Disclaimer: Not mine.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR READERSHIP & REVIEWS.

Ch. 17: Day Nine, Part I: Perverts and Degenerates

No one could ever accuse Draco Malfoy of not being observant. He knew that something was amiss the moment he woke; indeed, his very first coherent thought was, what is wrong here?

Raising himself up on his elbows, he was a little surprised to realize that he could sense total awareness hovering on the periphery of thought, he could see it if he dared look at it. Even as he ventured to ignore it, it nagged at him, taunting him to peak at the hidden knowledge of transcendental memory. . .

A part of him was hesitant, knowing that he would hate what was there to be found; but still he barely hesitated. After all, Malfoys were firm disciples of their version of the ancient axiom, what you don't know most certainly can (and probably will) try to kill you.

So he looked –

And it was every bit as ugly as he had feared: that wretched Potter, alternate time-lines, hopelessness, magic addictions, terror, Azkaban, agony, muggles, sex with that wretched Potter, death. . .

It made him pause for a moment, a faint nausea rising distaste in his saliva, his mind driving back the sudden torrent of memories and crushing them into a solid-steel box to be stored unobtrusively. His skills in this department had served him well over the years and did not fail him now.

The memories were broken and confusing, but many were appalling enough to defy any misunderstanding. Draco had seen many horrors in his short life, but it was obvious that the situation was exceptionally sordid. Nevertheless, anything this messy must have some angle to play, and no Malfoy could ever be accused of passing on an opportunity.

Because that was the sort of Malfoy, wizard, human that he was: a dangerous mercenary, a man on the run, a wizard with no time or use for uncontrolled reactions. Of course, he preferred to think of himself (with some merit) as a visionary – for only he could see what was in plain sight, while others got caught up in millions of myriad details. But not him, he had priorities, and so it was time to soldier on. Whatever might come, well, he would do whatever was in his best interest.

He reached out and tapped his alarm clock before it went off. His actions would likely translate into Crabbe and Goyle not waking until the early-rising Zabini returned to pick up his satchel. They would probably be late for class, and even better, they would miss breakfast, which would torture both excruciatingly until lunch.

The blonde smirked to himself, twisting to sit up in bed. Fuck those arseholes.

Now that the seventh years were gone, his court was diminished and less engaging. He wanted to say he despised their presence even more now, but really he had always despised the company of his peers. Political maneuvering was necessary, of course, so clever tricks of mind allowed him achieve solitude amidst the many.

He showered and dressed quickly, fiercely gelling his hair back to look as intimidating as possible. "Aren't you a handsome devil?" he asked the mirror, executing routines even while only in the company of animate objects.

"Ooo, you do look good," Andy gushed. "Though I wish you wouldn't do that dreadful thing with your hair."

Draco left the bathroom without reaction, gathered his school bag from his room (where the porkers still slept), and climbed out of the cold dungeons. He passed through the arch to the Great Hall and glanced over at the Gryffindor table.

Potter was looking straight at him, as if he had been expecting him to make his entrance right then. His odd behavior all those days ago made sudden sense in the context of his new-

The thought cut out and Draco glared at the Gryffindor menace before he moved confidently towards his customary spot at the Slytherin table, then sat himself next to Zabini and the insufferable Pansy Parkinson.

"Hey, Grumpy." Guess who said that?

"Hmm," was all she got out of him as he began portioning out a hefty meal of eggs, sausage, and hashbrowns.

Zabini's plate had been polished off, and he quickly stood to leave. "Where are Crabbe and Goyle?"

Draco shrugged, but he let his smirk betray him as he eyeballed the weaker Slytherin. "Asleep would be my guess."

"Great, Malfoy," Zabini muttered flatly, taking his leave.

Breakfast proceeded to be an unpleasant affair. Draco was his usual pissy and dissatisfied self, on top of which the food was mediocre, Parkinson's presence was torment, and that Harry bloody Potter kept making suspicious eye contact with him at peculiar moments. It was actually a relief when it was time for Advance Charms, despite some of Flitwick's idiosyncrasies (that creaking voice!) being as intolerable as Parkinson's fawning.

