Dying in March
I refuse to suffer alone. So I made Draco suffer with me. I am just that side of nice.
Title: Dying in March
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Length: 1500
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco is dying in March and plans to bring Pansy and Potter down before himself.
Draco Malfoy was dying. And did anyone understand the seriousness of this situation?
It was Wednesday when he had got sick. It was Tuesday now and he was still sick, albeit without the body aches but his nose was congested, snot rolling out unattractively, and his throat was so sore, convulsing with every cough, which happened each time he took a satisfactory breath. His head was so full it pounded, rather like the one time he'd caught the house-elves tap dancing across the parlour piano. (He had promptly burnt the dratted thing. The piano, not the house-elves, though he was tempted.)
And it was, of course, Potter's entire fault he was dying.
Pansy started laughing at once. She had the most annoying laugh, loud and high pitched like a hyena. Hehehe...he...hehehaw...hehesnort...hehehehehe.
That laugh was never appreciated, but never so much than at the pinnacle of Draco's life.
"What?" Draco snapped deeply so his voice box would cooperate. It was in vain though because he started coughing, one hand clutching uselessly at his neck and the other pressing into that blasted point of his pelvis that pinged painfully with every cough unless he attempted to bruise it.
"Darling, darling, darling," she tutted, all hyena tendencies, thank Merlin, under wraps. "You haven't seen Potter in years, since he'd laughed at your trial where they'd decided you innocent." She paused, frowned, and Draco could feel his life slipping away in time with the snot dripping down the back of his throat and making him have to hack though he made this strange, kittenish sound and resisted.
"That didn't really make sense, you know," Pansy concluded, slapping Draco's knee.
Draco toyed with the idea of pretending the body aches were back so he could kill her but by the time he had decided to do just that it was too late.
He was, however, quite satisfied to say, "Nu-uh. I saw him last Tuesday. Passed him in Diagon Alley, and he kept staring at me, the oddest look on his face. I understand it now. He was wandlessly giving me a deadly disease."
"Draco."
He raised his eyebrows in question, instantly regretting it and pressing long fingers to his temple.
"Don't be such a drama queen."
"I'm not! I'm dying!" And I'll kill you first, he concluded silently.
While Draco was fuming about the injustices of 'friends' who didn't believe him when he was on his death bed, Harry sodding Potter the cause of it all and how he really shouldn't even consider Pansy a friend, Pansy stood and tapped him on the head. Draco scowled.
"I'll be back, sweetie."
Draco huffed, coughed, and crossed his arms. "Don't come back, I don't care. It's not like I need you around because I'm just dying."
Her tapping increased in pressure. "I know. I'm getting you something for the nasty cough. It's giving me a headache."
Because how dare it bother her, Miss I-never-get-sick.
"Potions won't work," Draco said even though he'd rather have her spend money on him for stuff he couldn't use purely in the hope of making her frustrated so she could slightly comprehend the pain he was in. "Nothing will. I've tried."
Finally, she stopped tapping and instead rubbed her chin. "No worries. I'm not getting a potion. Medicine."
Affronted, Draco screeched, "Muggle!" and instantly bent over, coughing up his last lung, for the other one had been lost sometime over the weekend, which rather explained why he was having such trouble breathing.
Pansy cocked her head and patronized, "You're the one who thinks Potter did this. I think Potter would go for something Muggle because, I mean, why would you know about that?" She laughed and Apparated away before Draco could control his dislodging lung enough to pull out his wand and kill her.
He was quite skilled at the killing curse, after having practiced it like mad while lying low for the duration of the war. It had turned out futile though because the Dark Lord hadn't trusted him for anything and there had been no way he was going to join Potter and his merry band of do-gooders.
Maybe he could off himself. Would that work?
Sniffling, he waved his wand and the box of tissues streaked over. He pressed one to his nose, gathering snot and courage to blow because it hurt like the dickens whenever he did.
Hurt like the dickens. Blaise and his Muggle studies were rubbing off on him. He'd have to make a point of spending less time with Blaise in the future, at least until Blaise got off his Muggle kick -- he even dated Muggles exclusively.
The next thing Draco knew, there was an insistent knocking originating from the front door but reverberating in his head. It hurt and the house-elves weren't answering the door (probably because they were pissed out of their skulls -- what they always did when the master of the house was sick, something about blaming their selves).
Ten more knocks and he was still living, painfully, and the pounding was still continuing, painfully.
"Come in!" Draco yelled, horrified when his voice came out sounding like a little girl who'd just inhaled helium.
But the knocking had ceased. Draco flopped back against the couch cushions. He had a crick in his neck from having fallen asleep sitting but if he lied down the coughing would never stop and he would die from drowning. On snot. Decidedly not something he wanted to be known for.
The visitor rounded the corner.
And on top of everything else, Draco was hallucinating now.
Though Potter looked real. He was wearing some stupid jumper with a huge tawdry H on it that looked much too hot for such a warm March day. His hair was standing on end and Draco would have thought of static had he not known Potter.
