Fic: Boy Who Cried Potter - 1
Title: Boy Who Cried Potter - 1
Author: bemygoodday
Word Count: 2,000 (this part)
Rating: R (Draco is a potty mouth!)
Summary: After Draco fails the Dark Lord he hides from his past in the last place anyone would think to look-- the muggle world.
Warning(s): No beta
Note: This story is based off of the request tmkline made.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Please read the Prologue first!
If Draco had learned anything over the last few months it was that Potter wasn't going to come. If he was, he probably would have come while Fenrir tossed him around, or during one of the six weeks the muggles had kept his arm in a hard casing, or possibly the first time he had attempted to open a can of food, or the second, third, or fourth for that matter. It was evident, and Draco didn't like to entertain delusions, but really, Draco figured that because Potter hadn't come any of those other times, that he really owed it to him to show up now.
"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!" Draco shouted as he throttled the lamp. "Come ON!"
It was his first non-edible purchase since he'd moved into this room a month ago. He was lucky enough to get a job in the coffee shop downstairs sweeping up after-hours. The woman who owned the shop, Winnie, was a bit hesitant to hire him due to his lack of any identification, but he assured her, that a lack of identification didn't mean a lack of education and surely even someone who had none could handle a mop. The infallibility of that statement seemed to earn him the position.
Because he had no bank accounts or address Winnie agreed to pay him in cash and scones-- and to let him live upstairs. The room had served as a storage area for the shop filled with broken chairs and forgotten paintings. The paintings made him slightly uncomfortable the way they never moved so he stacked them all in a corner facing the wall. He collected the cushions off of several of the room's discarded chairs and made himself a bed of them. He had no plumbing but Winnie said he could use the loo of the shop until they could work something out.
"Do you want to die? Is that it Lamp? You worthless-- you aren't even WORHTY to cast you light on me! You're so-- you-- fuck! TURN ON!"
His experience over the past few months had taught him that when you walk into a room and flip the switch the lamps should turn on. Sick of sitting in the dark when the sun decided to set, Draco bought this lamp and was very proud when he placed it in the center of his room. It was a nice lamp. Then, puffing up his chest with pride, Draco made his way over to the switch near the door and flipped it up. When nothing happened he frowned. It was sort of anticlimactic. Not willing to give up yet, he flipped the switch down then up again. Nothing. Fuck. Third time's the charm! he thought, and tried again. He began frantically flipping the switch in time with the twitch under his eye before he gave up and lunged at the lamp.
Which is why he was now stomping around his room, waving the lamp in question around, attempting to insult it into action, and cursing Potter's name.
"Potter! You imbecile! Stupid-- muggle bloody fucking lamp!"
Draco paused when there was a knock on his door. Pretending that the strange sort of hope that rose in his throat was nausea he shuffled closer to the door.
"Potter?" he ventured.
"It's Winnie, dear. Is everything all right? I could hear some loud bumps and cries from the shop and thought maybe you’d fallen."
Draco opened the door and reined in his anger. It wouldn't do to scare off the woman who controlled both your living arrangements and livelihood.
"Winnie! You look fantastic! I'm truly sorry about the noise, but you see, I bought this new lamp and it doesn't seem to be working-- so it fell over... a few times," he told her with a smile.
"You mean it stopped working when it fell over?" She said taking the lamp from his hands, "you may have knocked the bulb loose. Let's see," she continued, crouching down and pushing the prong-like end of the lamp's tail into a slot in the wall. As soon and she had, the lamp stuttered on. "There, seems to be working all right."
"Strange," Draco stated staring at the slot in the wall.
"Well, I've got to get back downstairs. Come down in a bit and have some biscuits. You're far too thin," she said over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs.
Some people liked to call things like these humbling experiences, but Draco felt that humble was too kind a word. He was humiliated. Why hadn't he thought of that? He thought the tail was supposed to be some sort of aesthetic and that perhaps muggles had some strange tail fixation, but now it made so much more sense.
He was determined never to let something like this happen again and decided that he would have to remember to look for a library. He didn't need Potter-- he had wall slots, and an operating lamp. His humiliation was forgotten in a wave of pride.
"I'm sorry," he said, "you really are a good lamp."
After staring amorously at his lamp for a few hours and telling it what a fantastic job it was doing of casting a pale glow over his floor, he headed down to the shop. Usually every few days a new flier would show up and alert those who chose to look at the peg board in the entryway where one could make some extra money. Draco always liked to read them, but so far none of the opportunities were things Draco would be able to do.