Of course, Potter sat in front of him, reluctantly accompanied by his two suspicious monkeys, despite the fact that Draco sat in far corner where Flitwick mostly left him alone to pursue his own studies. The Slytherin retrieved a heavy book from his satchel and opened it, but his peripheral vision could detect Potter's darting gaze, and the mudblood's shifting attention. He was pretty sure the bespectacled prat wanted to talk to him, so the question remained, should be allow Potter the access or avoid him for the rest of the day?

As soon as the considered the dilemma, his path was obvious: Draco Malfoy itched for conflict, that was just the way he was, and he made a point of never going out of his way for anyone if he didn't have to. He freely admitted that the fact that the potential conflict was with Potter made the prospect all the more enticing. The Boy-Who-Lived had been off limits ever since that rotten deal had been made (talking about things that made him itch!), but he was tempted to taste such interaction. It brought a malevolent warmth to his gut.

Let the prick come if he wanted to.

! BREAK !

Ten minutes later, Crabbe and Goyle stumbled in, wrinkled and out of breath, and Flitwick ordered them to each write an extra foot on the night's homework assignment – the worse punishment to inflict upon two such utter simpletons. Draco snorted softly in amusement, not used to there being anyone sitting close enough to hear; but there was this time, and the entire Golden Trio turned their heads to glance back at him in surprise.

What the fuck are you staring at!

But Draco held his tongue. It never came naturally, but neither did he ever fail to follow by the deal Father had ordered him to establish – because doing so was in his best interests. Well, for the time being anyway, and wouldn't it be a glorious day when it finally wasn't in his best interests?

The Slytherin buckled down, focusing on his text and blocking out the noisy classroom and his distracting neighbors; getting lost in an old account of ancient strategy and battle. This tome, Havel Mackwood's Guide to Historical Warfare, was particularly intriguing, with its details of specific curses and practical outlines of complex maneuvers. Put to use, his single-minded intellect analyzed all the possibilities and projected them upon more current conditions. That move here, now. He'd have to use someone as a shield to execute that move, given the present classroom situation.

When Flitwick finally called an end to the double period, Draco slowly, meticulously packed his books and writing tools as the other students stampeded out of the room. Except, of course, for the Golden Trio – but it appeared that Potter was trying to get his two lackeys to go on without him. Flitwick left and then, calculated perfectly, Potter turned to face him at the exact moment that he moved to leave.

"Malfoy."

Their eyes met, and a rush of adrenaline chilled them both, prompting Draco to drawl, "Nothing for years, and now twice in a fortnight? Potter. . . are you missing me again?"

Potter scowled and Draco sneered maliciously before pushing past –

Predictably, Potter grabbed his arm, and that was all Draco had been waiting for. He used his trapped arm to shove Potter away, then twisted around and his free fist landed a punch on Potter's shoulder. He had been aiming for the nose, but Potter was a fast bugger, and a good fighter.

Potter scrambled away, looking wary now, as though he had forgotten who Draco was.

Nobody forgets Draco Malfoy, or who he is.

"It's not like that, D- Malfoy," Harry explained quickly. "Really, I just want to talk. It doesn't have to be this way."

By Draco's standards, this exchange had so far been the highlight of the day, and so he marshaled on. "Is that so, dickweed? And what manner of way do you envision exactly?"

"Well. . .," Potter stalled. "There's this situation that I would like to work out with you."

"Yes, you told me about it last time," the Sytherine deadpanned, sounding very uninterested and unimpressed despite the predatory squint in his glare.

"Yeah, well, I sorted most of it out, sort of," Potter defended.

Draco reacted violently and shoved Potter up against the wall. "You certainly managed to sort me out," he growled angrily.

"What do you mean?" he stammered, and Draco could see – see that Potter picked up on his insinuation, but was denying that interpretation.

