(short chaptered) FIC: Not Quite a Love Song, in Ten Scenes (1/2) [PG-13]
TITLE: Not Quite a Love Song, in Ten Scenes
AUTHOR: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
RATING: PG-13
GENRE: dark parody?
SUMMARY: "Don't hate yourself for being attracted to me," Harry tells Draco in a dim corridor one Hogwarts morning. Things go downhill from there. A slightly different Harry/Draco romance.
NOTE: Hugs to chthonya, adela711 and fee_absinthe for beta and ship-picking. Parody-alert, with my sincerest apologies to the lovers of the pairing, of which I'm one. Honestly!
Part 1: The Corridor (or: Have I Told You Lately...)
"You're going to stand with us against Voldemort!"
"Huh?"
Draco Malfoy lifted bleary eyes to the figure standing before him in the corridor. The smell of bacon and eggs and freshly-baked rolls wafted enticingly from the open doorway to the Great Hall.
He was not happy to be waylaid by the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Died-Instead-Of-Keeping-People-From-Their-Breakfast. Surely no one could keep up such a heroic pose this early in the morning without some heavy Dark Arts dabbling.
Potter's two goons were lurking around in the background, just out of earshot, the Weasel with his trademark glare, the Mudblood sporting a severe frown. As always, they vividly reminded Draco of Cornelius Fudge's Dementor guard, prepared to float up and suck on anyone who dared to apprehend their darling. Although he had to admit that despite Potter's countless faults - and Draco could deliver all-evening rants detailing the specifics - he was prettier than the Minister of Magic. Which wasn't saying much, really.
"I said, 'You're going to stand with us against Voldemort!'" the Prat Who Annoyed repeated with an irritating air of conviction.
"I'll what?" Draco blinked again. Perhaps he was having audio-visual hallucinations? There had been quite a few Greenhouse Seven plants in the punch bowl at the Slytherin revel last night, after all. "At seven in the morning?"
He snapped his fingers in front of Potter's nose. The Gryffindork refused to pop into thin air. He just stared into Draco's eyes, as passionately as Mrs Norris would focus on a carton of milk.
"Look, Malfoy - Draco - it's all right," Potter continued, and Draco was sorely tempted so choke that generous tone of voice back into the git's throat with his wand. "I've seen how you've been looking at me ever since school started."
"With utmost loathing?" asked Draco.
"Don't disparage it!" Potter replied forcefully. "There's nothing wrong with your feelings. Don't hate yourself for being attracted to me."
"Attracted?" Draco sputtered.
"I've had a long time to think about it," Potter said, "and I'm truly sorry for rejecting you on the train. It was cruel, and I want to make up for it."
"On the train?" Draco's brows furrowed.
"Before the start of our first year," Potter clarified.
"I saw you on the train then? Can't say I remember - you must have been even more boring back then," Draco answered, brows furrowing even further. "And don't drift off topic. I'm still not over the bit where I was supposed to be attracted to you."
"Well," Potter gestured wildly, "it's obvious! I've seen the way you looked at me during our OWLs! You were so absorbed you went right ahead and failed Charms. We can see this through, Draco. I'm prepared to stand up to my House if necessary, and if we're together not even your cruel father or Voldemort can force us apart."
The Boy Who Harassed put a slender hand on Draco's arm and gazed into his eyes deeply. He looked like nothing so much as a fluffy puppy, and Draco wanted nothing so much as to strangle him.
See, that's what happens when you think you can brave Hogwarts's halls without bodyguards! his inner Malfoy admonished.
The blossoming romance between his two best goons was an annoyance at the best of times, and he bitterly regretted now having gone off alone to give them some privacy. But how could he have expected to be molested, before breakfast and by Potter, of all creatures? He pointedly removed his arm.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, Potter, but I'm definitely not in love with you. Hell, I'd rather shag a Manticore. An utterly pissed-off Manticore."
"Draco, don't you know it's unhealthy to suppress your desires? We can deal with this. You're just in denial."
"I'm not in denial!" Draco screeched and stormed off, leaving Potter to stand in the corridor, pity written all over his face.
Part 2: Potions (or: Anything for Love)
Potions, Draco reflected the next day, was hell. Well, usually it was only hell for Gryffindors, but that was before his head of house had decided to stab him in the back. With a pitchfork!
Draco shot a glare at Potter, who was happily giving him puppy eyes - again! - and deliberated using his horned slug disembowelment knife to cut his newly assigned work partner's throat. He had an inkling that by the end of class he'd be ready to use the knife on himself.
He hissed at Potter to cut their Flobberworm tails into thin and even slices, and received a soft smile for his pains. Letting a drop of Bubotuber pus fall onto his nemesis's hand instead of into the cauldron produced a far more satisfying soft hiss. Draco opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment, but Potter cut him off.
"It's all right, Draco. I know you didn't do it on purpose."
Draco let out a desperate moan and rested his forehead on the tabletop with an audible - and rather painful - thud. It was going to be a long class...
It didn't get much better from there, although when Snape marched over to hover over Potter, Draco treated himself to a five-second fantasy of his godfather leaning over the desk to strangle the life out of the Gryffindor git. But he only received a detention to be served in Greenhouse Three, to collect another bottle-full of pus.
Draco brewed their wit-sharpening potion to perfection and made sure with a gentle sprinkling of pixie dust that Potter would not get any invigorating results from trying it. Not that it would make much of a difference, anyway.
He had just packed his bag and was heading towards the exit with a happy whistle when a sinewy hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him bodily into the dark potions storage room.
"Wha-!?" he objected, and then, when his eyes had adjusted to the dark, "Potter, you jerk! Will you for Merlin's sake stop hitting on me!"
The grip on his arm tightened slightly, and there was a distinctly dangerous glint in the jade-green eyes. "If you'll stop avoiding me."
The intense gaze softened and his nemesis leaned in closer, eyes fixed on Draco's lips as if hypnotised. It was deeply unnerving.
"Potter, last summer you beat me up, gloated about my father, and finally your posse hexed me into a slug. Just how have you managed to go from bloody murder to would-be snogging in three months' time?"
A sullen expression washed over Potter's features. "It happens!" he insisted defensively. "It happens all the time."
"In your little corner of the lunatic fringe, perhaps," Draco sneered. "But I swore I'd kill you, and unlike you, I haven't been kissed under a twig of Creeping Mindsuck disguised as mistletoe over the holidays."
