HP/Fight Club crossover
At the recommendation of fuyukodachi, I’ve started taking SAM-e, a nutritional supplement that’s been indicated to help fight mild depression. The difference has been almost immediate, and pronounced: the best way that I can describe it, is that it’s like the antithesis of a sleepless night. I feel energetic and stimulated, and eager to get into new things for the summer; it’s an incredible feeling. Among other things, I’ve been digging into the writing; the next HP chapter is about halfway done (usually, I’ll plot one out, then let it sit in note form for far too long). Also, I’ve been working on a teaser for a project I signed up for at omniocular far, far too long ago: a Harry Potter/Fight Club crossover. It’s been interesting, recasting Fight Club for the Harry Potter universe: for one thing, given the level of medical care in the HP universe- where even Tonks can heal a broken nose immediately- I rather doubt that cancer, testicular or otherwise, would be a particular problem for wizards. I’ve found a narrative hook for this that I find interesting; it’s been fun working it up, and more fun to actually be, you know, writing it. And so, a teaser I worked up last night.
*
For six months, I couldn’t sleep.
Father had been taken off to Azkaban as a result of some strange goings-on at the Ministry; he’d been taken away by Aurors, yelling wildly that he’d been put under the Imperius Curse, and it was all some sort of... I don’t know; he can tell it to the Dementors. He gets all weepy and upset when he’s called a Death Eater; I’m sure they’ll like that.
Mother, of course, grew insistent that we keep up appearances- represent the Malfoy family name after he was taken away. Silk robes; goblin-made silverware with a big “M” engraved in the handle; the finest foods. We’d sit in the finest restaurants on Diagon Alley, with people watching us out of the corners of their eyes, and she’d tell me to sit up straight, and hold my fork properly, and chew my food properly, and enunciate properly. Nothing catches the eye of the Ministry's Aurors like not looking one’s best.
When I got to Hogwarts, it was worse: the other students would smirk, and smile, and whisper whatever second-rate taunts their mummies and daddies taught them. I’d get into duels, but that never felt satisfying: two children waving bits of wood at each other, and shooting sparks or making stinking clouds. After you’ve seen your father dragged away screaming in the night by Aurors, schoolyard duels simply don’t quite cut it. Snape would hang in the background like the old auntie who’d watch over you in the park, always worried that ickle Draco was going to fall and break a perfectly manicured nail; he was going to teach me to be a better wizard, when he couldn’t even get his hair washed. Dumbledore was worse; he’d simply drift by in a swirl of robes, and make some sort of strange joke, and offer out lemon drops.
Merlin’s broken balls, but I wanted to piss on his lemon drops.
*
Finally, it started to get to me: being Draco the Perfect Scion at every family function, and Draco the Brilliant Student at Hogwarts, and... even with Auntie Severus nagging at me about how to dissect red cap livers or pickle hippogriff spleens, or walking me through my Potions assignments, I couldn’t sleep. The whole world was just one big social function, with everyone staring at you, and whispering, and you have to sit there with your hands folded perfectly, and pretend that you aren’t screaming... you get the idea. Fake, every bit of it.
I went to see Poppy Pomfrey, and at first, she just babbled about chewing valerian root and getting more exercise, as I wondered what would happen if I poured the contents of every single jar and bottle in her office into a cauldron, and made her drink it. Finally, she looked at me, then checked the door as though she was expecting Dumbledore to be standing there with his ear to a water glass; then, she whispered, “Actually, I’m not sure if I should be telling you this, given your, err, family history, but...”
It turned out that there was some sort of group of Hogwarts students meeting in the dungeons at night: Survivors of Death Eaters. They’d all get together, and cry about all the nasty, awful things that Voldemort did to their precious mummies and daddies, and then there’d be cookies. The room was silent the first time I walked in; I could feel a roomful of eyes staring at me. I barely remember what I said now; some rubbish about how my father had actually been framed, and how Voldemort had killed something precious in our family, and how I actually felt terrible about Lily and James Potter, and all of it...
Before I knew it, I was resting my face against Gregory Goyle’s shoulder, and we were sobbing together about just how awful it was to have this scourge on the family name, this legacy of horror- and then everyone was embracing us, and patting me on the back (mother would make me have those robes incinerated later, of course), and we were all one happy sobbing family. I'd hold them tight, and think my father probably killed your father. Babies don’t sleep this well. Chew your own damn valerian root, Pomfrey. I am the warm beating heart of the universe.
