Fic
Well. I wrote fic for tangible_magic , but it wasn't bludger!Harry. Bludger!Harry requires a light touch and a sunny disposition, and I was feeling too headachey and bitchy for either.
So! I wrote Denial!Draco instead. Harry/Ron, but only in Draco's head. It isn't particularly funny, and it is rather arty, and it is more subtle than 'Letting Go', because I felt like a change.
Which they say is as good as a holiday, so yay me!
It follows under the cut.
Evolution of a River in Egypt
Or
Nothing wrong with Draco
1
Draco was waiting for the Sorting Hat to shut up so he could eat. Crabbe and Goyle had been disgusting on the train, making such a lot of noise with their grunting and slobbering that he’d let them eat his pumpkin pasties, too. He wouldn’t usually care; it was just that his head had hurt so horribly. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently; he supposed it was just excitement over the future, but the net result was that he was tired and his head ached and he wanted to hex someone.
Preferably Potter, because if it wasn’t for Potter the whole world would be properly under Pureblood Britain’s thumb, and Draco wouldn’t have to be excited about the future, because the future would be here. The Hat shut up, and children were Sorted, only four for Slytherin this year. There had been more before Potter started at Hogwarts. Slytherin was always winning the Cup, and was properly respected, before Potter. Longbottom clapped hard as the last student was Sorted into Gryffindor and Draco hoped really hard that his hands would slip and hit Potter with that same resounding smack. But they didn’t, and Dumbledore finally shut up, so Draco could eat. He quietly reminded Goyle to use his knife *and* fork, because sometimes Goyle forgot. His family had very bad manners, so whenever he came back after the holidays, it took a fair effort to get him back to Slytherin standard.
Draco glanced along his table. They had three girls and a boy. Draco recognised two of the girls from social gatherings. He thought the boy might be distantly related to the Creeveys - he had the Creevey look about the eye sockets. He turned his attention to the third girl. She was shrunk down in her seat, honey-blonde hair shielding her face. ‘Sit up,’ Draco chided, under cover of reaching for the butter. ‘You’re a Slytherin now; act like it.’
She had grey-green eyes, and they shimmered in the bright candlelight. ‘But I’m-’ she swallowed harshly, and whispered, ‘I’m a Muggleborn.’
Draco narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re a Slytherin,’ he corrected.
‘But I-’
‘Muggleborn?’ said Parkinson, voice faintly greasy. ‘Who’s talking about Mudbloods?’
Draco remembered that Mother had told him he was to begin spending more time with Parkinson, but he didn’t like her tone. ‘No one’s talking about Mudbloods,’ he told her sharply. He looked at the girl. ‘What are you called?’
‘Emily Denton,’ she told him with lowered eyes.
‘Denton is a Muggleborn.’ He announced to the table. ‘Clearly she is not a Mudblood.’
‘Why not?’ Parkinson asked, face appalled, and the new girl shrunk a little further in her seat.
It was Crabbe who replied, because Draco had considered the possibility of a Mudblood being Sorted into Slytherin and decided what he thought about it, and informed his bodyguards of what they would think. ‘’s not a Mudblood. No such thing as a Slytherin Mudblood. ’s a Muggleborn,’ Crabbe said around his roast pork.
Draco sliced carefully into his Yorkshire Pudding and ignored Denton’s grateful look.
He noticed that Potter was less disgustingly thin than normal. This annoyed him considerably because he’d thought up several good insults regarding scarecrows and skeletons and he hadn’t had an opportunity to use them yet. Potter was looking horribly healthy. The girls would probably be sniffing after him even more than usual this year. He bared his teeth. He really hated it when Potter was more popular than him.
‘Dwakee?’ Parkinson asked. ‘Did you have fun on your holidays?’
Apparently Parkinson had also been given directives regarding her behaviour. That would make his part easier, at least. Though if she thought she could continue calling him ‘Dwakee’ she had another thing coming. That Brown bitch was staring at Potter, practically slavering. He felt his nostrils twitch in disgust.
‘Dwakee?’
Potter looked across the Hall at him, and Draco didn’t tell Parkinson off when she slid her thighs next to his. He put his mouth next to her ear and said, ‘don’t call me that or I will hex you, Parkinson.’
Potter’s face flamed as he stared at them, and then he looked away, and Draco thought, gleefully, *yes*. He loved embarrassing Potter. There was nothing better.
Parkinson turned her head so it almost looked as if they were kissing. ‘I can’t call you *Malfoy*,’ she murmured.
‘Then what’s wrong with Draco?’ he asked.
Parkinson didn’t answer. She was too busy watching him.
2
Potter had been crying. Draco knew it before he saw his face. He knew it by the way he hunched and flinched whenever Weasley tried to say something. That was the way Potter was; he was properly ashamed of blubbering like a girl, and he was always defensive and sensitive and wand-twitchy when he’d been doing it.
Draco felt himself begin to grin. The world was so *bright* when Potter was down. Draco shrugged off someone’s restraining hand in preparation for a proper gloating session, and that was when Professor Snape opened the Potions door. Potter raised his head quickly and Draco saw that his face was red and blotchy, eyelids drooping like raw dough. Draco wanted to say something really good and nasty, but Snape was there, and Snape had been giving him these really odd looks recently. He kept his mouth shut. He would say something later. The extra time just meant he could work on it, think of something really *cutting*.
He worked meticulously at his desk. Across the aisle, Granger was muttering with Longbottom, the Mudblood’s mouth pinched and small. Draco idly imagined fucking that mouth. The image didn’t do anything for him. See, Father, he thought smugly, Hogwarts might have more Muggle-lovers than Durmstrang, but being here hasn’t corrupted my morals a bit.
