A/N: Ack so I sort of lied again. I am going to my friends cottage this long weekend, therefore the final installment of this will be up Sunday when I get back, not Saturday as schedualed. Please don't hate me
Hello, My Name is Seamus and I'm a Slut-aholic . . .
Part 5/6 By Kelly M.
hermindkillsyahoo.ca
Bloody Finnigan and his bloody plaid boxers. It was amazing Draco had been able to write any notes at all during classes these last four days, what with his libido and his imagination teamed up to conspire against him. Potions was the worst. Through the whole class, Thomas was practically sitting in Finnigan's lap, who treated him with an indifferent air, then beamed widely over his shoulder at Draco when Thomas wasn't looking. It had driven him mad.
And now . . . now Finnigan had the nerve to wear a light blue sweater to dinner last night, looking with his newly spiked hair and bored stare every inch of unadulterated gorgeous. And Draco had done this all so another boy could have him. /This/ was exactly the reason why he never helped anyone. He was just bound to be screwed. Draco watched as Thomas inched closer to Finnigan. Or not screwed, to be more accurate.
'Helping other people only takes time away from helping yourself.' It was almost the Malfoy creed, right up there with 'Fluffy things must die,'and definitely something that had been instilled in him at birth and kept with him throughout his life so far. And so far it had been nothing but true. Had he not helped Finnigan, his and Thomas' relationship would have ended in a fiery crash involving yelling and petty squabbles which, as an uninvolved bystander, Draco could have thoroughly enjoyed. But no, he just /had/ to get involved/had/ to help, and all he ended up with was a very happy couple of Gryffindor twits and a barrage of x-rated mental images involving Finnigan and blue plaid boxers.
Draco seethed, watching Thomas laugh at something Finnigan said, touching his arm. That was the oldest trick in the book. He had to be stopped; Thomas didn't have a clue when it came to the Irish boy. Finnigan deserved someone better than that. Like Draco, for example. No, not Draco. What was wrong with him?
He did not like Finnigan. It was more a matter of principal, really. That was his gel in Finnigan's hair, his choice of clothing, his amused smirk. All that belonged to him. It was all incredibly simple, when you broke it down. That was his Finnigan.
Oh hell, he did not just think that.
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Seamus stretched in the dawning Saturday morning light. He was an early riser, despite the fact the rest of his roommates almost always slept well past eleven, which meant he generally grabbed his clothes and changed in the Gryffindor W.C. He definitely couldn't sleep on a day like this. Day six was just about to begin and his plan was working. Dean was paying more attention to him than he ever had, not to mention scores of tittering first years that blushed and nudged each other whenever he passed. Seamus felt very good, despite the fact he had to hide it behind indifferent stares and bored smirks.
Tomorrow they went to Hogsmeade, but today was a day to both lounge around, looking good, of course, and finish his schoolwork. Seamus liked getting it done in the morning, that way he could enjoy the rest of the day. He yawned, pulling a light blue t-shirt over his head. No way he was going down to the common bathroom in just his boxers, he'd just change in his bed. The t-shirt was a little tight, he hadn't worn it in about a year, but he supposed it would do. He paired it with some jeans and padded down the stairs to the common room in his sock feet, carrying his shoes.
The clock there read half past seven, almost time for breakfast. Running a gelled hand through his hair and giving himself a once over in the mirror, he decided he might as well head down, not that he was going to have to beat a rush. Generally himself, a second year Ravenclaw, and occasionally a sixth year Hufflepuff were the only students who attended the Saturday morning breakfast at this time.
It was a great surprise then, when he found Malfoy sitting at the Slytherin table as he entered, picking disinterestedly at a bowl of porridge. Grabbing a place setting and some toast from the Gryffindor table, Seamus crossed the hall and sat down across from him, receiving a disapproving glare from Snape. "Good morning sunshine."
Malfoy looked up from his massacred porridge, which, on Seamus' closer inspection, he wasn't really picking at. It was more of a sharp stabbing motion. Malfoy rolled his eyes at him, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement, "Good morning."
