A/N: Just to let you know, I've already written this series, so that's why I'm just putting the chapters up so quickly. I can't write a good chapter in 5 minutes. (I can finish one, though. :)) So. Here's the third one. Only one left!
Dedication: To teh LJ Whores. (Same as always.) You rawk.
Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Harry Potter. Well, I own the books and a Gryffindor scarf and the soundtracks and some calenders, but I don t own the copyrights.

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

Prelude...

He didn't start wearing all black. He didn't walk around pouting and sulking. And for Merlin's sake did he NOT go around wearing blotches of kohl around his eyes and a black--oh, God forbid--beret. He wasn't an Angst Whore like an Angst Whore, just an Angst Whore like your typical Angst Whore. Confused much? So was Draco. He didn't know much of what he was; only that he liked being angsty.

It changed his lines.

DRACO: Come hither.

HARRY: I'm going to smack you.

Alright, so it wasn't really like that. But it was weird. And strange. And that was when Harry Potter began teaching Draco Malfoy a few new tricks of his own drama trade.

His life was a huge mess of angst and he didn't need any of it, Harry told Draco as he pushed him up against the wall, frantically messing with the striped green-and-silver tie. No more angst. Keep it to yourself. Keep writing your scenes and make them the way you want them to, but for fuck's sake, let's bottle up the angst. Let's pull out the sexual tension and let it coat the air. Because angst is for lovers, right? And we're not.

ACT ONE,

SCENE THREE:

The Drama Trade, According to Harry Potter

or

Angst, According to Draco Malfoy

SETTING: Everywhere you don't want to be

CHARACTERS: DRACO the playwright, HARRY

the muse/Amazing Angst Boy

Had you walked into his room at that 'era' (he still calls it that today), you would have found his side of the room littered (neatly) with an assortment of books–plays, to be more precise. Dramas, if you wanted to get specific, and tragedies, if you even wanted to go that far. He hid them artistically under robes and spellbooks, and even managed to accio a bit of stone off the floor in the corner so he could hide Romeo and Juliet, his worst guilty pleasure–er, research study.

It was confirmed: Draco Malfoy was curling up by the fire with a hot and naked Angst.

No, black was not the new black (it had always been). He did not start to use Pansy's eyeliner, or her musky perfume that smelled like dying forget-me-nots (God forbid). He did not take a leaf from Fleur's book and start wearing fluffy baby blue berets (Fluffy! Fluff!), and he did not walk around strutting his hips in strange ways. His outward appearance did not change in the slightest–it was his moods. And yes, he was still filthy in his words and evil in his gestures, but there was something about Draco Malfoy that left a few people unperturbed.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you depressingly before smirking, or how he made everything sound so startling and life-threatening. "Give me the goddamn butter," he would snarl, crooking his finger slightly, his eyes glinting. "Now." People raised their eyebrows but didn't say anything, because Draco Malfoy had weird phases and this was probably one of them, and when Draco heard this, he replied: "How dare you–I am not going through a phase. Phases are for Hufflepuffs...! Honestly!"

All of this, of course, did not get past Harry Potter, The Muse who Lived.

There was something different in the way Draco pushed him against walls and slowly snaked his tie off of the collar–it used to be a dirty thing and a smutty thing and a dangerous thing, like poison. It made him gasp because he didn't want to do it, wasn't supposed to be doing it, but was, and with Draco AngstWhoreDramaQueen Malfoy, nonetheless. But nowadays, it wasn't just sweat and sheen and slick superiority, it was sublime–

sublime adj : 1. Characterized by nobility; majestic.

a. Of high spiritual, moral, or intellectual worth.
b. Not to be excelled; supreme.

2. Inspiring awe; impressive.

Yes, it was all of those. It wasn't as if Harry didn't like it. Oh, he liked it, alright, in the way you liked but hated. Loved, but hated. But it was still a problem. Because Draco–Draco was kissing–Draco was touching–Draco was looking–like he was actually in love.

OhfortheloveofMerlin.

HARRY: /walking up to Draco in the hallway/ Malfoy.

DRACO: /turning away from where was looking/ What, Potter?

HARRY: /grabbing his arm/ We need to talk.

DRACO: /smirking/ Potter, that's my line. Don't steal all the dramatics.

HARRY: /pulling Draco into an empty classroom/ Really, Malfoy–we do.

DRACO: /puzzled/ Alright then Potter, let me go call of the siege. What's wrong with you?

At this point Harry wanted to be cliche, fierce, and hurtful all at the same time. He wanted to slap Malfoy across the face (ooh), shove his elbow into his solar plexus (oow), and maybe whisper a few words into his ear that were mean but cliched and expected–"You! You're my problem! You!". But Harry knew better. Actually, he knew a lot more than people thought.

Which was why he turned the tables a little, and settled not for 'cliche-but-useful', but for 'angsty-and-useful'.

Unfortunately, that was what Draco wanted.

HARRY: Look, Malfoy, I don't know what's gotten into you lately–

DRACO: /tugging on HARRY'S tie/ What, you mean...

HARRY: /jerking away/ Stop! See, this is exactly what I mean. What happened to you?