"There hasn't been any Creeping Mindsuck!" Potter objected. "There hasn't even been Christmas yet." Then his eyes lit up. "And you didn't say you'd kill me - you said you'd have me," he concluded smugly. "Well... you can, if you want." Long, curved black lashes lowered in a way the Weasleyette might consider seductive.
"Gah!" Draco yelled, eloquence washed away by horror at the prospect.
"And while we're at Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore would protect us from-"
"Look, Potter," Draco interrupted, his free hand up in front of Potter's face to prevent any further advance. "I'm not worried about the Dark Lord, or my father. Because there is no reason." Very slowly, as if speaking to an addled child - which Potty was, obviously - he added, "Because there is no us."
"There can be, Draco."
"Not a snowball's chance in a magma puddle on a burning day in hell!" Draco tilted his head as a new thought suddenly hit him. "Wait a second - I know what you're up to, Potter!"
"What are you talking about? I'm not up to-" The vermilion orbs widened in surprise.
"You're trying to screw with my mind. Of course it isn't exactly a secret that I spent the summer at the Quiberon Quafflepunchers's Junior Seeker Training Camp. That's it, isn't it? You're scared of the upcoming match. That's why you're pulling all that love crap. Bugger it, Potter! You little narrow-gauge Slytherin, you!" It was the first time Draco felt something remotely like respect for his arch enemy. This was a ploy almost worthy of a Malfoy.
Potter gaped with a mixture of horror and guilt.
"I would never toy with your feelings like that!"
"No?" Draco threw him a scrutinising glance. "Then why do you look like an Erkling caught with one foot inside the nursery door?"
"Uh..." Potter carded a hand through his awful hair. "It's kind of... I haven't told anyone but Dumbledore..."
"Potter!" Draco tutted, shaking his head. "You said you cared about me - would you keep secrets from the one you love?"
Incredibly enough, the Gryffindor flushed. "I... well, at our Sorting, the Hat tried to make me a Slytherin, but I refused."
"You, a Slytherin?" Draco stared at him wide-eyed, then laughed out loud. "Bright choice, Potter. Snape would have nailed your heart to the wall in first year." He ducked out under Potter's restraining arm and paused at the door, adding, "And if he hadn't managed fast enough, I would have."
Part 3: Quidditch (or: Falling in Love)
The day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match dawned bright, blue and crisp, with the first sunbeams promising an exceptionally warm November noon. Birds were chirping happily in the air. As he marched onto the pitch, Draco took the sight of a silvery chicken hawk swooping down on a hapless Golden Snidget in a briar bush as a good omen for today's game.
On the other side of the pitch, the Gryffindors were assembled around Captain Weasel, who was giving them what obviously qualified as a rousing pep talk - for Gryffindors. The Slytherin team huddled together, and Draco linked with his team mates in the Secret Runespoor Handshake (attributed to the surviving one of Salazar's three sons), and in chorus they muttered the team motto: "Slaughter Potter!"
Draco kicked off and soared into the air, one eye scanning the pitch for the Snitch, the other glued on Potter, who flitted around the opposite hoops at high altitude with that typical, disgusting ease of his. Oh, if Father would just acquiesce and buy him a Firebolt like Potter's, or even shell out for one of those experimental new Lightning Bolt models! On a better broom, he'd show the four-eyed git the true meaning of defeat in a way that would make the Dark Lord's plots look like the antics of a pissed-off Flobberworm in comparison!
He motioned to Crabbe and Goyle to get some Bludgers over into Potty's direction, which provoked an angry obscenity from the Weasel, who hovered in front of the Gryffindor hoops below Potter. Draco replied with an explicit gesture, careful to keep his body between his hand and Hooch's eagle eyes in the process, and watched with glee how the Weasel's face turned an ugly Howler red.
Potter got some more speed to his act as the Slytherin Beaters started to use him for target practice, and Draco flew up to get a better look at his frantic swervings. He was zigzagging out of the way of first Bludger with breath-taking speed, and if he had the broom sticking up his nether regions instead of sitting on it, he'd look just like a manic Billiwig.
The second Bludger, however, impacted on Potter's chest with a satisfyingly sickening crunch.
Whoa - two ribs at the very least, Draco thought as he observed Gryffindor's broom-borne miracle boy flailing to regain his balance. Finally, he managed to steady himself on the handle with one hand while the other clutched at his chest. From his position a bit higher up, Draco watched the sharp line of pain forming around Potter's mouth in fascination. His lips were trembling, but the determined look that seemed able to conjure the Snitch out of thin air by sheer force of will was back.
Then his eyes widened and he stared directly at Draco; no, not at him - just at a spot a few inches over his shoulder. Draco saw whirring minuscule wings out of the corner of his eye and pulled his broom around to grab for them. Potter's Firebolt shot at him like a liberated branch of the Whomping Willow, broken ribs seemingly forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. Potter slammed into his side without any trace of affection, and sent him veering off course. Rage closed Draco's throat like an invisible hand as the enemy Seeker threw himself forward for the Snitch.
That was when the second Bludger slammed into Potter's side with no less force than the last. Potter was nearly thrown off his broom, saved only by his cloak tangling in the tail twigs of his Firebolt. Still, it wasn't going to buy him more than a few seconds.
Reflexively, Draco reached out, noting wide, panicked eyes as Potter's body weight, slight as it was, pulled him down. Only inches away, the Golden Snitch hovered just a tiny, tantalising bit out of reach. If he gave a little push and stretched... Draco thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the Gryffindor Seeker, so close and just an instant away from falling two hundred feet to the ground of the pitch.
"Take my hand!" Draco yelled over the sound of the wind and the screams of the audience. He shivered under the intensity of Potter's gaze that never left his as the Gryffindor threw his injured body into Draco's direction and blindly reached for him.
Draco leaned forward, hand outstretched until his fingertips touched Potter's above his fingerless Quidditch gloves. He saw relief light up in the emerald-green eyes, and smiled.
And pulled back his hand.
"Oops, missed."
Draco watched Potter's flailing body plunge towards what would hopefully be his doom, before he lazily picked the Snitch out of the air above him and smirked.
Set and match for Slytherin.
Part 4: The Hospital Wing (or: Watching You)
The night after Potter's spectacular fall from grace - and broom - Draco found himself unable to sleep. He threw himself around in bed, replaying Potter's plunge in his mind, over and over. Potter in free fall, like a shock-frozen Augurey in a thunderstorm, the resounding thud with which he landed on the grass below, the dead silence of the auditorium, the tickle of Snitch wings against his palm...
At last, he got up, pulled his night robes around his lean Seeker's body and made his way out of the Slytherin dormitory.
