(no subject)
Title: Luck
Beta:
13_moons
Summary: Can Draco live through seven years of bad luck?
Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's, etc.
A/N: I recently read a couple of fics done in 100 word drabble format, and I thought I'd give it a try. Much harder than I thought, but I plugged away at it... hope it works. *shrug*
Pureblood wizards are a suspicious lot. Draco Malfoy has spent the past fifteen minutes in front of his mother’s heirloom mirror trying rather unsuccessfully to pin a four leaf clover to his robes. It’s Draco’s thirteenth birthday, and it’s shaping up to be a somber affair filled with rituals and ancient magic. With a scowl, he flicks his wand at the clover. And misses. A heavy silver paperweight flies up, hitting the mirror with a smack and cracking it into thirteen pieces. Draco lets his head fall against the top of the dresser. Seven years bad luck. He was fucked.
* * * * * * *
Draco hadn't taken the idea of seven years of bad luck very seriously. His terrible year makes him think otherwise. Attacked. By a hippogriff. A hippogriff that has since escaped and is probably circling the Manor, preparing to land on Draco’s balcony, ready to finish what it started. Then there is Potter. Always Potter. His stupid trick at Hogsmeade. And that Mudblood bitch, Granger, slapping him.
Worse than anything is the news his mother gives him the day before he turns fourteen. Under the curse, his birthdays won’t be celebrated. No presents. No doting. No cake. Draco scowls. Fucking mirror.
* * * * * * *
Draco is exhilarated and terrified at Voldemort’s return; it certainly makes an interesting start to his fifteenth year. His fourteenth had certainly brought about new… confusions. He’d been caught wanking furiously after the Death Eater display at the Quidditch World Cup. His father had hexed him into next week. Jerking off over a Mudblood was practically criminal, but Draco was grateful he’d managed to stammer out “Granger” when father demanded, “Who brought this on?” He’d surely be dead if he’d admitted who it was that had really set his blood on fire after his run in with the Gryffindor trio.
* * * * * * *
Harry fucking Potter. His fucking bad luck amplified by Harry fucking Potter. Draco’s last fight with Potter is burned into his brain, and he vows to permanently change the title of the fucking Boy Who Lived when he gets the chance. Oh yes.
His mother won't let him visit his father, won't let him set one toe in Azkaban. No correspondence is allowed. He hasn’t seen his father in over six months, didn’t get to say goodbye. Draco spends his sixteenth (non) birthday researching creative means of torture and death. Avada Kedavra is too easy for treachery such as Potter’s.
* * * * * * *
If Draco makes it out of this stretch of bad luck alive, he will worship eternally at the altar of whatever deity saw him through it. Right now he finds himself spending his seventeenth birthday-his goddamn rite of passage-in the slimy world of Snape's dungeons. He hears footfalls on the stone steps and stiffens. Snape stops on the last step, not willing to touch the slippery stones that glisten on the floor. He beckons Draco with one finger, saying simply, "It is time."
Draco holds fast to his one tenuous shred of humanity. At least he’s not a murderer. Yet.
* * * * * * *
Draco is jolted awake by a nightmare. He sits up, taking steadying breaths, and hopes his eighteenth year isn't worse than this one has been. The nightmare is always the same,
reliving when he received the Dark Mark. It’s all there-the smell of burning flesh, the jagged nerves sparking brightly after Crucio, the vomit he forced back down. He’s thankful none of his other crimes of the past year return to haunt him.
Sleep beckons and he acquiesces, sinking into his other recurring dream. He’s tangled up with long limbs, succumbing. All is dark except for those green eyes.
* * * * * * *
When one turns nineteen, Draco thinks, one is supposed to be reveling in the freedom of youth. One is not, Draco expects, supposed to be watching his godfather get flayed alive for his treachery as a spy. Nor should someone, at nineteen, be expected to replace him in said suicide mission.
A hopeful glance is all it takes. Draco says yes. He’s not sure when he stopped hating Harry Potter.
He vaguely wishes that someday he’ll accidentally splinch himself and leave his brain behind, ending this madness. At this rate, Draco’s pretty sure he can kiss his twentieth birthday goodbye.
* * * * * * *
For Draco, introspection is a luxury. He allows himself ten minutes, here on the eve of his twentieth birthday, to lean against a wall outside Death Eater Headquarters and reflect on his miserable year as a spy. The only bright moments come as flashes of green eyes that pin Draco with their passion and intensity. He clings to the memories with all his heart.
An hour ago, the boy Draco had sworn to kill a hundred times over gripped his shoulder, pleading, "Please be careful." Draco figures he’ll be dead soon, so he tries his hand at honesty.
“I’ll try.”
* * * * * * *
The clock strikes midnight, lifting the curse. Draco’s march to death goes smoother than he could have ever dreamed. He demolishes the wards, and Harry takes down the Dark Lord and his followers in one fell swoop.
Draco falls to the ground, overcome with euphoria and exhaustion, even as the walls crumble around him. Strong arms pull him out, and Draco finds himself wrapped in Harry’s tight embrace before he is pulled into a dizzying kiss that is both tender and possessive. Draco remembers the promise he made and kisses Harry back, worshipfully, delighted at his stroke of good luck.
