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mildlunacyahem. well. here it is. my baby. my very-in-progress-right-now baby. my draco story. be gentle. well, that is, i don't care, just say something :> hee
disclaimer: boys not mine, are jkr's, and if you don't know that, this'll all come as a real big shock, so um, sit down.
category: slash. slashy slash slash. this is. *faints*
rating: oh yes-- this isn't nc-17 (uh...yet) but it could be when i get to it. so. um. hear no evil, see no evil, say no evil? something like that.
spoilers: none
warnings: plus, if Big Bad Draco scares you-- uh-- i'm sorry. angst. attitude. pathetic badassness. draco go hay-wire. etc, etc. where's harry? harry, (up)coming.
summary: draco keeps a journal, draco loses some marbles, draco really really wants to get some. draco thinks about how gosh-darn witty he is. draco feels like an angsty rock star, etc.
thank you: everyone who ever wrote a badass angsty!draco. i love you all :)
~one good reason ~
``and who am i, that i should be vying for your touch
i said who am i
i bet you can't even tell me that much"
~ani difranco
So this is how it begins. I suppose no one would've pegged me as the introspective type, and I like to think I'm not. But I would concede that I'm tense. Possibly too tense to continue like I have been, without some sort of outlet, some sort of release. My self-possession is something drilled into me from my earliest recollection-- to lose it would be to lose nearly everything. Self-possession. What a joke. Many have possessed me over the course of my life, but rarely, if ever, myself. Malfoy the Younger. Malfoy the Leader. Malfoy the Rival. Completely defined by who I belong to. And who I claim I want to own.
I wonder if someday they'll get a good laugh at this, when they realize the depths to which the infamous younger Malfoy had sunk. You don't grow up like I do, without knowing that right around the corner, waiting for your slightest misstep, lies endless mocking laughter, waiting to devour you, waiting to humiliate you. Without vigilance, you're doomed. They -will- laugh. You would, if you could, wouldn't you? That's the game, after all.
It may be self-destructive of me, starting this now. But in countless other ways, I don't know what else to do, to survive. I can't even blame you, Potter, for initiating this downward spiral of mine. After all, you've done nothing if not in reaction to me, I've tried to make sure of that. Ah yes, Harry Potter, alpha and omega, Conquering Hero riding in, sans white horse, making do with an owl. How quaint, after all.
At the heart of it all, is my need to say this-- any of this, or all of this-- actually, none of this-- to you. It's like bile at the back of my throat, building and building, all the words I never say, all the thoughts I quash before thinking, turning my face and my mood and my days sour as week-old milk. Who I am isn't hidden-- isn't a mask-- it just never was. Never can be. Doesn't mean I don't feel it anyway, trying to live its paltry life inside me. A self dying to live within me... sigh... I cringe at my own melodrama. Heh. At least I amuse myself with my own patheticness.
Perhaps I can imprison this traitorous other self in paper, confine it and restrict it to these silent words spilling so readily from me. This paper would have to be my other body. Alone, silent, complete within itself, no matter how much or how little is added to it. It's better that way. It can rip (enchantments or not), but it can't bleed. It can be crumpled and thrown away and laughed at... but in the end, I need not even know. And it's better that way. This self, which is free to love, free to want every impossible thing. I almost envy it, sometimes, my make-believe other life. Dreams are as real here as nightmares. Either way, I know I'll survive them-- I won't let them have everything.
So, begin at the beginning. Or maybe begin at the ending. And so, it all ended with, me realizing I didn't know the first thing about love, or the last thing, but being able to name it. Oh yes, it had a name. A horribly overly familiar name. I won't belabor the point. You and I both know your name.
You and I both know.... and you and I both know it doesn't matter. If you find this, my dear despised arch-enemy, I'm either dead or missing or both-- needless to say, out of your hair, just like you've always wanted, eh? I can only imagine your consternation if you ever found this carefully bespelled little book sitting, innocuous as you please, right on your bed.