You're absolutely pathetic, he cursed himself mentally. Sneaking through the castle at midnight to see Potter of all people. It's risky. It's stupid, and what would Father say if he could see you?
He sneaked through the door to the Hospital Wing, ears perked for any sound of Filch, or Pomfrey. But Hogwarts's hero had been left alone to rest, it seemed.
Moonlight shone through one of the windows next to Potter's bed, throwing a bone-white cast over his face and turning his hair to silver. A dark bruise still marred his moonlit temple, and his lips twitched in pain, even in his sleep.
Draco couldn't help it - he gloated.
"I knew you'd come."
Draco near-flinched at the flat, tired voice and wondered how Potter had known it was him, even with his eyes shut. He said nothing.
"Why did you do that?"
There was something... unpleasant about Potter's mildly curious, emotionless tone. Draco had prepared various witty responses to accusations and curses on the way up. Leave it to Potter to take the fun out of it with this display of quiet, barely-concealed hurt. As if Draco was to blame that Potter had been so hideously stupid as to trust a Malfoy!
"Well... I hoped you'd break your neck, evidently," he finally said. "You being my nemesis of six years and a bloody stalker to boot." And will you bloody well look at me when you talk to me? he thought.
"Did you want to get into Voldemort's good books or do you really hate me that much, Malfoy?"
"Both!" Draco shot back, although You-Know-Who had been far from his mind in that burst of excitement he'd experienced when he'd pulled his hand away and let Potter fall to his doom. Arrested doom, he amended. That old tosser Dumbledore had interfered yet again, seemingly intent on single-handedly delivering his boy toy every time Draco came up with a good one.
"So I guess I'll have a bout of detention coming after you've whined about your plight at Dumbledore's shoulder," he sneered.
Even as he spoke, he realised that with his father no longer a school governor and no Hogwarts Inquisitor to intercede for him, there might be worse in store than a few detentions. They couldn't chuck him out, could they? Not after Dumbledore's ridiculous "everybody's welcome" speech at the end of fourth year. Or did that not apply to Slytherins, just like it didn't appy when it came to an unbiased way of awarding the house cup?
"I didn't tell him," Potter said, and at last opened his eyes to confront Draco with a sea of cool green.
"You... what?" Draco noticed that his mouth was hanging open in a thoroughly unbecoming way. Not even this arch-Gryffindork could be quite as stupid as to forego a chance like this...
He remedied his fish-mouthed gape with a touch of effort. "Why the hell not?" he finally ground out.
"You said it was an accident," Potter replied curtly. "You 'missed', right?"
"I did not miss you. I let you fall on purpose." And then he added, to make absolutely sure to drive home the point so even Potter could not miss out on it:
"I tried to kill you!"
There was another one of those sharp lines forming around Potter's mouth, and then he closed his eyes again in a final gesture of dismissal.
"It's long past curfew, even for a prefect. Go back to bed, Draco."
It was only when he was already out in the corridor and heading for the staircase down to the dungeons, that Draco began to wonder just why he'd let that four-eyed git dismiss him like that, without even a parting shot. He hadn't even got around to smother that... that... Potter with a hospital pillow! In retrospect, he glared and kicked the wall for good measure and then limped down to his dormitory.
After he had crawled into bed, pummelling the pillows into submission and punching Crabbe, who'd had the nerve to wake up and ask what was wrong - there was nothing bloody wrong, apart from the fact that Potter was not only still alive, but a complete prick - he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least one of the things that Potter had said tonight bore further thinking on.
Part 5: Confrontation (or: Under Your Skin)
Two weeks before Christmas, the Weasel and the Mudblood tore themselves away from Potter's sickbed to assault Draco outside the Defence classroom. Or rather, the Weasel assaulted him while the Mudblood clung to his too-short jumper sleeve, jabbering ineffectively like a duck under the Babbling Curse.
Draco yelped as the Weasel's hand grabbed his collar, muffling his protests while he was dragged behind a suit of armour and the marble bust of Bethany the Bilious.
"You tried to murder Harry, you worthless little-" the Weasel growled and made to swing at him.
"And it took you, what, three weeks to figure that out?" Draco sneered, hoping that a show of bravado might delay the impending brawl. Or, failing that, at least then he'd get pummelled for a good reason. Where the hell were Crabbe and Goyle? Probably still hanging around in the classroom, snogging in the Boggart cabinet.
His tactics failed. Weasel's fist cut across Draco's mouth, followed by a sick burst of pain as Draco's teeth cut his lip. The Mudblood screeched, "Ron!" in a tone shrill enough to send horny werewolves running. It did not work on the rabid rodent, though. The Weasel swung again, and Draco tried to take cover behind his raised arms.
"Ron!"
The tone was so cold that for a split Draco second thought Snape? Then he recognised Potter's voice.
The Weasel released Draco's collar, and he landed flat on his arse on the floor in a highly undignified manner.
"I told you not to do this, Ron."
There was an uncompromising stance to Potter's posture, and the Weasel wilted visibly at the sight of it.
"How can you defend that murderous piece of Porlock shite, Harry?" The Weasel's face was beet red. He looked as if he were torn between bursting into tears and committing bloody murder on the spot.
"I told you it was an accident," Potter said, in that flat tone Draco had become unpleasantly familiar with. "Just as I told Dumbledore. I won't repeat it."
"Accident my arse!" Weasel yelled. "I saw what happened! Bloody hell, I was up there!"
Potter didn't even deign to brush it off.
"Why don't you go ahead to the Common Room? I'll catch up with you in a minute."
It was so far from being a request that it would have done Father's infamous command voice proud.
The Weasel looked as if he were about to pop a few blood vessels as the Mudblood dragged him off, scolding quietly. Draco shuddered. Just how could he bear to have those Mudbloody paws all over him? Sure, he was ugly as sin and had to be desperate, but Granger made celibacy look like a distinctly good choice in comparison...
With an inscrutable expression, Potter stared down at Draco.
I should have gone for the leather trousers this morning, Draco groused. He was beginning to feel the cold of the granite biting his backside under his stylish silk robes.
Finally, Potter offered his hand.
Draco scowled darkly as he recalled the pitch and the fact that Potter was still breathing and being disgustingly heroic, but finally he took the offered hand and allowed Potter to pull him to his feet. Potter let go as soon as Draco had stopped wobbling. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, and then Potter's fingers touched the corner of Draco's split lip and gently wiped away the few drops of blood Weasley had drawn.
Something lurched inside Draco, and a shudder ran up and down his spine on little mouse feet. As if it were Potter's fingers, skimming over his vertebrae, one at the time...