DRACO: Nothing happened to me, Potter, you're imagining things, don't–

HARRY: Me? Imagining things? Ha. /he snorts./ Don't make me laugh, Malfoy. I'm not the only one who watches you as you practically fucking waltz down the corridors. And how you tilt your head to the right whenever you talk. And how you gasp and do weird things with your eyes so it makes it look like you're in some kind of Shakespearean tragedy, or whatever–

DRACO: Really? Is that it?

HARRY: Yes! That's–

DRACO: Good. /he examines his nails./ I wanted to have that effect.

We pause for a moment of silent screaming. (Bang your head against the wall if you like, as well.)

HARRY: /angry/ Malfoy, are you for real?

DRACO: /slightly shocked/ Why, I do believe I am. Pinch me, I might be dreaming–

/And Harry does pinch Draco, hard, which is a shocking, crude, gesture, and it makes Draco squeal–like a girl–and it makes Harry retaliate quickly as if he has touched poison. The two look at each other. DRACO is amused no longer./

DRACO: /spitting/ What the fuck was that for, Potter! You bruised me! I'm delicate!

HARRY: /mumbling, not looking at Draco/ You were pissing me off.

DRACO: I didn't have a reason to, unless you count your breathing.

HARRY: /throwing his hands up in the air/ Tell me, Malfoy–what's your motif? What do you want? You slam me up against walls and kiss me like I'm the last guy–person–on earth, you run your hands over me like I'm silk or something, and yet you still treat me like shit. Like you've always treated me. Only lately–you've been doing it like you're some actor. You're so confusing!

DRACO: /rubbing his bruise/ I don't have to tell you, Potter.

HARRY: No, wait. /he points a finger in DRACO'S direction./ It doesn't have anything to do with this angst thing, does it?

DRACO: /defiant/ No, it does not!

HARRY: /angry again/ Oh, Merlin–it does!

DRACO: It does not, Potter–don't jump to conclusions.

HARRY: This isn't a conclusion, Malfoy. It's the truth.

/DRACO is silent, but there is a flush on his cheeks./

HARRY: /quietly/ Malfoy, let me tell you something. You don't know what angst is.

DRACO: /whining slightly/ Don't tell me what I don't know, I do too–

HARRY: No. Draco. You don't.

DRACO: /eyes open wide at the sound of his name/

HARRY: Look. You don't know what it is. You're a spoiled, rich brat, and the only definition of angst you know is making everything dramatic, so you can make all the girls cry. /DRACO looks away./ But you don't really know what it is, do you? /gives no pause/ You think it means, make everything a big deal. You think it means to add zing to something boring, to spice it up, to create violin music out of thin air.

/there is a pause./

HARRY: That's such a messed up definition, Malfoy. That's not what angst is. Angst is–angst is when you ache. Badly. Angst is when you want to crawl under the bed and stay there because it hurts too much. Angst is...angst isn't you, Malfoy, angst isn't upper crust-society, Pureblood-mania. It's–it's something you just don't understand. It's depression. It's sadness. What you did before–without this– /he gestures to the air/. That was okay. It was, uh, unresolved sexual, thingy.

DRACO: /muttering/ Tension.

HARRY: /shrugging/ Whatever. But, that's what it was. That was fine. That was okay. It wasn't different than us throwing punches at each other. But now? With you actually trying/shaking his head/ That's not you, Malfoy. You act like we're angsty, entwined soulmates. Lovers. /he laughs bitterly./ That's not us, Malfoy. Go back to the way you were. I have enough angst in my life. Trust me. I don't need any more from you.

/the two are silent. DRACO, still holding his bruise, runs a hand through his hair and turns around. His eyes are cold. HARRY steps back./

DRACO: You know, Potter, for someone who talks so much, you sure talk a lot of shit.

HARRY: /startled/ What–?

DRACO: /stepping forward, angry/ You talk like you know everything. 'Angst isn't you, Draco! Don't be angry! I'm just the Boy who Sodding Lived and I don't want anymore sadness! Oh, boo hoo! I want my mummy!' /he narrows his eyes./ Well, listen here, Potter. Maybe I'm not cut out for angst. But you're not cut out to tell me what to do.

HARRY: Draco–

DRACO: /walking towards the door/ And don't call me Draco.

/He opens the door, steps out, and swings it shut./

Act One, Scene Three ends here. It does not end because the play ends here. It does not end because Draco wants the reader sobbing and sighing in depression, mourning about the high amounts of unresolved sexual tension that was obviously doing dangers to both of their moods. Act One, Scene Three ends here for the sole reason that Draco found no reason to go on. He could have gone on; ranting and raving about how stupid and wrong Potter was–

–but what if he wasn't?

Malfoys hate being wrong, and Draco was experiencing the real feeling of angst at the moment. Had he known, we're sure he would have abandoned the title of Angst Whore in a second. Angst is not actinglike you have your own personal Smallest Violin-Violinist, or having a fresh supply of tears on demand. Angst is knowing that you're wrong–that he's right–that the words 'lovers–that's not us' could affect you more than you possibly thought–

DRACO: /mumbling/ And that you're not fucking liking it at all.

--

ACT ONE; SCENE THREE: -FIN-