"And how are you on this wonderful Saturday morning?"
Another eye roll, "Clearly not as /chipper/ as you are."
"Clearly," Seamus teased, which brought a small smile from the Slytherin. "Everything is going magnificently with Dean, thanks to you."
The smile disappeared. "I'm sure you and Thomas will be very happy together," there was an edge to his voice as he drove the spoon back into the mushy greyish goop.
Seamus chose to ignore him, Malfoy just wasn't a morning person. He'd be happier once he woke up completely, he still looked pretty tired. "Hope so," he smiled brightly, spreading jam on his toast. "Dean's a really great guy."
"Yeah." Malfoy narrowed his eyes and resumed his attack on the porridge. "A really great guy who obviously still thinks you're a shameless flirt."
Seamus' stomach dropped, the toast in his mouth suddenly too dry to swallow. "What?"
"Look Finnigan, I know guys like Thomas. You noticed he's paying you more attention right?"
Seamus didn't like the way Malfoy made that sound like a bad thing. "Yeah?"
"And he started to pay you that attention just about the same time everybody else started to notice you too, didn't he?"
"I guess so but ..."
"But he still hasn't made a move, has he? Don't you see, Finnigan? It's because he thinks you're used goods – easy, so to speak. He can just step up and have you anytime his little heart desires because you're still nothing but a," Malfoy drawled lazily, lingering on the last word, "slut."
"But I'm not a slut." Seamus felt his chest tighten. "I'm not a slut, Malfoy." Malfoy just shrugged, staring intently at his breakfast, not meeting his eyes. His silence was infuriating. Seamus clenched his fists, his knuckles a throbbing white, "You don't know what your talking about. Dean doesn't think that about me anymore."
"You're an idiot if you believe that." Malfoy's voice was smug, almost taunting. Seamus could have almost swore he heard a slight falter in his tone, but was filled with far too much indignant rage to dwell on it.
"You're the idiot Malfoy; you can't recognize love when you see it."
Malfoy slammed his spoon down, the table shaking from the force. "Well, I'm done here. It was a /pleasure/ talking to you Finnigan." The anger in his voice was palpable. "Don't let it happen again." He stood and exited the Great Hall rapidly, leaving Seamus sitting at a table that wasn't even his own with a mushy bowl of oatmeal and a horrible feeling in his stomach.
It was stupid to think he and Malfoy were maybe going to become friends after the past week, in hindsight. But they'd had a lot of fun in the bathroom, and it was nice to have someone to talk to outside of Gryffindor. It was selfish of Seamus though, to expect something more from someone who had already helped him quite a bit. Heck, Malfoy had probably only done it to get Seamus off his back.
Besides, he had Dean now, Seamus didn't need Malfoy.
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Draco sat in the silent Slytherin common room, staring blankly at his Potions homework. Yeah, those random doodles of gel and checked boxers were doing him a lot of good now that he had to write a foot and a half of parchment on how to make a callus-dissolving potion. He supposed he could just 'borrow' Zabini's essay later.
His stomach grumbled loudly, and Draco wished he'd taken the porridge with him. Then again, he doubted his exit would have been nearly so dramatic with him carrying a bowl of greyish slop. Of course, he could've thrown it at Finnigan then and wiped that silly, ridiculously happy grin off his face. But he'd still be in the same breakfast-less predicament he was in now anyway, so he was glad he went with his first instinct.
Finnigan looked so /happy, disgustingly happy really. It just wasn't natural. Being that happy only set a person up to fall flat on their face into cold hard reality. "Dean's a really great guy." Draco laughed to himself. He'd love to be there the day Finnigan found out what a lie that was. Thomas barely made it to the mediocre guy category, and there was something that Draco didn't completely like about him. And it wasn't jealously.
Draco was not jealous, because he did not love Finnigan at all. Even remotely. Even as a friend. Even as an acquaintance. Even if there were the last two people on the earth. Draco loved black clothing and snide comments and messing with Potter's head. He did not Not NOT love Finnigan.
He just really liked him.
Damn . . .