He raised a trembling hand as if to shove the Gryffindor away, and let it drop again, transfixed by the expression on the other's face.
Potter was rubbing the tiny specks of red between his index finger and thumb, as if he were caressing Draco's skin, his essence.
"Don't ever touch me again!" he finally rasped, in a voice that hadn't been this hoarse since that bloody Hippogriff had nearly torn his arm off.
Potter inclined his head a cold little fraction and just turned and followed his cronies down the corridor. As if Draco couldn't curse him from behind. As if he didn't even matter.
Yes, let the little bastard walk away from him. Draco dug sharp teeth into his bloody lip, oblivious to the sting. For that - not to mention for everything else - Potter would pay!
Part 6: The Manor (or: Where the Heart Is)
Christmas holidays, in Malfoy Manor, were blissfully Potter-free.
Draco sat in the Manor's luxurious living room, sipping hot butterbeer as his mother cast Imperius on three dozen fairies. He watched them flitting around the branches of the tall fir tree, irridescent wings glittering between the green-and-silver Christmas baubles.
It made him wonder how Potter would look, frozen under such enforced obedience, and he leaned back into the soft leather of the couch to enjoy the thought more fully.
A few house-elves distributed black candles in silver snake holders. Others draped the branches in black tinsel charmed to slither around like thin vipers. The Malfoys had been honoured with the arrangement of this year's Dark Christmas Revel, and the Dark Lord loved such gimmicks.
Clattering and shrill shrieks downstairs from the kitchen made Narcissa Malfoy pause and sigh.
"Draco, dear, would you finish here, please," she asked. "It seems like your Aunt Bella is after the kitchen elves with the steak cleaver again, and we need all of them to prepare a proper Christmas dinner."
Draco sighed. Yes, elf chops would really go down poorly with the Dark Lord. He drew his wand to direct the fairies while his mother dashed out with surprising speed.
"Don't hold it by its tail, you dumb sod!" he yelled at one of the house-elves, who was trying to wrap a bit of snake tinsel around a candle holder. The charmed little thing squirmed and bit the air fretfully. "Honestly!"
He watched as the castigated elf began to wail, beat its chest and rend its shabby pillowcase. It being female, that was quite amusing to watch.
"Draco, language!" his father admonished from the couch, voice slightly raised to be audible over the elf's din.
"I'm sorry, Father." Draco waved his wand and cast a quick Ars Vivendi Charm on the silver tinsel as a final touch. It gamely began to slither around the branches of the tree. Perfect!
"Come over here, Draco," Lucius said after Draco had dismissed the house-elves.
Draco sauntered over to the couch table and sat on an armchair. Lucius Malfoy rested on the couch under a silver-embroidered quilt, still pale and given to regular lie-downs and bouts of frantic muttering after his recent release from Azkaban, courtesy of a certain numbered bank vault in the darkest depths of Gringotts. Now, he put the book he'd been reading on the table to scrutinise his son.
Feeling a little awkward under those stern, pale eyes, Draco looked down at the book instead. CONTEMPORARY REVENGE: CURSES TO LEAVE THAT WHIMP VIRIDIAN SHAKING IN HIS SLIPPERS.
"Is it any good?" Draco asked.
Lucius shook his head. "Near-Lockhartesque popular Cursology. They just don't write Dark Tomes like they used to." He made a dismissive gesture. "But that wasn't what I wanted to speak to you about. You've received an invitation to tonight's Christmas do at the Parkinsons', and your mother and I would like you to attend."
"But-!" Draco stared in horror. Miss his first Dark Revel, in his own home? How dangerous could it get? It wasn't as if he would see his father dancing half-naked on the tabletop, or anything else that would leave lasting mental damage! Pansy, on the other hand, just might.
Lucius interrupted his protest with a raised hand.
"I realise that this comes as a disappointment for you, Draco, but everybody of import will be there, and if you consider Pansy Parkinson too pug-faced and young Zabini too androgynous for your taste, you might always get to know the Patil sisters a bit better. Humungus Nott recently remarked that they turned out 'quite dishy'."
Draco shuddered delicately. "Padma's a minor know-it-all, and Parvati a Gryffindor!"
Lucius shrugged. "Well, a few years from now Hogwarts house affiliations will have blown over - your mother's own sister was a Ravenclaw, and it's a fact almost forgotten now."
"Yes, because everybody harps on her shagging that Muggle!"
Lucius prudently decided to change the topic.
"Be it as it may, we don't want you to attend the Revel. You're only sixteen - too young to be exposed to the Dark Lord."
"But Father, you were fifteen when you became a Dea-"
"Those were different times, then." Lucius permitted himself a nostalgic smile. "As it is, our Master is not overly... pleased with my services, both during his time of absence and then during that little... spot of bother at the Department of Mysteries." He fixed Draco with a sharp look. "He might consider you as a downpayment of my debts to him should you be present, and I don't want you involved in his affairs yet."
The cogs of Draco's mind started to wheel frantically. It was quite an unusual experience for him, so he stared past his father's face, eyes narrowed and pointed teeth worrying his lower lip. At last, he said very slowly,
"Father, I would very much like to meet the Dark Lord tonight." His eyes met Lucius's, and whatever his father read in them, it made him swallow the protest that seemed to be squirming on his tongue.
"Why?" he asked, calmly.
"Because I think I would like to extend to him a proposition that might be very much in his interest and would vastly improve the standing of the House of Malfoy in his eyes."
Lucius cocked his head. "The Dark Lord reacts extremely adverse to failure, my dragon. I will not approve of any scheme that might involve you turning yourself into his target. You are my only child and heir; improving our standing with the Dark Lord is not worth your life - or your sanity."
"Trust me, Father, our Lord will be delighted," Draco said forcefully. "I swear I can make this work."
"Well then, Draco," Lucius replied slowly. "Displays of initiative on your part do not come so frequently that I would want to discourage one. Your mother, however, will not be pleased."
His father suppressed a shudder, and his face pulled into a pained grimace. Draco could sympathise with the sentiment. Compared to his mother throwing a fit, Aunt Bella was as harmless as a baby bunny put to sleep in its basket with the Draught of Living Death.
"You had better go upstairs and select your best dress robes, then," Lucius said.
And so it happened that Draco Malfoy, after suffering a frantic embrace from his mother, a strangling one from his Aunt Bella, and a warning glance from his father, walked into the presence of Lord Voldemort - in his best dress robes and with every hair magelled into place - and announced, after sinking down gracefully on one knee,
"My Lord, I would like to make a proposition..."