---
``i love so much it just turns to hate
someday you will ache like i ache"
~hole
I want to fuck you blind. I want to hold your life in my hands, in these very hands, bloodless and girl-like, and oh so powerless. I want to growl my frustration and have you quake before me. Be mine, be mine, be mine, sweet valentine. Each time I see you, I want to growl, I want to release all this pent-up maddened energy any way I can. You make me enjoy my perversity more than I thought possible, with your purity and kindness slapping me across my face, a challenge to everything I was always content being. I forget what was it that occupied me, before. I can't decide whether I want to break you, or taunt you, drive you to the edge. Oh, how I love seeing you squirm. You can't ignore this either, can you-- my presence like a fist in your gut. This makes me smile. I have you, and you don't even know it-- this is what I tell myself. I have you already. It's just a matter of time before you realize it, before you come to me. I don't really know how-- or who you'd be, then-- after all, I like the chase more than the catch. I probably won't want you, Potter, if I got you. I'm not good enough for you-- you'd never want me-- so if I had you, I suppose that means your hands are just as dirty as mine-- and that bores me to no end, Potter. Everyone's hands are dirty-- everyone I've ever seen. Not the Boy Who Lived, oh no, he's going to save us from ourselves. Ha. Those fools. What do they know? Even if you saved them, they'd just fall prey to their perversions all over again.
I watch you, I taunt you, I needle you and ignore you and do my best to make your life the same living hell you make mine, but it's not working, is it? You have your precious Mudblood and that freak boy. The teachers dote on you, everybody's hero. You're the Dark Lord's number one annoyance. And I suppose for you, I'm less than that-- some sort of lesser annoyance, best not thought of. Who am I kidding. I'm such a fool, I can't even fool myself properly. All I want is for you to feel this too. I'd pretty much hand myself over to you on a silver platter, just like everybody else. Here, take me, Potter. What? You haven't noticed? Well, I'm offering. I -have- been offering, so long now, that if you took me now I think I might just cry. Yes I'm kidding, ha, that was a good one wasn't it? I hate you, after all. There are no limits to what I'd say to fuck with your mind. Or do. I might even fuck you. Careful, now.
I pass by you on the way to my breakfast table. Your eyes track me, even though you pretend not to notice. I allow myself a small smug smile.
"'Morning, Miracle Boy." I say, almost civilly.
"Fuck off, Malfoy."
"Ooh, such language from such tender lips, my tender ears are burning." I drawl, taking my time passing you.
You glare at me, clearly weighing whether to sink to my level (once again) and engage in some sort of righteous duel in defense of your Honor (am I wrong? You -don't- think of it that way?) As usual, you break.
"Nothing's too good for -you-, Malfoy," you say, with such false sweetness.
I feel like grinning. You're so easy, Potter. So very easy. "Be still my beating heart. I think I might be blushing," I say, in the same sugary-sweet tone.
Clearly, you're not sure how to react, whether to drop the charade or keep going with our little game. I've flustered you. Again. And of course you will keep trying to pretend you're cool with it, you're perfectly "with it" in every way, naturally. Nothing a Slytherin brat could throw at you could possibly land a hit. You want to win just as much as I do, don't you. We're the same, Potter. One day you'll see. One day.
The Weasel speaks up, in his usual flushed and overexcited manner. "Leave off, Malfoy, what the hell are you on about, you moron??"
I laugh. He really is pathetic.
"I'll let you off the hook this time, Potter. But don't breathe -too- easy. I'll be back to finish you," I say, and stride casually to my table, turning back to wink at you and blow a kiss. You seem to have a conniption at this, alternately flushing beet red and looking like you're about to jump up and run to throttle me. Ah, such a sweet face you make, Potter. Apparently, the Mudblood's hand on your arm restrains you, but you seem too enraged to throw a comeback at me. Mmmm... today's breakfast is going to taste extra good.
~~
``give me one reason to be beautiful"
~hole
~~
I'm a right prick, am I not. I wouldn't stand up, I imagine, were it not for the strength of my arrogance, my pure blood lifting me up, giving me what passes for strength. I realize my fear. I realize my need. How can I not, always needing things given to me, always demanding, and it never being enough to satisfy. I pretend I have more, plenty, so much more than all those losers you associate with. In fact, I'm afraid I have nothing. I don't have any idea how you do it-- how do you manage to get them all to notice you, to admire you, to fawn all over you with no seeming effort or apparent game-plan? How do you manage to beat me at my own game without playing it, Potter?
