Title: An Elf's Lament

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2,296

Pairing: H/D + others

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize belongs to me, including but not limited to the concept of elves as Santa's helpers.

Notes: Thanks to the encouragement of my wonderful reviewers, as well as an inability to stop thinking about how I should continue this, the next chapter is out in record time XD Thanks to everyone who reviewed or added me to their favorites or alerts! Please continue to tell me your opinion on the (surprisingly serious direction) that this is going in! =)

*

Draco Malfoy had spent over six years observing Harry Potter. When one's childhood hero turns out to be an arrogant, insufferable prat, there's really nothing left that one can do but observe. And, of course, mock and torture the little bastard until he begs for mercy.

Frustratingly enough, Potter never begged for mercy. Not from Draco, not from Snape, not from that red-eyed snake man who kept following him around as if Harry held the secret to immortality. Which was stupid, because obviously Voldemort himself had possessed the secret or some approximation of it, and if he had stopped trying to kill Muggles and little boy heroes, he would still be alive. And maybe less repulsive looking.

Being rather more cunning than that Heir of Slytherin, Draco had done his research a little more carefully than both Snape and Voldemort. If he was going to beat Potter, if he was going to take revenge for that slight on the train all those years back, he had to know his enemy. So he observed Potter, with a single-mindedness that had taken over his mind until all he could see was Harry, everywhere he looked. In the Great Hall at breakfast, bending over the cauldron in Potions, shuffling through the halls looking despondent and mopey during break time. He had Harry Potter on the brain, and he couldn't stand that he was one of many, one of the numerous members of the Harry Potter Fanclub, though opposite of it. The Harry Potter Hateclub, then. Potter was too popular; he had too many friends and too many enemies and too many people noticing him all the time. Draco did not like to be overlooked.

And Draco was good at getting attention. He craved it, lusted after it. His impressions of Harry during mealtimes, his cutting comments about Harry's parents or past or fame, his false stories for the media, his sabotages during class – Draco Malfoy got Harry Potter's attention. He basked in his hatred, in his glares and insults. He was Harry's worst enemy, and that made him something. He wasn't just one of many – he was the one.

Until Voldemort showed up. That Dark Delusional Lord had an advantage – he had killed Harry's parents. No one could deserve Potter's loathing more than that shell of a man. Draco could literally feel the absence of Harry's hatred, a chill that rushed across his skin and took away the warmth of his burning gaze. Draco was sensitive; he didn't like the cold.

Even when Harry's glare settled back upon his skin, it was a shadow of its former self. Harry hated him as a suspected minion of Voldemort; Draco was no longer his worst enemy, but a symbol of his ultimate hatred. Harry's gaze went right through him, leaving Draco's insides as cold as ice.

Draco Malfoy did not take well to dismissal.

He would get Harry's attention back, he decided. He would become the number one again.

It was with that attitude that Draco Malfoy went home the summer after his fifth year. It was with that attitude that his father found him went he arrived fresh out of Azkaban. It was with that attitude that he saw his father crawl on his knees and beg for mercy from his master.

Harry had never crawled for anyone.

Harry had never begged for mercy.

And Draco would be damned if he would be less than Harry fucking Potter.

And it was with that attitude that Draco ran away, to the protection of Hogwarts, to a place where he could escape all that he would become if he stayed. He escaped his father's anger; anger that would have killed him, either by his father's hand or his own. He ran from that realization – his father would rather kill him than be shamed by his actions.

He ran from it, but he didn't manage to escape. Hogwarts wasn't far enough.

It was way too close.

*

Harry supposed that most dates were not supposed to be like this; but then, Harry was not most people. He thought the date was going exceedingly well, actually.

After Malfoy had given the cakes in front of him an intensely disgusted look (they had been Hector's idea, and Harry hadn't been able to convince the deranged elf that attack by cake was a bad idea), the blond man had promptly stormed out of the shop. The waitresses all looked dismayed; Harry had explained earlier that it was his and Draco's first date, and they had been so excited to help.

He reassured them quickly that this was just how he had expected it to go and hurried after Malfoy. He knew Hector had arrived in time to eat the cakes by the chorus of surprised voices that followed him out the door.

He caught up with Malfoy outside of the Leaky Cauldron. The blond man dawdling along, but either because of the after effects of the potion, or because he wanted to appear cool and collected, he wasn't rushing.

Harry grabbed his upper arm and hung on tight. Malfoy struggled for a moment, but the other man was strong, and so, frustrated by his inability to get free, he turned around suddenly and gave Harry a haughty look.

"Excuse me," he said politely, "but I do believe our date has ended. For someone who claims to observe my eating habits quite closely, you seemed to have missed the fact that I abhor both cake and the color pink. It seems we are ill-matched."

Harry grinned a bit. "I knew that, actually. The cake wasn't my idea. The pink was, though," he added thoughtfully. "I never claimed to know your favorite colors."

"Not your idea? Then whose idea was it?" Malfoy asked suspiciously. "If you've recruited the Weasel to help you in your seduction, you're even stupider than I thought."

Harry noticed he didn't mention Hermione. Malfoy and Hermione had struck up a sort of truce during sixth year; she was doing research on spells that would be most effective against dark magic and had somehow recruited him. "It's only natural; he does know the most about that sort of thing," she had claimed. Hermione forgave people easily. It seemed to Harry that Malfoy had been won over just as easily by Hermione's obvious desire for his knowledge.

Of course, the other reason he didn't mention her was that no one who had met Hermione would ever think she could be silly enough to try to win a boy's heart with mini pink cakes that spelled out a childish rhyme.

Harry wished people could say the same of him, but it couldn't be helped now. Damn that elf.