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling, no surprise there. I'm just experimenting with them a bit. No harm intended, no money made.
go to Parts 7-10
AUTHOR: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
RATING: PG-13
GENRE: dark parody?
SUMMARY: "Don't hate yourself for being attracted to me," Harry tells Draco in a dim corridor one Hogwarts morning. Things go downhill from there. A slightly different Harry/Draco romance.
NOTE: Hugs to chthonya, adela711 and fee_absinthe for beta and ship-picking. Parody-alert, with my sincerest apologies to the lovers of the pairing, of which I'm one. Honestly!
Part 1: The Corridor (or: Have I Told You Lately...)
"You're going to stand with us against Voldemort!"
"Huh?"
Draco Malfoy lifted bleary eyes to the figure standing before him in the corridor. The smell of bacon and eggs and freshly-baked rolls wafted enticingly from the open doorway to the Great Hall.
He was not happy to be waylaid by the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Died-Instead-Of-Keeping-People-From-Their-Breakfast. Surely no one could keep up such a heroic pose this early in the morning without some heavy Dark Arts dabbling.
Potter's two goons were lurking around in the background, just out of earshot, the Weasel with his trademark glare, the Mudblood sporting a severe frown. As always, they vividly reminded Draco of Cornelius Fudge's Dementor guard, prepared to float up and suck on anyone who dared to apprehend their darling. Although he had to admit that despite Potter's countless faults - and Draco could deliver all-evening rants detailing the specifics - he was prettier than the Minister of Magic. Which wasn't saying much, really.
"I said, 'You're going to stand with us against Voldemort!'" the Prat Who Annoyed repeated with an irritating air of conviction.
"I'll what?" Draco blinked again. Perhaps he was having audio-visual hallucinations? There had been quite a few Greenhouse Seven plants in the punch bowl at the Slytherin revel last night, after all. "At seven in the morning?"
He snapped his fingers in front of Potter's nose. The Gryffindork refused to pop into thin air. He just stared into Draco's eyes, as passionately as Mrs Norris would focus on a carton of milk.
"Look, Malfoy - Draco - it's all right," Potter continued, and Draco was sorely tempted so choke that generous tone of voice back into the git's throat with his wand. "I've seen how you've been looking at me ever since school started."
"With utmost loathing?" asked Draco.
"Don't disparage it!" Potter replied forcefully. "There's nothing wrong with your feelings. Don't hate yourself for being attracted to me."
"Attracted?" Draco sputtered.
"I've had a long time to think about it," Potter said, "and I'm truly sorry for rejecting you on the train. It was cruel, and I want to make up for it."
"On the train?" Draco's brows furrowed.
"Before the start of our first year," Potter clarified.
"I saw you on the train then? Can't say I remember - you must have been even more boring back then," Draco answered, brows furrowing even further. "And don't drift off topic. I'm still not over the bit where I was supposed to be attracted to you."
"Well," Potter gestured wildly, "it's obvious! I've seen the way you looked at me during our OWLs! You were so absorbed you went right ahead and failed Charms. We can see this through, Draco. I'm prepared to stand up to my House if necessary, and if we're together not even your cruel father or Voldemort can force us apart."
The Boy Who Harassed put a slender hand on Draco's arm and gazed into his eyes deeply. He looked like nothing so much as a fluffy puppy, and Draco wanted nothing so much as to strangle him.
See, that's what happens when you think you can brave Hogwarts's halls without bodyguards! his inner Malfoy admonished.
The blossoming romance between his two best goons was an annoyance at the best of times, and he bitterly regretted now having gone off alone to give them some privacy. But how could he have expected to be molested, before breakfast and by Potter, of all creatures? He pointedly removed his arm.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, Potter, but I'm definitely not in love with you. Hell, I'd rather shag a Manticore. An utterly pissed-off Manticore."
"Draco, don't you know it's unhealthy to suppress your desires? We can deal with this. You're just in denial."
"I'm not in denial!" Draco screeched and stormed off, leaving Potter to stand in the corridor, pity written all over his face.
Part 2: Potions (or: Anything for Love)
Potions, Draco reflected the next day, was hell. Well, usually it was only hell for Gryffindors, but that was before his head of house had decided to stab him in the back. With a pitchfork!
Draco shot a glare at Potter, who was happily giving him puppy eyes - again! - and deliberated using his horned slug disembowelment knife to cut his newly assigned work partner's throat. He had an inkling that by the end of class he'd be ready to use the knife on himself.
He hissed at Potter to cut their Flobberworm tails into thin and even slices, and received a soft smile for his pains. Letting a drop of Bubotuber pus fall onto his nemesis's hand instead of into the cauldron produced a far more satisfying soft hiss. Draco opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment, but Potter cut him off.
"It's all right, Draco. I know you didn't do it on purpose."
Draco let out a desperate moan and rested his forehead on the tabletop with an audible - and rather painful - thud. It was going to be a long class...
It didn't get much better from there, although when Snape marched over to hover over Potter, Draco treated himself to a five-second fantasy of his godfather leaning over the desk to strangle the life out of the Gryffindor git. But he only received a detention to be served in Greenhouse Three, to collect another bottle-full of pus.
Draco brewed their wit-sharpening potion to perfection and made sure with a gentle sprinkling of pixie dust that Potter would not get any invigorating results from trying it. Not that it would make much of a difference, anyway.
He had just packed his bag and was heading towards the exit with a happy whistle when a sinewy hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him bodily into the dark potions storage room.
"Wha-!?" he objected, and then, when his eyes had adjusted to the dark, "Potter, you jerk! Will you for Merlin's sake stop hitting on me!"
The grip on his arm tightened slightly, and there was a distinctly dangerous glint in the jade-green eyes. "If you'll stop avoiding me."
The intense gaze softened and his nemesis leaned in closer, eyes fixed on Draco's lips as if hypnotised. It was deeply unnerving.
"Potter, last summer you beat me up, gloated about my father, and finally your posse hexed me into a slug. Just how have you managed to go from bloody murder to would-be snogging in three months' time?"
A sullen expression washed over Potter's features. "It happens!" he insisted defensively. "It happens all the time."
"In your little corner of the lunatic fringe, perhaps," Draco sneered. "But I swore I'd kill you, and unlike you, I haven't been kissed under a twig of Creeping Mindsuck disguised as mistletoe over the holidays."
"There hasn't been any Creeping Mindsuck!" Potter objected. "There hasn't even been Christmas yet." Then his eyes lit up. "And you didn't say you'd kill me - you said you'd have me," he concluded smugly. "Well... you can, if you want." Long, curved black lashes lowered in a way the Weasleyette might consider seductive.