"All right?" the hallucination-Potter asked, cautiously taking the armchair across from Draco and looking out of place in the elegant room.
Well, there were tissues on the floor because Draco had poor aim, which was why he had never been a Chaser or Beater, and he had grown tired of spelling the debris back into the cans. The room was still more elegant than anything Potter had ever seen, or had the privilege of being in.
Draco realized he was staring at Potter with his mouth gaping open, nose running, and eyes wide and probably bloodshot, and he would have to kill Potter now, in all his glory when he really wasn't feeling up to it, because the word couldn't get out about how he looked at home.
"I guess this is a bad time, eh?" Potter chuckled, flexed his grip on the armchair's arms, and then stood awkwardly.
Draco managed a weak, "Why are you here?"
Oddly, a blush coated Potter's face. He stuttered, "Well, I saw you last week, you know, and I was wondering what, you know, you'd been up to because you look quite fit -- looked -- fit as in, um, fitted to a nice life and...stuff."
Draco wondered if his coming death was making his brain fluctuate or if Potter was just an idiot. He decided upon the latter. It made him feel better.
He decided to ignore Potter and accuse, "You're killing me." Suddenly he started coughing, as if to prove his point.
Potter stared and Draco started scheming how he could kill Pansy and Potter quickly and efficiently before he died himself. It would have to involve minimal movement, no workings of the vocal cords, and happen the moment Pansy returned.
"Maybe I could kill you during tea?" Potter suggested.
Tea. That could work, Draco decided. Poison was easy, quick, painful, and he didn't have to move. He'd have Pansy pick up the poison once she returned. He was too nice, letting Pansy pick her death.
"Or, you know." Potter rubbed at his neck. He sighed heavily. "Look, I'm not good with this. I kind of findyouattractive when you're not sick and thought maybe we could haveadate when you are better even though we don't like each other, and maybe I could nibbleonyourarse afterwards because damn did it look good in those trousers last week."
Rather flattered, even though it was Potter, Draco grinned cheekily, steadily ignoring the way his neck skin stretched over his sore throat and hurt. He still wanted to poison Potter for killing him. But it had been a while since he'd had anyone nibble on his arse. He had a tendency to date the folks who were into cock, which was perfectly fine but every now and then he liked his fit arse to be laved.
"Okay." Draco nodded, and then steadied his head between his hands, waiting for the rattling to stop. "But afterwards we go for non-poisoned tea."
Potter cocked his head.
Draco frowned. Potter had even made his death so terrible he couldn't be subtle! The nerve of him.
It was going to be a slow working poison.
Title: Dying in March
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Length: 1500
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco is dying in March and plans to bring Pansy and Potter down before himself.
Draco Malfoy was dying. And did anyone understand the seriousness of this situation?
It was Wednesday when he had got sick. It was Tuesday now and he was still sick, albeit without the body aches but his nose was congested, snot rolling out unattractively, and his throat was so sore, convulsing with every cough, which happened each time he took a satisfactory breath. His head was so full it pounded, rather like the one time he'd caught the house-elves tap dancing across the parlour piano. (He had promptly burnt the dratted thing. The piano, not the house-elves, though he was tempted.)
And it was, of course, Potter's entire fault he was dying.
Pansy started laughing at once. She had the most annoying laugh, loud and high pitched like a hyena. Hehehe...he...hehehaw...hehesnort...hehehehehe.
That laugh was never appreciated, but never so much than at the pinnacle of Draco's life.
"What?" Draco snapped deeply so his voice box would cooperate. It was in vain though because he started coughing, one hand clutching uselessly at his neck and the other pressing into that blasted point of his pelvis that pinged painfully with every cough unless he attempted to bruise it.
"Darling, darling, darling," she tutted, all hyena tendencies, thank Merlin, under wraps. "You haven't seen Potter in years, since he'd laughed at your trial where they'd decided you innocent." She paused, frowned, and Draco could feel his life slipping away in time with the snot dripping down the back of his throat and making him have to hack though he made this strange, kittenish sound and resisted.
"That didn't really make sense, you know," Pansy concluded, slapping Draco's knee.
Draco toyed with the idea of pretending the body aches were back so he could kill her but by the time he had decided to do just that it was too late.
He was, however, quite satisfied to say, "Nu-uh. I saw him last Tuesday. Passed him in Diagon Alley, and he kept staring at me, the oddest look on his face. I understand it now. He was wandlessly giving me a deadly disease."
"Draco."
He raised his eyebrows in question, instantly regretting it and pressing long fingers to his temple.
"Don't be such a drama queen."
"I'm not! I'm dying!" And I'll kill you first, he concluded silently.
While Draco was fuming about the injustices of 'friends' who didn't believe him when he was on his death bed, Harry sodding Potter the cause of it all and how he really shouldn't even consider Pansy a friend, Pansy stood and tapped him on the head. Draco scowled.
"I'll be back, sweetie."
Draco huffed, coughed, and crossed his arms. "Don't come back, I don't care. It's not like I need you around because I'm just dying."