"It wasn't Ron," Harry returned mildly. "Do you really think he'd give me advice, even bad advice, on how to seduce you?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes at him. "Tell me, Potter, why the sudden urge to win me over? We've had a truce going on for over a year now; are you really bored enough to break it?"

"Bored?" Harry echoed. It was like Malfoy could read his thoughts. "I supposed that's it. I'm bored. So now I'm seducing you."

"I didn't know you swung that way, Potter."

Harry made a noncommittal noise. Truth was, he didn't really know if he did either.

"How do you know I swing that way?"

"I don't." But surely Santa Claus and Dumbledore did.

That was a disturbing thought. Two old men with huge white beards might know more about Malfoy's sexual orientation than Malfoy himself.

Harry cut off his train of thought before his mind could come up with an image of a threesome situation in which they teach Malfoy just exactly how gay he could…

Could you bleach your own mind? Harry wondered.

"Potter, you look as if you just caught Flitwick, McGonagall, and Mrs. Norris doing the dirty in the broom closet." Harry could not believe Malfoy was adding to his mental image. He might have just thrown up in his mouth a little. "If you're so disgusted by the thought of me, why the hell are you trying to date me?" Malfoy rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed at the utter stupidity that made up Harry Potter's brain.

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "That's not it! There's just – there was that image of Dumbledore, and then Mrs. Norris, and the North Pole is so cold you'd have to huddle for wamrth…"

Malfoy stared at him as if he'd gone mad. Harry wasn't sure how far that was from the truth.

He shook his head a little as if he could banish the images haunting his brain that way. "Look, Malfoy. I'm not disgusted by you –" And he wasn't, to his surprise. "And I am going to seduce you, whether you like it or not. So let's go."

And with that, Harry grabbed the blond's wrist and dragged him over to the Leaky Cauldron.

*

It came as a surprise to Draco that Harry Potter could actually hold his drink.

He had been dragged – against his will! – into the Leaky Cauldron and forced into a booth towards the back by Harry. The dark haired boy had tried to order Butterbeers for them, but one glance at Draco's face had him stuttering to change the order to two Firewhiskeys.

The stutter, and the blush that had followed it, had reassured Draco that even if Harry had seemed somewhat in control of the situation outside – though obviously nuts; what about the North Pole and Dumbledore? – the boy was not quite as sure of himself as he had first appeared. Seduction was most definitely not his forte.

It was a Friday night, and the Leaky Cauldron had music and dancing on Fridays. The pounding bass was a comforting throb in Draco's head, helping to keep his head focused as the whiskey burned through his system. Though it was not a Hogsmeade weekend, the war had loosened up the rules for Hogwarts' seventh years. After all they had been through at sixteen, who was going to begrudge them a little entertainment and alcohol?

Before Draco could sink too far into those little visited thoughts, Harry stumbled back to the table with two glasses of amber-colored liquid. Their fourth or fifth round, at least. Draco took one with a nod of thanks and sipped it, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. He smiled faintly at the glass.

When he looked up again, Harry was watching him intently. Staring, more like it. Really, where were the boy's manners? Lost with his social skills, it seemed.

"What?" Draco snapped, irritated and uncomfortable.

Harry started, shaking his head a bit as if to clear it. "Nothing, I –" He stopped, looking confused. "I'm seducing you." His voice held a note of doubt.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Saying it over and over again doesn't make it true, Potter. You're not doing a bang up job of it."

That got to him; the boy wonder never could admit defeat. Over cheeks bright red with drink and embarrassment Harry's eyes narrowed. Draco experienced a moment of panic – that determined look never ended well for him.

"Then let's dance!"

Not a moment seemed to pass before Draco found himself on the dance floor, pushed close against the other boy by the crowd around them. He wondered if the drink was getting to him after all, but the bass distracted him and he couldn't bring himself to care. That fuzzy feeling that came with the right amount of alcohol was fogging up his brain, and he grabbed onto Harry to keep from falling, though he soon realized Harry was even less steady on his feet. Gripping each other tightly on the waist and shoulders, they swayed from side to side, guided by the beat more than anything else.

"Draco."

That determined look was still on Harry's face when Draco looked at him, and Draco wondered what else the brunet would do that Draco would be completely unable to stop. Somehow Harry always won.

Draco wouldn't lose. He had proven himself.

He hadn't begged for mercy, even from his own father.

Draco couldn't tear his eyes away from those bright green orbs that seemed to see into his soul. Into it, not through it.

So this is what it felt like to have all of Harry's attention completely to himself, Draco thought absently, and he wondered if the warmth he felt was just from the alcohol.

Harry opened his mouth to say something further, and then kept it hanging open, his eyes leaving Draco's to stare at something right over Draco's head.

Draco looked up.

Mistletoe.

What the hell was mistletoe doing hanging above his head in the middle of a bar? It wasn't even attached to anything; it was just hanging there!

Outraged, Draco turned to glare at Potter.

"What a dirty trick," he spat. "Getting me drunk and attacking me with mistletoe? I thought you were too pure for that."

Harry's mouth opened and closed for a few moments, until he managed, "We don't have to kiss or anything! I swear, this wasn't me. I'm just as shocked as you are."

Didn't have to kiss? "When are you going to realize you live in a world of magic? Of course we have to kiss! If we don't, the urge to do so will become stronger and stronger until we end up fucking like bunnies in a hallway somewhere!" The anger had cleared Draco's head, but he couldn't decide what to do. He didn't want to kiss Harry here, in front of all these people, but he couldn't risk the consequences of running.

Then again, he was good at running. He'd had a lot of experience with it.

So he took off.