I am a closet romantic. I think I worship pain-- not yours, mine. Why else would I even look at you? I bet that would shock you and your Gryffindor sensibilities. You don't bother needing an identity, you just fit it around you and it sticks, doesn't it. You redefine it, honor, valor, stupidity. You create new heights for it to soar in. Your defeat would be so beautiful-- so right. I used to think I was actually doing you a favor, bringing you to your senses-- and enjoying myself meanwhile, of course. It hurts me to see you. You think you're everything I'm not, and maybe you're right. I've never called you beautiful until you too, were greedy for victory, your dominance over me, your strength fisting me in the gut, spreading through my body like an orgasm.
Potions, today-- we're paired with the opposite house, again. Snape's been having a bad week.
"Need a hand, Potter?"
"None of yours, certainly."
"Ah yes, your Mudblood friend will save you once again, eh, wonderboy?"
You sigh, exasperated.
"Don't you ever get tired of harping on Hermione's parents? A bit too old to be pointing at mommy & daddy, aren't we?"
"Touche, Potter. I forgot you had none to point to."
You press your patented Malfoy-issue glare at me, a bit more ire now. Your mouth thins, your fingers clench on the table and I could see you fight yourself. Ahh, I drink it up.
"You really are pathetic, Malfoy. Well, I won't stoop to your level." Turning to
slicing and dicing once more, with a flourish of faux concentration.
Come on, you know you want me. Ahhh... yes. It's written all over you. All you need is a little... push.
So I push you.
Outside of class, we pretty much come to blows. Your eyes, the fire, the rage, is priceless. You look like you could bash my face in, but all you do is throw low-level spells at me, as if your sole goal was to irritate me into leaving you alone. I've had fantasies of this-- we'd be fighting, and then I'd rush you, and my mouth would fasten on yours, my teeth tearing at your lower lip, and the startling yet familiar tang of blood, not mine-- would flood my tongue, and then I'd punch you in the gut, and run. Run, because even in my fantasies, I'm not for real. I'm terrified.
When I wake up at night from these messed-up night-visions, the word trying to break free of my lips is what really provokes my horror. Harry, I croak. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry.... You can't hear me, but I can hear myself, I can feel myself, I can taste my own sweat, feel the sheets clinging to me as if I was in need of a second skin, as if the one I had already wasn't traitorous enough. Every lie I've ever told seems to settle in the back of my throat sometimes, and it won't let me swallow-- I can feel the inevitable urge to regurgitate, the pieces of me I've invented wanting to rip free, strip me to the bone, leave me naked. This is your doing, Harry. I want to hate you for it. But I can only need you-- without you, who would I be? What would I fear?
Ah yes, feel the self-absoption. Smells like teen spirit, eh Harry? I'm not going to break free or break out or break loose. I'll just be bitter, I think. You be the posterboy, I'll be the bellboy of the apocalypse. I guess it's decided, then. No need to write poems, now. No need to cry. It ends.
``I serve my head up on a plate.
It's only comfort, calling late."
~placebo
I dance circles around you, and sometimes I go right through you. I just, rip right through you. I think I have dreams, sometimes. I rescue you. I turn around and my desires focus and strip to their center and all I want is to show you how to live. I don't fear anything, it's my hour to shine. I've considered-- cursing you just so I could bless you back again. No one would need to know. I'd know. The moment your life dipped into my hands, warm and smelling like gingerbread cookies. Ahh, Potter, who knew? The gingerbread man.
I wait for the moment-- I know its coming. I know I can't hold out very much longer, I can smell it, my own dissolution. I'm coming undone, my heart streaming in bloody ribbons. I am not afraid, and I think this is some sort of sick anticipation. Each night, the dreams are more clear, and now I've started actually remembering them. Sometimes this split makes me question my sanity-- am I really two people? Who is this, that wants you? Why do I have to see two ways to every step I take? Maybe if I smiled at you, you'd smile back. Life is getting a tad predictable, Potter. I can see twelve steps ahead and more. It's been so long, you're starting to tune it out, to tune me out, and so am I-- bored with myself. I can pretend it's not a game I've been playing, but what's the use? I've always been told straight out, these are the stakes and these are the rules and these are the steps, and everything-- and everyone else-- that you can't use, is expendable. You think I take it seriously? Who can take that seriously? If I took myself seriously I'd have cut too deep one of those times, when I remembered there's no use, there's just no use, crying or dreaming or needing or any of it. If I surround myself with idiots, it isn't because I am one, not quite.