"Gah!" Draco yelled, eloquence washed away by horror at the prospect.
"And while we're at Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore would protect us from-"
"Look, Potter," Draco interrupted, his free hand up in front of Potter's face to prevent any further advance. "I'm not worried about the Dark Lord, or my father. Because there is no reason." Very slowly, as if speaking to an addled child - which Potty was, obviously - he added, "Because there is no us."
"There can be, Draco."
"Not a snowball's chance in a magma puddle on a burning day in hell!" Draco tilted his head as a new thought suddenly hit him. "Wait a second - I know what you're up to, Potter!"
"What are you talking about? I'm not up to-" The vermilion orbs widened in surprise.
"You're trying to screw with my mind. Of course it isn't exactly a secret that I spent the summer at the Quiberon Quafflepunchers's Junior Seeker Training Camp. That's it, isn't it? You're scared of the upcoming match. That's why you're pulling all that love crap. Bugger it, Potter! You little narrow-gauge Slytherin, you!" It was the first time Draco felt something remotely like respect for his arch enemy. This was a ploy almost worthy of a Malfoy.
Potter gaped with a mixture of horror and guilt.
"I would never toy with your feelings like that!"
"No?" Draco threw him a scrutinising glance. "Then why do you look like an Erkling caught with one foot inside the nursery door?"
"Uh..." Potter carded a hand through his awful hair. "It's kind of... I haven't told anyone but Dumbledore..."
"Potter!" Draco tutted, shaking his head. "You said you cared about me - would you keep secrets from the one you love?"
Incredibly enough, the Gryffindor flushed. "I... well, at our Sorting, the Hat tried to make me a Slytherin, but I refused."
"You, a Slytherin?" Draco stared at him wide-eyed, then laughed out loud. "Bright choice, Potter. Snape would have nailed your heart to the wall in first year." He ducked out under Potter's restraining arm and paused at the door, adding, "And if he hadn't managed fast enough, I would have."
Part 3: Quidditch (or: Falling in Love)
The day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match dawned bright, blue and crisp, with the first sunbeams promising an exceptionally warm November noon. Birds were chirping happily in the air. As he marched onto the pitch, Draco took the sight of a silvery chicken hawk swooping down on a hapless Golden Snidget in a briar bush as a good omen for today's game.
On the other side of the pitch, the Gryffindors were assembled around Captain Weasel, who was giving them what obviously qualified as a rousing pep talk - for Gryffindors. The Slytherin team huddled together, and Draco linked with his team mates in the Secret Runespoor Handshake (attributed to the surviving one of Salazar's three sons), and in chorus they muttered the team motto: "Slaughter Potter!"
Draco kicked off and soared into the air, one eye scanning the pitch for the Snitch, the other glued on Potter, who flitted around the opposite hoops at high altitude with that typical, disgusting ease of his. Oh, if Father would just acquiesce and buy him a Firebolt like Potter's, or even shell out for one of those experimental new Lightning Bolt models! On a better broom, he'd show the four-eyed git the true meaning of defeat in a way that would make the Dark Lord's plots look like the antics of a pissed-off Flobberworm in comparison!
He motioned to Crabbe and Goyle to get some Bludgers over into Potty's direction, which provoked an angry obscenity from the Weasel, who hovered in front of the Gryffindor hoops below Potter. Draco replied with an explicit gesture, careful to keep his body between his hand and Hooch's eagle eyes in the process, and watched with glee how the Weasel's face turned an ugly Howler red.
Potter got some more speed to his act as the Slytherin Beaters started to use him for target practice, and Draco flew up to get a better look at his frantic swervings. He was zigzagging out of the way of first Bludger with breath-taking speed, and if he had the broom sticking up his nether regions instead of sitting on it, he'd look just like a manic Billiwig.
The second Bludger, however, impacted on Potter's chest with a satisfyingly sickening crunch.
Whoa - two ribs at the very least, Draco thought as he observed Gryffindor's broom-borne miracle boy flailing to regain his balance. Finally, he managed to steady himself on the handle with one hand while the other clutched at his chest. From his position a bit higher up, Draco watched the sharp line of pain forming around Potter's mouth in fascination. His lips were trembling, but the determined look that seemed able to conjure the Snitch out of thin air by sheer force of will was back.
Then his eyes widened and he stared directly at Draco; no, not at him - just at a spot a few inches over his shoulder. Draco saw whirring minuscule wings out of the corner of his eye and pulled his broom around to grab for them. Potter's Firebolt shot at him like a liberated branch of the Whomping Willow, broken ribs seemingly forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. Potter slammed into his side without any trace of affection, and sent him veering off course. Rage closed Draco's throat like an invisible hand as the enemy Seeker threw himself forward for the Snitch.
That was when the second Bludger slammed into Potter's side with no less force than the last. Potter was nearly thrown off his broom, saved only by his cloak tangling in the tail twigs of his Firebolt. Still, it wasn't going to buy him more than a few seconds.
Reflexively, Draco reached out, noting wide, panicked eyes as Potter's body weight, slight as it was, pulled him down. Only inches away, the Golden Snitch hovered just a tiny, tantalising bit out of reach. If he gave a little push and stretched... Draco thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the Gryffindor Seeker, so close and just an instant away from falling two hundred feet to the ground of the pitch.
"Take my hand!" Draco yelled over the sound of the wind and the screams of the audience. He shivered under the intensity of Potter's gaze that never left his as the Gryffindor threw his injured body into Draco's direction and blindly reached for him.
Draco leaned forward, hand outstretched until his fingertips touched Potter's above his fingerless Quidditch gloves. He saw relief light up in the emerald-green eyes, and smiled.
And pulled back his hand.
"Oops, missed."
Draco watched Potter's flailing body plunge towards what would hopefully be his doom, before he lazily picked the Snitch out of the air above him and smirked.
Set and match for Slytherin.
Part 4: The Hospital Wing (or: Watching You)
The night after Potter's spectacular fall from grace - and broom - Draco found himself unable to sleep. He threw himself around in bed, replaying Potter's plunge in his mind, over and over. Potter in free fall, like a shock-frozen Augurey in a thunderstorm, the resounding thud with which he landed on the grass below, the dead silence of the auditorium, the tickle of Snitch wings against his palm...
At last, he got up, pulled his night robes around his lean Seeker's body and made his way out of the Slytherin dormitory.
You're absolutely pathetic, he cursed himself mentally. Sneaking through the castle at midnight to see Potter of all people. It's risky. It's stupid, and what would Father say if he could see you?