His hands pinning Potter's arms to the wall, Draco leaned in close so that the warmth of their breath caressed each other's skin. It would have almost been erotic, had Potter not been so out of his depth, and had Draco's expression been one of absolute loathing.

"You didn't tell me you were a fudgepacker with a thing for me," Draco spat nastily, inches from the other boy's face.

If Potter had been under some misconception about their relationship before, he wasn't anymore, and he struggled and bucked out of the taller boy's grasp. Draco let him go, and he took a moment to collect himself before yelling back, "Fuck you, Malfoy. There's no way you could accuse me of that unless you remember the last few days! Because we never existed where I'm from, just as we don't exist here either. You're a real arsehole for pretending you don't know what I'm talking about!"

"You can't refute it, can you, Potter?" Draco growled dangerously, sending a visible shiver through the Gryffindor's body. Again, Draco pushed him against the way, and Harry let him; he roughly cups Harry's privates, making him moan.

"You're hard, you fucking nasty queer bastard," Draco said, voice dripping with disgust. Angered, and afraid that the intoxicating blonde would draw away, Harry reached forward and grabbed at Draco's trousers.

"So are you," Harry gritted furiously.

Draco slammed him back against the wall, this time using his whole body so that their grips fell away and torsos and pelvises mashed together violently. "Indeed, but I am a fiend, a pervert and a degenerate," he hissed dangerously. "I'm here 'cause I get off on degradation and suffering. What's your excuse?"

For long moments the warm air between them was tense and choked, Draco's words wounding deeply, mixing agony with anger so that Harry didn't know if he wanted to cry or kill; and, then, somewhere in this mess, the truth escaped. "Well I get off on you. . . And if that makes me a pervert and a degenerate, then so be it."

It was hard to admit, but it was undeniable. Harry Potter really liked Draco Malfoy, no matter the context or timeline, and this completely undermined any attempt at objectivity. The Slytherin drew back slightly, as though to reevaluate the situation given this inedible revelation. "Potter, you animal," he purred scathingly. "Why did you not speak of your carnal desires earlier?"

Harry's flushed complexion again adopted an angry scowl, though he didn't push the solid body away. "Screw you, Malfoy. Why's you always gotta act the arsehole?"

Excited, and pleased with himself, Draco whispered, "Because I'm good at it." The he closed the space between their faces and bit Harry's lips.

It hurt, and Harry immediately pushed back in objection, but he didn't break contact with the tantalizing lips. He bit back, then before he knew it Draco was the one pinned to the wall, lips and law and neck devoured by Harry's lonely, thirsty mouth. Both were panting, and Draco bucked into the dominating pressure –

Flashes of vertigo memory seared his mind, and the experience slipped almost seamlessly into a reenactment of a past blueprint. . . The thing with Potter, see, was a fantasy; one that substituted the cruel rapes by a feared yet still beloved family member, with imagined sexual encounters involving the tangible enemy-figure of Harry Potter. Merde, if survival didn't demanded constant and complete rationality, Draco'd be sorely tempted to descended into a temporary schizophrenia.

But Harry wasn't a complete fool and he was perfectly capable of recognizing patterns of behavior, despite his relative inexperience with sex and romance. Now pinning Draco's wrists to the wall, and nuzzling up to his soft earlobe, Harry whispered, "Why does it always come down to this?" He dug his hips painfully into Draco's body for emphasis. "I don't like hurting you."

In the throes of reenacting some past abuse, Draco responded poorly to Harry's break in character and forcefully shoved him away, fury, lust, and fear momentarily confounding his attempt at communication. "You don't get that! You monster-"

He cut himself off suddenly, though his words didn't really make sense even to himself, for he had realized immediately that he had opened himself to attack. He tried to backpedal, crossing his arms defensively and sneering contemptuously. "In fact, on second thought, I don't think you're going to get anything from me, except maybe a kick in the face."

Potter ignored the threat, realizing the implications of Draco's exclamation almost immediately, and pounced on that subconscious slip, replying boldly, nervous but astute, "A monster? That doesn't sound like me, are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else? . . . Your father perhaps? He's a monster if I recall."