Draco liked the shop. The sound of conversations murmured all around and the heavy, seductive smell of coffee always hung in the air. It made Draco think of the rich Belgian chocolates his mother used to send him to school. Mother. He hoped that she was all right but knew that there was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He wondered if she knew he was alive, but no-- Fenrir probably never would have admitted that Draco had escaped. The Dark Lord would have killed him for certain if he had.
Which brings the question: how did he escape? Draco was still a bit boggled by it himself. He'd done accidental magic before when he was young, but he'd never managed to Apparate. He hadn't even had his test yet. However he'd done it, it seemed to deplete him of his magic. He'd spent years learning how to wandlessly comb his hair back and could do it without a second thought, but ever since the incident with Fenrir, he'd been unable. Running his fingers through his hair made him feel like a slob, like that infuriating Potter, always combing his fingers through that mess he called hair. And where the bleeding fuck was Potter? Was it really too much to ask that after all he'd been through that Potter help him out even a little? Was it?
Draco approached the counter and accepted his coffee and scone from Winnie then went and settled into a spot in the corner with them. Draco had never had coffee before living above the shop, but the smell was so rich and tempting every time he entered that even though he'd heard it was foul he couldn't resist trying it for himself. He listened to the orders of the people in front of him and watched what sort of money they placed on the counter to pay. When it came his turn he repeated an order for a 'tall mocha latte, skinny, with an extra shot'. He had no idea what any of this meant, but he'd seen the whipped cream and cocoa powder on top of the cup the previous patron brought away and needed to have it. He'd also needed to have it everyday since then because, by Merlin, there was nothing more sacred. Winnie refused to accept his money for it, the dear woman, but if she ever needed payment, Draco would gladly offer her his soul for more.
Draco liked the routine he had developed. He would wake every morning and wash up before the shop opened, then he would go back to his room and work on making it look more like a flat and less like an attic. Eventually, he would head down to the shop, peruse any new fliers, and then have his coffee and scone while thinking about how to get back to the wizarding world without getting hexed or incarcerated. Then he would head into town. His first couple of weeks he went into shops and pretended only to be able to speak French when he paid for small things so that the muggles would explain the currency to him. When it was time for the shop to close he would come back sweep and mop to floors, then head up stairs for the night to sit in the dark until he was tired. Well, he wouldn't be sitting in the dark any longer! Ha ha, Potter! Take that!
He knew however that his routine wouldn't last forever. Eventually he would need to go back.
Along with trying to figure out how to get back to the wizarding world, Draco thought about sex. Actually, he thought about how he hadn't had any. His near death experience with Fenrir made Draco value the important things in life, he'd nearly died a virgin! It was a travesty! No-one as stunningly attractive as Draco should ever have to die without knowing what it felt like to be lost in the throes of passion.
Draco finished his scone and sighed at his empty cup. "You were marvelous, as always," he said staring into its emptiness.
"The sentiment is returned, I'm sure," said a voice that seemed to be coming from his right.
Draco whipped his head around and immediately blushed. There was an attractive young man smiling at him. Well, attractive in a strangely Potterish way. Not that Potter was attractive. At all. He had dark brown hair that was clipped short on the sides and back and left a little longer in the front to brush across his forehead. His eyes were blue and shielded by a pair of glasses.
"I'm Sean," he said holding out his hand.
Draco almost couldn't hold back from answering with 'I'm single' but managed, just barely. "Draco," he said, accepting the offered hand.
"I'm sorry if this seems very forward or rude, but didn't I see you in a shop down the street last week speaking French?"
Shit. Shit and damn-- fuck too. And only because the occasion calls for it-- merde.
"Um... yes. Yes you did. It was... " Draco couldn't think of an excuse. Acting? An Experiment? Think, Draco! What was it?!
"Perfect," Sean finished for him, "flawless-- Have you lived in France?"
"I used to visit there often," Draco answered, "when I was younger."
"Well," the man said as he began digging through his bag, "I was going to be putting this up on the board today. I think you might be interested."
Draco was pretty sure he was interested too as he watched the muscles in Sean's forearm flex.
"Here," Sean said, holding out a sheet of green paper, "um, the number on there is mine. You can call it... you know, if you want."
Draco stared at the numbers on the paper trying to figure out how he was supposed to call them.
"About the ad, or... you know... whatever, " Sean said, sounding nervous. Probably from Draco's silence.
"I will," Draco said at last trying to sound like he new what he was talking about, "I'll call all of them. Even the eight, and I don't particularly like those."
Sean laughed and rose from his chair. "You do that," he said grabbing his coffee, "I'm running late, so I've got to go. You can call them anytime. Leave a message if I don't pick up, yeah?"
Before Draco could answer he was out the door. Leaving Draco alone to read the flier in full.
Looking to make some extra money?
Smeltings Academy is looking for tutors in Spanish, Italian, German and French.