He sneaked through the door to the Hospital Wing, ears perked for any sound of Filch, or Pomfrey. But Hogwarts's hero had been left alone to rest, it seemed.
Moonlight shone through one of the windows next to Potter's bed, throwing a bone-white cast over his face and turning his hair to silver. A dark bruise still marred his moonlit temple, and his lips twitched in pain, even in his sleep.
Draco couldn't help it - he gloated.
"I knew you'd come."
Draco near-flinched at the flat, tired voice and wondered how Potter had known it was him, even with his eyes shut. He said nothing.
"Why did you do that?"
There was something... unpleasant about Potter's mildly curious, emotionless tone. Draco had prepared various witty responses to accusations and curses on the way up. Leave it to Potter to take the fun out of it with this display of quiet, barely-concealed hurt. As if Draco was to blame that Potter had been so hideously stupid as to trust a Malfoy!
"Well... I hoped you'd break your neck, evidently," he finally said. "You being my nemesis of six years and a bloody stalker to boot." And will you bloody well look at me when you talk to me? he thought.
"Did you want to get into Voldemort's good books or do you really hate me that much, Malfoy?"
"Both!" Draco shot back, although You-Know-Who had been far from his mind in that burst of excitement he'd experienced when he'd pulled his hand away and let Potter fall to his doom. Arrested doom, he amended. That old tosser Dumbledore had interfered yet again, seemingly intent on single-handedly delivering his boy toy every time Draco came up with a good one.
"So I guess I'll have a bout of detention coming after you've whined about your plight at Dumbledore's shoulder," he sneered.
Even as he spoke, he realised that with his father no longer a school governor and no Hogwarts Inquisitor to intercede for him, there might be worse in store than a few detentions. They couldn't chuck him out, could they? Not after Dumbledore's ridiculous "everybody's welcome" speech at the end of fourth year. Or did that not apply to Slytherins, just like it didn't appy when it came to an unbiased way of awarding the house cup?
"I didn't tell him," Potter said, and at last opened his eyes to confront Draco with a sea of cool green.
"You... what?" Draco noticed that his mouth was hanging open in a thoroughly unbecoming way. Not even this arch-Gryffindork could be quite as stupid as to forego a chance like this...
He remedied his fish-mouthed gape with a touch of effort. "Why the hell not?" he finally ground out.
"You said it was an accident," Potter replied curtly. "You 'missed', right?"
"I did not miss you. I let you fall on purpose." And then he added, to make absolutely sure to drive home the point so even Potter could not miss out on it:
"I tried to kill you!"
There was another one of those sharp lines forming around Potter's mouth, and then he closed his eyes again in a final gesture of dismissal.
"It's long past curfew, even for a prefect. Go back to bed, Draco."
It was only when he was already out in the corridor and heading for the staircase down to the dungeons, that Draco began to wonder just why he'd let that four-eyed git dismiss him like that, without even a parting shot. He hadn't even got around to smother that... that... Potter with a hospital pillow! In retrospect, he glared and kicked the wall for good measure and then limped down to his dormitory.
After he had crawled into bed, pummelling the pillows into submission and punching Crabbe, who'd had the nerve to wake up and ask what was wrong - there was nothing bloody wrong, apart from the fact that Potter was not only still alive, but a complete prick - he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least one of the things that Potter had said tonight bore further thinking on.
Part 5: Confrontation (or: Under Your Skin)
Two weeks before Christmas, the Weasel and the Mudblood tore themselves away from Potter's sickbed to assault Draco outside the Defence classroom. Or rather, the Weasel assaulted him while the Mudblood clung to his too-short jumper sleeve, jabbering ineffectively like a duck under the Babbling Curse.
Draco yelped as the Weasel's hand grabbed his collar, muffling his protests while he was dragged behind a suit of armour and the marble bust of Bethany the Bilious.
"You tried to murder Harry, you worthless little-" the Weasel growled and made to swing at him.
"And it took you, what, three weeks to figure that out?" Draco sneered, hoping that a show of bravado might delay the impending brawl. Or, failing that, at least then he'd get pummelled for a good reason. Where the hell were Crabbe and Goyle? Probably still hanging around in the classroom, snogging in the Boggart cabinet.
His tactics failed. Weasel's fist cut across Draco's mouth, followed by a sick burst of pain as Draco's teeth cut his lip. The Mudblood screeched, "Ron!" in a tone shrill enough to send horny werewolves running. It did not work on the rabid rodent, though. The Weasel swung again, and Draco tried to take cover behind his raised arms.
"Ron!"
The tone was so cold that for a split Draco second thought Snape? Then he recognised Potter's voice.
The Weasel released Draco's collar, and he landed flat on his arse on the floor in a highly undignified manner.
"I told you not to do this, Ron."
There was an uncompromising stance to Potter's posture, and the Weasel wilted visibly at the sight of it.
"How can you defend that murderous piece of Porlock shite, Harry?" The Weasel's face was beet red. He looked as if he were torn between bursting into tears and committing bloody murder on the spot.
"I told you it was an accident," Potter said, in that flat tone Draco had become unpleasantly familiar with. "Just as I told Dumbledore. I won't repeat it."
"Accident my arse!" Weasel yelled. "I saw what happened! Bloody hell, I was up there!"
Potter didn't even deign to brush it off.
"Why don't you go ahead to the Common Room? I'll catch up with you in a minute."
It was so far from being a request that it would have done Father's infamous command voice proud.
The Weasel looked as if he were about to pop a few blood vessels as the Mudblood dragged him off, scolding quietly. Draco shuddered. Just how could he bear to have those Mudbloody paws all over him? Sure, he was ugly as sin and had to be desperate, but Granger made celibacy look like a distinctly good choice in comparison...
With an inscrutable expression, Potter stared down at Draco.
I should have gone for the leather trousers this morning, Draco groused. He was beginning to feel the cold of the granite biting his backside under his stylish silk robes.
Finally, Potter offered his hand.
Draco scowled darkly as he recalled the pitch and the fact that Potter was still breathing and being disgustingly heroic, but finally he took the offered hand and allowed Potter to pull him to his feet. Potter let go as soon as Draco had stopped wobbling. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, and then Potter's fingers touched the corner of Draco's split lip and gently wiped away the few drops of blood Weasley had drawn.
Something lurched inside Draco, and a shudder ran up and down his spine on little mouse feet. As if it were Potter's fingers, skimming over his vertebrae, one at the time...
He raised a trembling hand as if to shove the Gryffindor away, and let it drop again, transfixed by the expression on the other's face.