Beta:
13_moons
Summary: Can Draco live through seven years of bad luck?
Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's, etc.
A/N: I recently read a couple of fics done in 100 word drabble format, and I thought I'd give it a try. Much harder than I thought, but I plugged away at it... hope it works. *shrug*
Pureblood wizards are a suspicious lot. Draco Malfoy has spent the past fifteen minutes in front of his mother’s heirloom mirror trying rather unsuccessfully to pin a four leaf clover to his robes. It’s Draco’s thirteenth birthday, and it’s shaping up to be a somber affair filled with rituals and ancient magic. With a scowl, he flicks his wand at the clover. And misses. A heavy silver paperweight flies up, hitting the mirror with a smack and cracking it into thirteen pieces. Draco lets his head fall against the top of the dresser. Seven years bad luck. He was fucked.
* * * * * * *
Draco hadn't taken the idea of seven years of bad luck very seriously. His terrible year makes him think otherwise. Attacked. By a hippogriff. A hippogriff that has since escaped and is probably circling the Manor, preparing to land on Draco’s balcony, ready to finish what it started. Then there is Potter. Always Potter. His stupid trick at Hogsmeade. And that Mudblood bitch, Granger, slapping him.
Worse than anything is the news his mother gives him the day before he turns fourteen. Under the curse, his birthdays won’t be celebrated. No presents. No doting. No cake. Draco scowls. Fucking mirror.
* * * * * * *
Draco is exhilarated and terrified at Voldemort’s return; it certainly makes an interesting start to his fifteenth year. His fourteenth had certainly brought about new… confusions. He’d been caught wanking furiously after the Death Eater display at the Quidditch World Cup. His father had hexed him into next week. Jerking off over a Mudblood was practically criminal, but Draco was grateful he’d managed to stammer out “Granger” when father demanded, “Who brought this on?” He’d surely be dead if he’d admitted who it was that had really set his blood on fire after his run in with the Gryffindor trio.
* * * * * * *
Harry fucking Potter. His fucking bad luck amplified by Harry fucking Potter. Draco’s last fight with Potter is burned into his brain, and he vows to permanently change the title of the fucking Boy Who Lived when he gets the chance. Oh yes.
His mother won't let him visit his father, won't let him set one toe in Azkaban. No correspondence is allowed. He hasn’t seen his father in over six months, didn’t get to say goodbye. Draco spends his sixteenth (non) birthday researching creative means of torture and death. Avada Kedavra is too easy for treachery such as Potter’s.
* * * * * * *
If Draco makes it out of this stretch of bad luck alive, he will worship eternally at the altar of whatever deity saw him through it. Right now he finds himself spending his seventeenth birthday-his goddamn rite of passage-in the slimy world of Snape's dungeons. He hears footfalls on the stone steps and stiffens. Snape stops on the last step, not willing to touch the slippery stones that glisten on the floor. He beckons Draco with one finger, saying simply, "It is time."
Draco holds fast to his one tenuous shred of humanity. At least he’s not a murderer. Yet.
* * * * * * *
Draco is jolted awake by a nightmare. He sits up, taking steadying breaths, and hopes his eighteenth year isn't worse than this one has been. The nightmare is always the same,
reliving when he received the Dark Mark. It’s all there-the smell of burning flesh, the jagged nerves sparking brightly after Crucio, the vomit he forced back down. He’s thankful none of his other crimes of the past year return to haunt him.
Sleep beckons and he acquiesces, sinking into his other recurring dream. He’s tangled up with long limbs, succumbing. All is dark except for those green eyes.
* * * * * * *
When one turns nineteen, Draco thinks, one is supposed to be reveling in the freedom of youth. One is not, Draco expects, supposed to be watching his godfather get flayed alive for his treachery as a spy. Nor should someone, at nineteen, be expected to replace him in said suicide mission.
A hopeful glance is all it takes. Draco says yes. He’s not sure when he stopped hating Harry Potter.
He vaguely wishes that someday he’ll accidentally splinch himself and leave his brain behind, ending this madness. At this rate, Draco’s pretty sure he can kiss his twentieth birthday goodbye.
* * * * * * *
For Draco, introspection is a luxury. He allows himself ten minutes, here on the eve of his twentieth birthday, to lean against a wall outside Death Eater Headquarters and reflect on his miserable year as a spy. The only bright moments come as flashes of green eyes that pin Draco with their passion and intensity. He clings to the memories with all his heart.
An hour ago, the boy Draco had sworn to kill a hundred times over gripped his shoulder, pleading, "Please be careful." Draco figures he’ll be dead soon, so he tries his hand at honesty.
“I’ll try.”
* * * * * * *
The clock strikes midnight, lifting the curse. Draco’s march to death goes smoother than he could have ever dreamed. He demolishes the wards, and Harry takes down the Dark Lord and his followers in one fell swoop.
Draco falls to the ground, overcome with euphoria and exhaustion, even as the walls crumble around him. Strong arms pull him out, and Draco finds himself wrapped in Harry’s tight embrace before he is pulled into a dizzying kiss that is both tender and possessive. Draco remembers the promise he made and kisses Harry back, worshipfully, delighted at his stroke of good luck.