vacation from defeating Voldemort and decided to have a little fun, after all, with spells, and now he was dodging his sights, because he knew Malfoy would figure it out and come after him, and to think, to think, he had had the nerve that last day to help pick up his books as if he was innocent. Merlin, he wouldn't be surprised if Potter had done something to the teachers as well—
He slams his fist against the wall. So he couldn't get away from it even if he tried, these damn violins. When has he ever asked for a bloody soundtrack? Okay, so maybe he did once, but that was in jest; that was murmured when half-soaked with his father's whiskey, knees banging against Ada's in the closet as he whispered what he thought were sultry things in her ear. And if he wanted a soundtrack, he'd want cool trumpets and jazzy marvel, not this pansy violin crap.
He slams his fist again, but lower, against the face of a portrait this time. He wants to be screamed at. He wants the paint to leap out of its gilded glass and beat him till he can't think. The lady with the bonnet delivers a weak sound of protest and waves a frilly umbrella at him.
"Shut up you bloody stain," he says, turning away and making for a random stairwell. The chorus ends, and a violin solo begins.
He hears the portrait gasp behind him as his feet clatter down the steps, one two three, pizzicato beat as he misses one and catches himself just barely. "Stain! My ruffles alone consist of 10,000 strokes of oil. I'll have you know that Porticelli himself would've died to..."