Her tapping increased in pressure. "I know. I'm getting you something for the nasty cough. It's giving me a headache."
Because how dare it bother her, Miss I-never-get-sick.
"Potions won't work," Draco said even though he'd rather have her spend money on him for stuff he couldn't use purely in the hope of making her frustrated so she could slightly comprehend the pain he was in. "Nothing will. I've tried."
Finally, she stopped tapping and instead rubbed her chin. "No worries. I'm not getting a potion. Medicine."
Affronted, Draco screeched, "Muggle!" and instantly bent over, coughing up his last lung, for the other one had been lost sometime over the weekend, which rather explained why he was having such trouble breathing.
Pansy cocked her head and patronized, "You're the one who thinks Potter did this. I think Potter would go for something Muggle because, I mean, why would you know about that?" She laughed and Apparated away before Draco could control his dislodging lung enough to pull out his wand and kill her.
He was quite skilled at the killing curse, after having practiced it like mad while lying low for the duration of the war. It had turned out futile though because the Dark Lord hadn't trusted him for anything and there had been no way he was going to join Potter and his merry band of do-gooders.
Maybe he could off himself. Would that work?
Sniffling, he waved his wand and the box of tissues streaked over. He pressed one to his nose, gathering snot and courage to blow because it hurt like the dickens whenever he did.
Hurt like the dickens. Blaise and his Muggle studies were rubbing off on him. He'd have to make a point of spending less time with Blaise in the future, at least until Blaise got off his Muggle kick -- he even dated Muggles exclusively.
The next thing Draco knew, there was an insistent knocking originating from the front door but reverberating in his head. It hurt and the house-elves weren't answering the door (probably because they were pissed out of their skulls -- what they always did when the master of the house was sick, something about blaming their selves).
Ten more knocks and he was still living, painfully, and the pounding was still continuing, painfully.
"Come in!" Draco yelled, horrified when his voice came out sounding like a little girl who'd just inhaled helium.
But the knocking had ceased. Draco flopped back against the couch cushions. He had a crick in his neck from having fallen asleep sitting but if he lied down the coughing would never stop and he would die from drowning. On snot. Decidedly not something he wanted to be known for.
The visitor rounded the corner.
And on top of everything else, Draco was hallucinating now.
Though Potter looked real. He was wearing some stupid jumper with a huge tawdry H on it that looked much too hot for such a warm March day. His hair was standing on end and Draco would have thought of static had he not known Potter.
"All right?" the hallucination-Potter asked, cautiously taking the armchair across from Draco and looking out of place in the elegant room.
Well, there were tissues on the floor because Draco had poor aim, which was why he had never been a Chaser or Beater, and he had grown tired of spelling the debris back into the cans. The room was still more elegant than anything Potter had ever seen, or had the privilege of being in.
Draco realized he was staring at Potter with his mouth gaping open, nose running, and eyes wide and probably bloodshot, and he would have to kill Potter now, in all his glory when he really wasn't feeling up to it, because the word couldn't get out about how he looked at home.
"I guess this is a bad time, eh?" Potter chuckled, flexed his grip on the armchair's arms, and then stood awkwardly.
Draco managed a weak, "Why are you here?"
Oddly, a blush coated Potter's face. He stuttered, "Well, I saw you last week, you know, and I was wondering what, you know, you'd been up to because you look quite fit -- looked -- fit as in, um, fitted to a nice life and...stuff."
Draco wondered if his coming death was making his brain fluctuate or if Potter was just an idiot. He decided upon the latter. It made him feel better.
He decided to ignore Potter and accuse, "You're killing me." Suddenly he started coughing, as if to prove his point.
Potter stared and Draco started scheming how he could kill Pansy and Potter quickly and efficiently before he died himself. It would have to involve minimal movement, no workings of the vocal cords, and happen the moment Pansy returned.
"Maybe I could kill you during tea?" Potter suggested.
Tea. That could work, Draco decided. Poison was easy, quick, painful, and he didn't have to move. He'd have Pansy pick up the poison once she returned. He was too nice, letting Pansy pick her death.
"Or, you know." Potter rubbed at his neck. He sighed heavily. "Look, I'm not good with this. I kind of findyouattractive when you're not sick and thought maybe we could haveadate when you are better even though we don't like each other, and maybe I could nibbleonyourarse afterwards because damn did it look good in those trousers last week."
Rather flattered, even though it was Potter, Draco grinned cheekily, steadily ignoring the way his neck skin stretched over his sore throat and hurt. He still wanted to poison Potter for killing him. But it had been a while since he'd had anyone nibble on his arse. He had a tendency to date the folks who were into cock, which was perfectly fine but every now and then he liked his fit arse to be laved.
"Okay." Draco nodded, and then steadied his head between his hands, waiting for the rattling to stop. "But afterwards we go for non-poisoned tea."
Potter cocked his head.
Draco frowned. Potter had even made his death so terrible he couldn't be subtle! The nerve of him.
It was going to be a slow working poison.