-1So, in case someone hasn't noticed, I'm a HUGE Decemberists fan. Huge. I also love Harry Potter. So, I present to you yet another fic based on the lyrics of the Decemberists, and the characters of Harry Potter. (I'm so creative, I've taken characters I didn't make up and put them in situations I didn't create. Go me.) This one, however, IS a little more romantic. Enjoy.
To anyone else, you aren't at your best at the moment. Your hair is thick, dark, short, and rather tangled and mussed, and your nose turns up and is crinkled. Your limbs are sprawled in an unladylike fashion every which way. But you're an angel. Your hair is tangled because my hands have been thrusting into it as you brought me pleasure. Your nose is crinkled in half-sleeping confusion because I've just stolen a bit of blanket for myself. It isn't as though we're surrounded by the abundance we're both so used to. This is an ordinary apartment I've rented for the two of us in Muggle London. Being a Malfoy means that I can afford to have a place that isn't seedy and dangerous-- but it isn't what we're used to. But that's precisely why we come here, isn't? So that we don't have to be a Malfoy and a Parkinson, or the King And Queen Of Slytherin; We can be Draco and Pansy.
We've been having these little mini-breaks together for about a year now. Your family doesn't suspect. My family doesn't suspect. And when we go back to Hogwarts, no one will suspect it either. No one will think that the most shallow and callous couple, the children of Death eaters, there just spent two weeks in a one-bedroom living like Muggles. They won't know we've been making love and shooing away the pigeons on our windowsill that wake us. They won't have the faintest idea that you haven't been wearing make-up, and I've stopped putting products in my hair. They won't picture you curled in a chair in your plaid flannel pants, frowning in frustration at the daily cross-word while I cook fried eggs in my boxers without the aid of magic. You finally give up and flop your hand down in an overly-dramatic show of defeat, and I lay my own pale hand on yours and squeeze your fingers between mine. And while we're pulled out of our fantasies by the popping sound and the smell of the eggs burning horribly on the stove, you laugh at me, and pull me on top of you for a kiss. Soon you're kissing your way down my neck and your shirt is halfway up as my hands tease your little breasts. I'm not worried about neglecting the cooking-- it doesn't matter if they kitchen catches fire, I'm a wizard, I can handle it. It's drowning in pleasure I'm worried about today.
It's this sort of life that we know we can't keep. This is built of spoiled youth who doesn't know what life is like, and doesn't care to find out. This simple, sweet, charming life we lead in these few rooms is too good to be true. I sometimes wonder if you realize how much we contradict ourselves. We pretend, and we say that once we're of age and free of our families, we'll move into a flat just like this, maybe in some little wizarding village where we can wake up to the sound of birds and traffic, just like here. But I know what that really sounds like-- Weasleys. And we've both agreed that they're a disgrace. Granted, our children would be properly dressed and given nothing but the best, and there wouldn't be nearly as many of them... 3 maybe. Two boys and a girl, perhaps. I haven't thought of it much. Maybe the girl would have my blond hair and your blue eyes, and the boys would have your black hair and I could teach them how to ride a broom and play Quidditch. You'd teach the girl little charms and harmless hexes, and we'd find all our teacups turned into sparrows one morning. But, as I said, I haven't thought of it much. I just know I won't be a Weasley. I know because as much as we like to pretend we can live the simple life we want so badly, our families won't have it. We'll be lucky to even end up together. I give thanks every day that you're a pureblood from a good family and I won't have to worry too much. But we'll still have some enormous manor that we can't manage without house elves, and attend parties with people we hate, and perfectly polished and stiff wardrobes. Worst of all, most likely, separate rooms. If we're not both married off to someone else... no, I won't ever let that happen.
In just two more days, we'll go back to Hogwarts, to the Slytherin dorms. I'll brag about my holiday and all the expensive gifts I got. You'll turn your nose up and roll your eyes and make snide comments about every other girl who passes, while the select group behind you nods and giggles in agreement for fear of being the next victim. It won't be us. I'm dreading it.
But for now, I can just watch the moonlight get tangled up in your hair with my hands.