He glanced toward the front, hoping Potter might let out a sob if he stared at the back of his head hard enough. He froze.
Weasley was holding Potter’s hand. He could see it, their hands were clenched tight together under the desk. Potter bent his head towards Weasley, both looking down into their shared cauldron, and Potter *smiled*.
Draco wanted to kill something. He wanted to shed blood and shatter bone. He saw flesh out of the corner of his eye and he took his Potions knife and stabbed it down hard.
‘Dwakee!’ someone shrieked. Draco turned his head sharply. It was Parkinson. He gritted his teeth. ‘Dwakee, you almost cut me!’ He raised his head to her face, and then back down. The knife was embedded in the desk, hilt quivering. It was a bare quarter-inch from her spread fingers. He’d been so close. He grabbed the knife and struggled to yank it out. ‘Dwakee, you’ll break it off if you twist it like that,’ Parkinson chided him primly. He glanced towards the front. They were still holding hands, and Potter was adjusting his spectacles awkwardly with his other hand, glancing at the Potion and then up at Weasley with soft interest. ‘*Lubricus*,’ Parkinson said next to him, and the knife slid up when he pulled it. ‘I know lots of spells like that,’ she told him softly, eyelids veiled over a peculiarly shrewd look.
‘Good,’ he snarled. He let her put her hand on his knee, gripped his knife a bit tighter, and went back to cutting up ingredients.
3
Draco liked mornings. People were so defenceless then. He could make them flinch or make them laugh so much easier when they’d just woken up. He liked mornings. But when Potter and Weasley walked into the great Hall he just wanted to crawl back into bed. They were *happy*. It was just like Potions class yesterday, but worse. Draco bet they’d spent all night smiling at each other and talking about stupid Gryffindor crap. Denton asked him to help her with her Transfiguration homework, and he bent his head over her notebook, ignoring the glower she sent Parkinson’s way. Denton had asked why she was a Muggleborn and Granger was a Mudblood, and he had explained it was because Denton was a Slytherin and Granger was a Gryffindor. But then she had asked about various people in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. There were two who were definitely Mudbloods, and fifteen Muggleborns. Draco had explained that it was politics, although Parkinson for some reason was stuck on thinking it was blood. Denton had watched him carefully for several minutes, and then announced, ‘it’s politics, but it isn’t allegiances to Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, or Gryffindor and Slytherin. It’s about you and Potter.’ Draco had frowned, and she had added, ‘the people who are loyal to you are Muggleborns, and the people who are loyal to Potter are Mudbloods. It’s a good thing you and him are enemies, Sir. Otherwise school would be very confusing.’
Parkinson, who’d been getting uppity, had said, ‘it isn’t all about Potter and Draco.’
Denton had faced her down and simply said, ‘it should be.’
She was coming along well. She’d be a much better wife than Parkinson could ever manage, quicksilver-smart and her malice all in the open, but Draco supposed she was too young for him. And Parkinson was too hard to really fall in love, so she was safer. Less prone to insanity, probably, but Draco would really have enjoyed courting a woman who could hold her own in other places than the bedroom. He sighed quietly, and corrected Denton when she made a mistake.
It was absolutely sickening, the way Potter looked at Weasley. He couldn’t see Weasley’s face as he had his back to Draco’s side of the Hall, but he bet Weasley’s expression was just as *wet*. He bet they kissed just like that, happy and soppy and open. He bet they’d never break up, either. They’d always be that disgusting. Potter was too fucking constant for anything else. Parkinson laid her head on Draco’s shoulder. Her scull was heavy, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her. He stifled the urge to yank her hair, push her off, screech.
Someone walked into the Hall. Draco glanced up. Granger. She walked down the Gryffindor table and slid into the seat next to Weasley. She turned her head, and Weasley turned his head, and they *kissed*. It was every bit as drippy and messy as the ones Potter and Weasley… didn’t have. Because Granger wouldn’t abide anyone tangling with what belonged to her. Potter was watching them, grinning and saying something light and teasing. His eyes were soft, and very, very slightly hurt. Draco felt his good humour return.
He *loved* mornings.
Potter finished his meal and stood up, gathering his books and waving to his friends. And then he was out of the Hall. Draco stood up, and Parkinson clutched at his shoulder like an avenging harpy, and Denton reached around Draco and punched her in the side, hard.
‘Leave Draco alone!’ she spat.
Parkinson narrowed her eyes. ‘Look, little Mudblood-’
‘Denton’s a Muggleborn,’ Draco said loudly, ‘and you will remove your hand from my person, you irritating trollop, or I will hex you so that you look as moronic on the outside as you clearly are on the inside.’
‘Blood-traitor!’ Parkinson hissed at him, and she let him go.
He rolled his eyes and Denton rolled her eyes back. And then he left. He just wanted to gloat at Potter. That was all.
Potter was in the hallway, just standing there as if he’d been waiting for Draco. Draco opened his mouth to say something brilliant, something cutting and cruel and *so right*, and Potter beat him to it. ‘There’s something wrong with you, Malfoy. You can feel it can’t you, squirming through your guts and reshaping you into something else while you’re distracted by the discomfort.’
Draco didn’t know what he was talking about, but he did, as well, and he hated it. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ he demanded aggressively.
Potter gave him an unpleasant smirk. ‘Nothing. I’m going to watch. I’m going to laugh, too.’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Draco told him.
Potter grinned. ‘You wish.’