Call 0181 791 9500 for more information
NEXT
Author: bemygoodday
Word Count: 2,000 (this part)
Rating: R (Draco is a potty mouth!)
Summary: After Draco fails the Dark Lord he hides from his past in the last place anyone would think to look-- the muggle world.
Warning(s): No beta
Note: This story is based off of the request tmkline made.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Please read the Prologue first!
If Draco had learned anything over the last few months it was that Potter wasn't going to come. If he was, he probably would have come while Fenrir tossed him around, or during one of the six weeks the muggles had kept his arm in a hard casing, or possibly the first time he had attempted to open a can of food, or the second, third, or fourth for that matter. It was evident, and Draco didn't like to entertain delusions, but really, Draco figured that because Potter hadn't come any of those other times, that he really owed it to him to show up now.
"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!" Draco shouted as he throttled the lamp. "Come ON!"
It was his first non-edible purchase since he'd moved into this room a month ago. He was lucky enough to get a job in the coffee shop downstairs sweeping up after-hours. The woman who owned the shop, Winnie, was a bit hesitant to hire him due to his lack of any identification, but he assured her, that a lack of identification didn't mean a lack of education and surely even someone who had none could handle a mop. The infallibility of that statement seemed to earn him the position.
Because he had no bank accounts or address Winnie agreed to pay him in cash and scones-- and to let him live upstairs. The room had served as a storage area for the shop filled with broken chairs and forgotten paintings. The paintings made him slightly uncomfortable the way they never moved so he stacked them all in a corner facing the wall. He collected the cushions off of several of the room's discarded chairs and made himself a bed of them. He had no plumbing but Winnie said he could use the loo of the shop until they could work something out.
"Do you want to die? Is that it Lamp? You worthless-- you aren't even WORHTY to cast you light on me! You're so-- you-- fuck! TURN ON!"
His experience over the past few months had taught him that when you walk into a room and flip the switch the lamps should turn on. Sick of sitting in the dark when the sun decided to set, Draco bought this lamp and was very proud when he placed it in the center of his room. It was a nice lamp. Then, puffing up his chest with pride, Draco made his way over to the switch near the door and flipped it up. When nothing happened he frowned. It was sort of anticlimactic. Not willing to give up yet, he flipped the switch down then up again. Nothing. Fuck. Third time's the charm! he thought, and tried again. He began frantically flipping the switch in time with the twitch under his eye before he gave up and lunged at the lamp.
Which is why he was now stomping around his room, waving the lamp in question around, attempting to insult it into action, and cursing Potter's name.
"Potter! You imbecile! Stupid-- muggle bloody fucking lamp!"
Draco paused when there was a knock on his door. Pretending that the strange sort of hope that rose in his throat was nausea he shuffled closer to the door.
"Potter?" he ventured.
"It's Winnie, dear. Is everything all right? I could hear some loud bumps and cries from the shop and thought maybe you’d fallen."
Draco opened the door and reined in his anger. It wouldn't do to scare off the woman who controlled both your living arrangements and livelihood.
"Winnie! You look fantastic! I'm truly sorry about the noise, but you see, I bought this new lamp and it doesn't seem to be working-- so it fell over... a few times," he told her with a smile.
"You mean it stopped working when it fell over?" She said taking the lamp from his hands, "you may have knocked the bulb loose. Let's see," she continued, crouching down and pushing the prong-like end of the lamp's tail into a slot in the wall. As soon and she had, the lamp stuttered on. "There, seems to be working all right."
"Strange," Draco stated staring at the slot in the wall.
"Well, I've got to get back downstairs. Come down in a bit and have some biscuits. You're far too thin," she said over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs.
Some people liked to call things like these humbling experiences, but Draco felt that humble was too kind a word. He was humiliated. Why hadn't he thought of that? He thought the tail was supposed to be some sort of aesthetic and that perhaps muggles had some strange tail fixation, but now it made so much more sense.
He was determined never to let something like this happen again and decided that he would have to remember to look for a library. He didn't need Potter-- he had wall slots, and an operating lamp. His humiliation was forgotten in a wave of pride.
"I'm sorry," he said, "you really are a good lamp."
After staring amorously at his lamp for a few hours and telling it what a fantastic job it was doing of casting a pale glow over his floor, he headed down to the shop. Usually every few days a new flier would show up and alert those who chose to look at the peg board in the entryway where one could make some extra money. Draco always liked to read them, but so far none of the opportunities were things Draco would be able to do.
Draco liked the shop. The sound of conversations murmured all around and the heavy, seductive smell of coffee always hung in the air. It made Draco think of the rich Belgian chocolates his mother used to send him to school. Mother. He hoped that she was all right but knew that there was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He wondered if she knew he was alive, but no-- Fenrir probably never would have admitted that Draco had escaped. The Dark Lord would have killed him for certain if he had.