Potter was rubbing the tiny specks of red between his index finger and thumb, as if he were caressing Draco's skin, his essence.
"Don't ever touch me again!" he finally rasped, in a voice that hadn't been this hoarse since that bloody Hippogriff had nearly torn his arm off.
Potter inclined his head a cold little fraction and just turned and followed his cronies down the corridor. As if Draco couldn't curse him from behind. As if he didn't even matter.
Yes, let the little bastard walk away from him. Draco dug sharp teeth into his bloody lip, oblivious to the sting. For that - not to mention for everything else - Potter would pay!
Part 6: The Manor (or: Where the Heart Is)
Christmas holidays, in Malfoy Manor, were blissfully Potter-free.
Draco sat in the Manor's luxurious living room, sipping hot butterbeer as his mother cast Imperius on three dozen fairies. He watched them flitting around the branches of the tall fir tree, irridescent wings glittering between the green-and-silver Christmas baubles.
It made him wonder how Potter would look, frozen under such enforced obedience, and he leaned back into the soft leather of the couch to enjoy the thought more fully.
A few house-elves distributed black candles in silver snake holders. Others draped the branches in black tinsel charmed to slither around like thin vipers. The Malfoys had been honoured with the arrangement of this year's Dark Christmas Revel, and the Dark Lord loved such gimmicks.
Clattering and shrill shrieks downstairs from the kitchen made Narcissa Malfoy pause and sigh.
"Draco, dear, would you finish here, please," she asked. "It seems like your Aunt Bella is after the kitchen elves with the steak cleaver again, and we need all of them to prepare a proper Christmas dinner."
Draco sighed. Yes, elf chops would really go down poorly with the Dark Lord. He drew his wand to direct the fairies while his mother dashed out with surprising speed.
"Don't hold it by its tail, you dumb sod!" he yelled at one of the house-elves, who was trying to wrap a bit of snake tinsel around a candle holder. The charmed little thing squirmed and bit the air fretfully. "Honestly!"
He watched as the castigated elf began to wail, beat its chest and rend its shabby pillowcase. It being female, that was quite amusing to watch.
"Draco, language!" his father admonished from the couch, voice slightly raised to be audible over the elf's din.
"I'm sorry, Father." Draco waved his wand and cast a quick Ars Vivendi Charm on the silver tinsel as a final touch. It gamely began to slither around the branches of the tree. Perfect!
"Come over here, Draco," Lucius said after Draco had dismissed the house-elves.
Draco sauntered over to the couch table and sat on an armchair. Lucius Malfoy rested on the couch under a silver-embroidered quilt, still pale and given to regular lie-downs and bouts of frantic muttering after his recent release from Azkaban, courtesy of a certain numbered bank vault in the darkest depths of Gringotts. Now, he put the book he'd been reading on the table to scrutinise his son.
Feeling a little awkward under those stern, pale eyes, Draco looked down at the book instead. CONTEMPORARY REVENGE: CURSES TO LEAVE THAT WHIMP VIRIDIAN SHAKING IN HIS SLIPPERS.
"Is it any good?" Draco asked.
Lucius shook his head. "Near-Lockhartesque popular Cursology. They just don't write Dark Tomes like they used to." He made a dismissive gesture. "But that wasn't what I wanted to speak to you about. You've received an invitation to tonight's Christmas do at the Parkinsons', and your mother and I would like you to attend."
"But-!" Draco stared in horror. Miss his first Dark Revel, in his own home? How dangerous could it get? It wasn't as if he would see his father dancing half-naked on the tabletop, or anything else that would leave lasting mental damage! Pansy, on the other hand, just might.
Lucius interrupted his protest with a raised hand.
"I realise that this comes as a disappointment for you, Draco, but everybody of import will be there, and if you consider Pansy Parkinson too pug-faced and young Zabini too androgynous for your taste, you might always get to know the Patil sisters a bit better. Humungus Nott recently remarked that they turned out 'quite dishy'."
Draco shuddered delicately. "Padma's a minor know-it-all, and Parvati a Gryffindor!"
Lucius shrugged. "Well, a few years from now Hogwarts house affiliations will have blown over - your mother's own sister was a Ravenclaw, and it's a fact almost forgotten now."
"Yes, because everybody harps on her shagging that Muggle!"
Lucius prudently decided to change the topic.
"Be it as it may, we don't want you to attend the Revel. You're only sixteen - too young to be exposed to the Dark Lord."
"But Father, you were fifteen when you became a Dea-"
"Those were different times, then." Lucius permitted himself a nostalgic smile. "As it is, our Master is not overly... pleased with my services, both during his time of absence and then during that little... spot of bother at the Department of Mysteries." He fixed Draco with a sharp look. "He might consider you as a downpayment of my debts to him should you be present, and I don't want you involved in his affairs yet."
The cogs of Draco's mind started to wheel frantically. It was quite an unusual experience for him, so he stared past his father's face, eyes narrowed and pointed teeth worrying his lower lip. At last, he said very slowly,
"Father, I would very much like to meet the Dark Lord tonight." His eyes met Lucius's, and whatever his father read in them, it made him swallow the protest that seemed to be squirming on his tongue.
"Why?" he asked, calmly.
"Because I think I would like to extend to him a proposition that might be very much in his interest and would vastly improve the standing of the House of Malfoy in his eyes."
Lucius cocked his head. "The Dark Lord reacts extremely adverse to failure, my dragon. I will not approve of any scheme that might involve you turning yourself into his target. You are my only child and heir; improving our standing with the Dark Lord is not worth your life - or your sanity."
"Trust me, Father, our Lord will be delighted," Draco said forcefully. "I swear I can make this work."
"Well then, Draco," Lucius replied slowly. "Displays of initiative on your part do not come so frequently that I would want to discourage one. Your mother, however, will not be pleased."
His father suppressed a shudder, and his face pulled into a pained grimace. Draco could sympathise with the sentiment. Compared to his mother throwing a fit, Aunt Bella was as harmless as a baby bunny put to sleep in its basket with the Draught of Living Death.
"You had better go upstairs and select your best dress robes, then," Lucius said.
And so it happened that Draco Malfoy, after suffering a frantic embrace from his mother, a strangling one from his Aunt Bella, and a warning glance from his father, walked into the presence of Lord Voldemort - in his best dress robes and with every hair magelled into place - and announced, after sinking down gracefully on one knee,
"My Lord, I would like to make a proposition..."
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling, no surprise there. I'm just experimenting with them a bit. No harm intended, no money made.
go to Parts 7-10