...until now. She’s sitting over there, smoking those atrocious Muggle cigarettes, and she’s ruining it for me. Pansy- more bloody flower names- Parkinson. All smug, and smiling, because her father was taken away by Death Eaters too, and the stories she tells aren’t any more true than my boo-hoo-hooing about my father. She knows she’s just as safe as I am; there could be Dark Marks floating over every wizarding house in England, and she’d just be sitting there, smoking her damned Muggle cigarettes. Filthy Mudblood.
*
“I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
We were outside by then; the Ministry’s last drones had scuttled off into the night, and no one was going to take notice of two schoolboys standing in a dirty Muggle alleyway. I looked over at Harry, staring back at me, and then I looked down at my hand. My perfectly manicured, unblemished hand. I remembered folding my hands, and fixing an appropriate smirk for the family portrait, not long before Father was taken away. The handsome young lord of the Malfoy line, able to trace his lineage back a whole twelve generations. (Unfortunately, most of my forebears didn’t tend to live long and happy lives; either they encountered unfortunate surprises involving the contents of the night’s goblet, or they would up experiencing the side effects of so much wizardly inbreeding- like Great-Uncle Aleric, who dribbled when he spoke, and slumped into his soup in the midst of an incomprehensible rant about trading with goblins. Ever seen a group of house-elves try to carry an incontinent old wizard? Not to be missed, I assure you.)
I looked at my hand, and watched, as it slowly curled into a fist. Perfect nails digging into perfect skin. I looked from it, to Harry, who was watching me, smirking the way he does when he thinks I won’t follow through on something. The thing about Muggle fisticuffs? For one thing, it’s always a shock the first time; your hand hurts afterward. For another thing, you tend to lose your balance, especially if you’re new to it. In my excitement, I shut my eyes in mid-swing; I staggered, and felt my hand glance off his head.
“Bloody hell- you hit me in the ear!”
“I.. I’m sorry, I...”
The bastard said something else then, and hit me in the stomach. Hard. For a moment, I was afraid that I was going to do something undignified, right there in that dirty Muggle alleyway. Harry leaned over, saying something, and I felt a rush of something strange and new, somewhere between anger and joy. Gryffindor bastard. Teacher’s pet. I made my perfect hand into a perfect fist, and aimed it right at those perfect green eyes of his. When he staggered back, I noticed two other students standing there, watching us, gaping like fish on a line. I smiled, and pushed myself to my feet. That’s how it really began.
*
*
For six months, I couldn’t sleep.
Father had been taken off to Azkaban as a result of some strange goings-on at the Ministry; he’d been taken away by Aurors, yelling wildly that he’d been put under the Imperius Curse, and it was all some sort of... I don’t know; he can tell it to the Dementors. He gets all weepy and upset when he’s called a Death Eater; I’m sure they’ll like that.
Mother, of course, grew insistent that we keep up appearances- represent the Malfoy family name after he was taken away. Silk robes; goblin-made silverware with a big “M” engraved in the handle; the finest foods. We’d sit in the finest restaurants on Diagon Alley, with people watching us out of the corners of their eyes, and she’d tell me to sit up straight, and hold my fork properly, and chew my food properly, and enunciate properly. Nothing catches the eye of the Ministry's Aurors like not looking one’s best.
When I got to Hogwarts, it was worse: the other students would smirk, and smile, and whisper whatever second-rate taunts their mummies and daddies taught them. I’d get into duels, but that never felt satisfying: two children waving bits of wood at each other, and shooting sparks or making stinking clouds. After you’ve seen your father dragged away screaming in the night by Aurors, schoolyard duels simply don’t quite cut it. Snape would hang in the background like the old auntie who’d watch over you in the park, always worried that ickle Draco was going to fall and break a perfectly manicured nail; he was going to teach me to be a better wizard, when he couldn’t even get his hair washed. Dumbledore was worse; he’d simply drift by in a swirl of robes, and make some sort of strange joke, and offer out lemon drops.
Merlin’s broken balls, but I wanted to piss on his lemon drops.