Draco's mind raised every wall and defense to take the attack (though offense was more of his forte). He was able to stand stiffly, a disdainful expression frozen to his features, and the only sign of reaction the glassiness of his slightly-wider-than-normal eyes. But Potter wasn't done yet, and he took a couple steps so that they were again close. "I don't get that, Malfoy? Who gets it then? Daddy? Only Daddy gets to touch you gentle?" He reached out his wand hand and lightly traced his fingers along Draco's pale cheek.

Draco's throat released an involuntary whimper-growl that betrayed his inner pain, for Potter had known exactly where he was weakest, and had stabbed him there. How unexpectedly Slytherin, and that was Draco's own fault for underestimating the other boy. He knew the sort of ammunition Potter had on him, but he had stupidly and arrogantly walked right into a steaming pile of shite. Perhaps if he had spent years being bested by Potter he would have anticipated this, but this Draco Malfoy could count the number of interactions he had personally had with Harry Potter on one hand.

But these peripheral thoughts barely registered, for Draco's bio-emotional makeup developed to protect against this sort of vulnerability – whenever it felt pain that it didn't like, it reflexively sent an adrenaline jolt of energizing hate through him.

Draco jerked his knee up as forcefully as he could, nailing Potter in the gonads.

Harry cried out and fell to the floor, his head nearly missing a table corner, then gasps for the breath to cuss out the dirty fucker! "Malfoy, you motherfucking asshole," he moans. "You shitty fucking bastard. I'm not done with you yet."

Draco sneered. "Then next time it'll be a knife instead of my knee."

He left briskly, and Harry moved to follow, before common sense told him to stop. He was in serious pain, and he was really angry, not to mention that Malfoy was in an extremely foul mood: now would probably be the worst moment possible to try to convince Malfoy of anything. Instead, he sat down at a desk to catch his breath and calm down. The class he had skipped was almost over and lunch would be soon.

He'd try again later.

! BREAK !

Draco skipped lunch to go running. He was feeling angry and aggressive and really wanted to beat the crap out of something. Being a prefect made it difficult to beat the crap out of students, and Hogwarts seriously lacked in the area of weight sets and punching bags – both old reliables at the bloodcurdling Malfoy Manor.

So running was the best there was. Sometimes flying was more appropriate, when he needed to feel the wind in his hair, but Draco usually preferred the raw physicality of really running; of sprinting, dashing, racing until his legs gave out and his lungs flamed, gasping for breath as his insides ached; of bending inertia and fighting gravity, of fighting the bodily exhaustion. He had gotten very good at it over the years, and was not overconfident in thinking that he was the fastest student at the school. Hogwarts types didn't think too much of running; even the oddballs who played football on the Quidditch field didn't run half as much as Draco did.

Running helped a little. By the time the lunch break ended, he had sweated and strained out most of the energy fueling his rage, though he was still in a rotten mood. He changed his shoes back and replaced his robe, muttering two spells – one to evaporate the sweat from his person, and the other to straighten his clothes and hair – then walked briskly to AA.

The solitude and relative quiet of Advanced Arithmany afforded him some ability to get lost in his studies, though he did spend a good ten minutes drawing a colorful depiction of him strangling Potter. Still, he had almost managed to block out the whole Potter fiasco by the time he encountered the menace again at Ad Trans.

Draco studiously ignored the Gryffindor's glances his way, made despite the fact that again Draco was situated at the back corner of the class, left mostly to his own devices. His grades rivaled Hermione Granger's (though his conduct was in polar opposition to her brownnosing participation), so the professors let him be. A live-and-let-live policy was best for all involved.

At least until the War drags into the school, and the killing begins.

! END OF CHAPTER !

I really enjoyed writing this chapter, bad guy Malfoy is my fav, so more bad moods next chapter! Sorry I am so slow, as always, but school is revving up for Exam Season, so it's not going to get any better. The next chapter is, however, on its way if you can bare with me. PLEASE REVIEW, it will help push me to write!