That's why. Do you know something I don't? That's what I want to know, really. How do you get away with it all? You were branded for a destiny since before you knew who you were, since you were born, practically-- I know all about that-- yet. Yet. You seem to always end up holding the cards. Smiling, laughing, sneaking around the edges of what you should be "allowed" and then jumping right past them. Bastard. Fighting power, you only gain it... fighting me, you only gain it. Over me. Was this what I was born for? Born to lose. To you. Your dirty shadow, your laughable antagonist, the thorn in your side.
Dreaming.... In my dream, as usual, I'm wandering in the Forbidden Forest, looking for something very very important-- if only I could remember what it was-- where I'm lost and small and nearly invisible between the trees. No one would hear me if I screamed. I don't think I would hear myself. Then I see a light-- flickering, but warm, and slightly growing in the distance, coming towards me now. Then I hear it-- your voice, strong, carrying quite clearly even as I'm quite sure mine still can't fight its way past my throat.
"Anyone there? Hello?"
"Harry..." I croak, my voice sounding like the snap and rustle of the trees, like a twig breaking under my feet.
You come into focus, by the thin light of the moon, holding a larger-than-usual lantern, as it sways in the wind.
Your face is impassive, curious, and fleetingly, I wonder what the hell are -you- doing here. Breaking the rules as usual, Potter? Well, well. I suppose I'd be grateful, if this didn't mean I'd have to come up with some sort of excuse, and muster up a couple of insults (it does take some effort after all). Maybe you're here just to see me. Maybe you know exactly where I am, and you've been looking for me. Maybe you can feel me from a mile away, like I can feel you. Maybe (this, amusedly) you wanted to be alone, with me. Definitely. That last one.
In my dream, I'm not afraid to smile at you. I feel daring and contrary. I could blame it on the spooky moonlight if I wanted.
"Why, if it isn't Potter, shoving his nose where it doesn't belong. Again."
I can tell you'd cross your arms at this point, if you weren't holding a lantern with one of them. You huff.
"Fine, then. I'll be on my way. Have fun freezing to death, Malfoy."
Well, I'm satisfied.
"Fine then." Good. Well, go, then, Potter.
But this is my dream. And my dreams are sadistic.
Instead, you sit down by a pitch-dark tree, setting the lantern on the ground, leaning your head back, seemingly engrossed in the geography of the night sky.
I sit down, as usual, by the tree opposite you. And I'm actually pretending I'm not looking at you, even though I'm staring like a complete idiot. But you never notice. And then I take my clothes off. And you don't notice. And there I am, sitting naked, leaning against the tree, freezing my toes off just as you'd predicted, as you hum some stupid Muggle tune under your breath. I don't know where my mind comes up with Muggle tunes in its sleep, but there you go.
The tree gets restless. Before I know it, its limbs and branches have wrapped tightly around me (just as I thought, sadistic forest, sadistic dream, sadistic bloody Potter). I can't move. I feel pathetic-- powerless-- paralyzed. Now you notice. You crawl towards me, on all fours. No need for the lantern, your eyes are glowing pure leaf-green. You and the tree, not so different after all. There you are, on all fours, right in front of me, just how I wanted you. Except not. Because you know. You know. I'm at your mercy and you know.
And I can't scream. And all I can bring myself to want is for you to crawl just-- a bit-- closer. Yes, closer. Touch me, damn you, I want to scream, but of course I can't. I can feel your breath on my mouth, now. You smell like forest and peppermint and gingerbread cookies. I-- want-- to lick you. I still want to scream. But I want to lick you even more.
"Say it," you whisper against my mouth. "Say it."
"No."