*
Finally, it started to get to me: being Draco the Perfect Scion at every family function, and Draco the Brilliant Student at Hogwarts, and... even with Auntie Severus nagging at me about how to dissect red cap livers or pickle hippogriff spleens, or walking me through my Potions assignments, I couldn’t sleep. The whole world was just one big social function, with everyone staring at you, and whispering, and you have to sit there with your hands folded perfectly, and pretend that you aren’t screaming... you get the idea. Fake, every bit of it.
I went to see Poppy Pomfrey, and at first, she just babbled about chewing valerian root and getting more exercise, as I wondered what would happen if I poured the contents of every single jar and bottle in her office into a cauldron, and made her drink it. Finally, she looked at me, then checked the door as though she was expecting Dumbledore to be standing there with his ear to a water glass; then, she whispered, “Actually, I’m not sure if I should be telling you this, given your, err, family history, but...”
It turned out that there was some sort of group of Hogwarts students meeting in the dungeons at night: Survivors of Death Eaters. They’d all get together, and cry about all the nasty, awful things that Voldemort did to their precious mummies and daddies, and then there’d be cookies. The room was silent the first time I walked in; I could feel a roomful of eyes staring at me. I barely remember what I said now; some rubbish about how my father had actually been framed, and how Voldemort had killed something precious in our family, and how I actually felt terrible about Lily and James Potter, and all of it...
Before I knew it, I was resting my face against Gregory Goyle’s shoulder, and we were sobbing together about just how awful it was to have this scourge on the family name, this legacy of horror- and then everyone was embracing us, and patting me on the back (mother would make me have those robes incinerated later, of course), and we were all one happy sobbing family. I'd hold them tight, and think my father probably killed your father. Babies don’t sleep this well. Chew your own damn valerian root, Pomfrey. I am the warm beating heart of the universe.
...until now. She’s sitting over there, smoking those atrocious Muggle cigarettes, and she’s ruining it for me. Pansy- more bloody flower names- Parkinson. All smug, and smiling, because her father was taken away by Death Eaters too, and the stories she tells aren’t any more true than my boo-hoo-hooing about my father. She knows she’s just as safe as I am; there could be Dark Marks floating over every wizarding house in England, and she’d just be sitting there, smoking her damned Muggle cigarettes. Filthy Mudblood.
*
“I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
We were outside by then; the Ministry’s last drones had scuttled off into the night, and no one was going to take notice of two schoolboys standing in a dirty Muggle alleyway. I looked over at Harry, staring back at me, and then I looked down at my hand. My perfectly manicured, unblemished hand. I remembered folding my hands, and fixing an appropriate smirk for the family portrait, not long before Father was taken away. The handsome young lord of the Malfoy line, able to trace his lineage back a whole twelve generations. (Unfortunately, most of my forebears didn’t tend to live long and happy lives; either they encountered unfortunate surprises involving the contents of the night’s goblet, or they would up experiencing the side effects of so much wizardly inbreeding- like Great-Uncle Aleric, who dribbled when he spoke, and slumped into his soup in the midst of an incomprehensible rant about trading with goblins. Ever seen a group of house-elves try to carry an incontinent old wizard? Not to be missed, I assure you.)
I looked at my hand, and watched, as it slowly curled into a fist. Perfect nails digging into perfect skin. I looked from it, to Harry, who was watching me, smirking the way he does when he thinks I won’t follow through on something. The thing about Muggle fisticuffs? For one thing, it’s always a shock the first time; your hand hurts afterward. For another thing, you tend to lose your balance, especially if you’re new to it. In my excitement, I shut my eyes in mid-swing; I staggered, and felt my hand glance off his head.
“Bloody hell- you hit me in the ear!”
“I.. I’m sorry, I...”
The bastard said something else then, and hit me in the stomach. Hard. For a moment, I was afraid that I was going to do something undignified, right there in that dirty Muggle alleyway. Harry leaned over, saying something, and I felt a rush of something strange and new, somewhere between anger and joy. Gryffindor bastard. Teacher’s pet. I made my perfect hand into a perfect fist, and aimed it right at those perfect green eyes of his. When he staggered back, I noticed two other students standing there, watching us, gaping like fish on a line. I smiled, and pushed myself to my feet. That’s how it really began.
*