Drabble: Princess
Title : Princess
Author : Hellus Bellus
Rating : PG
Word Count : ~450, snippet/drabble
Summary : Draco would rather be at swordplay than his needlework.
Disclaimer : I do not own rights to Harry Potter or associated content. I plan to make exactly no money from this work of fiction.
Author's Note : A little drabble I whipped up the other night. Not posted anywhere but my journal. I just realized this story has not a single italicized word :0.
*
Draco has a nightmare that evening about being locked up in a tall, pointy tower off the West Wing of Malfoy Manor. A tower which, Draco knows, does not actually exist. He sits in the tower for days and days, staring listlessly out the small picture window at a golden countryside below. When he's not sighing and staring, he appears to be working on needlepoint. He never actually gets to see what it is he's embroidering, but he pricks his fingers often and hears himself say, in a voice that seems much higher than usual, “I wish I were at swordplay.”
The dream begins to make him nauseous when his father appears in the Tower, grabs him by the hair, and Apparates them to an altar where he is to marry a tall, faceless, fat man for, "The good of the Malfoy family."
The fat man kisses Draco, which is disgusting and tastes like smoke, and drags him down the aisle by the arm, through a tunnel of pale, freckled faces, all of which belong to gigantic, grinning gingers. The fat man shoves him inside a gorgeously outfitted black coach, and begins to molest him.
His tiny, ineffectual fists bounce off the fat man's stomach, and somehow, behind the man's greasy head, Lucius' face is hovering, egging the man on, eyes bright and smile blood-thirsty.
“Father!” Draco cries out, but Lucius can't hear him, or doesn't care. Draco is suddenly sure that he doesn't care.
Draco begins to hyperventilate when his arms are magically pinned against the velvet cushions. The fat man's face is descending on his when a searing pain erupts on his forearm, exactly like that time Draco was mauled by the hippogriff, only a million-million times worse. Draco screams into the fat man's mouth, but the man just laughs, pulling back to stare down into Draco's horrified eyes, his watery brown irises morphing into ruby oceans, his pug nose sinking down into his face. He leans back in.
At this point, Draco awakens, panting. His body feels damp, and he realizes his silk sheets are soaked through with sweat. A house elf pops into existence near his right elbow, but Draco ignores it, and soon it pops right back out. It's a full minute before Draco realizes he's clutching his left forearm, right where...well.
Draco vows to never read another Muggle novel again.
*
Author : Hellus Bellus
Rating : PG
Word Count : ~450, snippet/drabble
Summary : Draco would rather be at swordplay than his needlework.
Disclaimer : I do not own rights to Harry Potter or associated content. I plan to make exactly no money from this work of fiction.
Author's Note : A little drabble I whipped up the other night. Not posted anywhere but my journal. I just realized this story has not a single italicized word :0.
*
Draco has a nightmare that evening about being locked up in a tall, pointy tower off the West Wing of Malfoy Manor. A tower which, Draco knows, does not actually exist. He sits in the tower for days and days, staring listlessly out the small picture window at a golden countryside below. When he's not sighing and staring, he appears to be working on needlepoint. He never actually gets to see what it is he's embroidering, but he pricks his fingers often and hears himself say, in a voice that seems much higher than usual, “I wish I were at swordplay.”
The dream begins to make him nauseous when his father appears in the Tower, grabs him by the hair, and Apparates them to an altar where he is to marry a tall, faceless, fat man for, "The good of the Malfoy family."
The fat man kisses Draco, which is disgusting and tastes like smoke, and drags him down the aisle by the arm, through a tunnel of pale, freckled faces, all of which belong to gigantic, grinning gingers. The fat man shoves him inside a gorgeously outfitted black coach, and begins to molest him.
His tiny, ineffectual fists bounce off the fat man's stomach, and somehow, behind the man's greasy head, Lucius' face is hovering, egging the man on, eyes bright and smile blood-thirsty.
“Father!” Draco cries out, but Lucius can't hear him, or doesn't care. Draco is suddenly sure that he doesn't care.
Draco begins to hyperventilate when his arms are magically pinned against the velvet cushions. The fat man's face is descending on his when a searing pain erupts on his forearm, exactly like that time Draco was mauled by the hippogriff, only a million-million times worse. Draco screams into the fat man's mouth, but the man just laughs, pulling back to stare down into Draco's horrified eyes, his watery brown irises morphing into ruby oceans, his pug nose sinking down into his face. He leans back in.
At this point, Draco awakens, panting. His body feels damp, and he realizes his silk sheets are soaked through with sweat. A house elf pops into existence near his right elbow, but Draco ignores it, and soon it pops right back out. It's a full minute before Draco realizes he's clutching his left forearm, right where...well.
Draco vows to never read another Muggle novel again.
*