Which brings the question: how did he escape? Draco was still a bit boggled by it himself. He'd done accidental magic before when he was young, but he'd never managed to Apparate. He hadn't even had his test yet. However he'd done it, it seemed to deplete him of his magic. He'd spent years learning how to wandlessly comb his hair back and could do it without a second thought, but ever since the incident with Fenrir, he'd been unable. Running his fingers through his hair made him feel like a slob, like that infuriating Potter, always combing his fingers through that mess he called hair. And where the bleeding fuck was Potter? Was it really too much to ask that after all he'd been through that Potter help him out even a little? Was it?
Draco approached the counter and accepted his coffee and scone from Winnie then went and settled into a spot in the corner with them. Draco had never had coffee before living above the shop, but the smell was so rich and tempting every time he entered that even though he'd heard it was foul he couldn't resist trying it for himself. He listened to the orders of the people in front of him and watched what sort of money they placed on the counter to pay. When it came his turn he repeated an order for a 'tall mocha latte, skinny, with an extra shot'. He had no idea what any of this meant, but he'd seen the whipped cream and cocoa powder on top of the cup the previous patron brought away and needed to have it. He'd also needed to have it everyday since then because, by Merlin, there was nothing more sacred. Winnie refused to accept his money for it, the dear woman, but if she ever needed payment, Draco would gladly offer her his soul for more.
Draco liked the routine he had developed. He would wake every morning and wash up before the shop opened, then he would go back to his room and work on making it look more like a flat and less like an attic. Eventually, he would head down to the shop, peruse any new fliers, and then have his coffee and scone while thinking about how to get back to the wizarding world without getting hexed or incarcerated. Then he would head into town. His first couple of weeks he went into shops and pretended only to be able to speak French when he paid for small things so that the muggles would explain the currency to him. When it was time for the shop to close he would come back sweep and mop to floors, then head up stairs for the night to sit in the dark until he was tired. Well, he wouldn't be sitting in the dark any longer! Ha ha, Potter! Take that!
He knew however that his routine wouldn't last forever. Eventually he would need to go back.
Along with trying to figure out how to get back to the wizarding world, Draco thought about sex. Actually, he thought about how he hadn't had any. His near death experience with Fenrir made Draco value the important things in life, he'd nearly died a virgin! It was a travesty! No-one as stunningly attractive as Draco should ever have to die without knowing what it felt like to be lost in the throes of passion.
Draco finished his scone and sighed at his empty cup. "You were marvelous, as always," he said staring into its emptiness.
"The sentiment is returned, I'm sure," said a voice that seemed to be coming from his right.
Draco whipped his head around and immediately blushed. There was an attractive young man smiling at him. Well, attractive in a strangely Potterish way. Not that Potter was attractive. At all. He had dark brown hair that was clipped short on the sides and back and left a little longer in the front to brush across his forehead. His eyes were blue and shielded by a pair of glasses.
"I'm Sean," he said holding out his hand.
Draco almost couldn't hold back from answering with 'I'm single' but managed, just barely. "Draco," he said, accepting the offered hand.
"I'm sorry if this seems very forward or rude, but didn't I see you in a shop down the street last week speaking French?"
Shit. Shit and damn-- fuck too. And only because the occasion calls for it-- merde.
"Um... yes. Yes you did. It was... " Draco couldn't think of an excuse. Acting? An Experiment? Think, Draco! What was it?!
"Perfect," Sean finished for him, "flawless-- Have you lived in France?"
"I used to visit there often," Draco answered, "when I was younger."
"Well," the man said as he began digging through his bag, "I was going to be putting this up on the board today. I think you might be interested."
Draco was pretty sure he was interested too as he watched the muscles in Sean's forearm flex.
"Here," Sean said, holding out a sheet of green paper, "um, the number on there is mine. You can call it... you know, if you want."
Draco stared at the numbers on the paper trying to figure out how he was supposed to call them.
"About the ad, or... you know... whatever, " Sean said, sounding nervous. Probably from Draco's silence.
"I will," Draco said at last trying to sound like he new what he was talking about, "I'll call all of them. Even the eight, and I don't particularly like those."
Sean laughed and rose from his chair. "You do that," he said grabbing his coffee, "I'm running late, so I've got to go. You can call them anytime. Leave a message if I don't pick up, yeah?"
Before Draco could answer he was out the door. Leaving Draco alone to read the flier in full.
Looking to make some extra money?
Smeltings Academy is looking for tutors in Spanish, Italian, German and French.
Call 0181 791 9500 for more information
NEXT