"Say it," you're saying without sound, your fist tangling in my hair, tugging my head back, exposing my neck.
I can't say anything. If I don't, you won't. You won't touch me.
So I say it.
"I'm yours, Potter."
"Again!"
"I'm yours...."
Your tongue flicks out, traces patterns on my upper lip, dips down, sweeps in a languid semi-circle around my lower lip, slowly, very slowly.
"....?"
"Harry...."
"Yes," you murmur, worrying my lower lip between your teeth, leaving my heart suspended, gurgling, terrified, astounded, amazed, somewhere inside my throat. "Yes, Draco."
"Harry," I sigh. You smile against the corner of my mouth.
Your hand is tight, gripping my cock so hard it's almost painful.
"Don't forget it."
And then you're gone, and I'm still lost, and I still can't move, and I wake up, completely terrified of myself. It's my hand, after all. And I'm gripping myself so tight, so painfully tight-- like I think I can keep myself contained if I just hold on tight enough. But none of it is going to help. Nothing is going to keep me from bursting.
--
Well, that just goes to show you. I guess I have no clue as to what goes on in that head of yours, Potter-- and likewise, mine. No, I don't know what's going on in my head, either, these days. It disturbs me, somewhat, but I'm used to it-- being disturbed. I should enjoy it-- I muddle though each day as though it was just like the one previous. I'm stuck in the first year, still, whereas... whereas you've grown up, haven't you? Or am I giving you too much credit? I've started to watch you more methodically, trying to figure you out-- I don't know why.
Perhaps if I feel I know you to my satisfaction, you'll stop exerting this sadistic influence over my sanity and tenuous hold on identity-- perhaps I can let you rest in peace, then, so to speak. I suppose it should bother me, that I don't mean that in the way I once would have. But, no, really, I never wanted you dead. Humiliated, knocked down a notch, dethroned, even-- but dead? Dead was never interesting-- it seemed to happen a lot, all around me. Death is for the uninitiated, which I suppose meant you-- you're either with me or against me, all that. And I don't think I had to guess about that-- I knew you were against me. I don't think I gave any of it as much thought as I should have. Glory, purity, power, destiny, duty-- you'd think they raised me in some sort of Catholic school in the 18th century. At least I'm spectacularly lacking in guilt, thank the gods. I was-- I am-- afraid of the reality behind the words I utter. Intelligent enough to perceive that reality's existence, but not enough to realize I can't just-- avoid things forever. Of course I can avoid things. What I say goes, right. I must take care to say the right things... and not let the wrong people hear, but-- well-- it used to make me feel better, anyway.
So as I was saying-- my newfound study. Harry Potter 101.
What have I learned?
You make a lot of stupid jokes, Potter. You seem to have a blatant disregard for what could be construed as your own limits. Or maybe you're just too impulsive-- or too stupid-- to ever consider consequences. You and the Weasel-- quite a pair. But I suppose everyone needs their sidekicks, even I. Someone more pathetic than they are-- someone willing to take their shit, or clean it up-- or both. Either, really. I always thought you needed someone to keep your ego in check. I don't know, maybe Weasel-boy is doing too good of a job. You seem subdued lately-- it's been driving me onward in my little project, your seeming withdrawal. Something's on your mind-- nothing obvious-- following you doesn't get me anywhere interesting lately. Not that I do it that much-- responsibilities and all. Got to make the last year count, and all that. As much as I play the chessgame of my life, I really don't think I -want- to know what my move is when I graduate. The final nail in the coffin of my self-possession, I suppose. Nothing too surprising. And you? I doubt there's any surprises to be had there, either. You pressing on, fighting the "good fight", whatever -that- does for you-- maybe it gets you off somehow. I wouldn't know-- but, I can imagine, it may feel good, being the Hero. I imagine being wanted for your blood is nothing new to you either, but you seem to lack either resentment or pride at this.
You stare down at your toast, seeming to space out there for a second. I've mastered the art of spacing out, or paying very close attention (often similar-seeming), without looking it, of course. The trick is to keep your face and hands moving, don't let your eyes fixate on any one point for longer than 15 seconds and you're fine. Your toast, on the other hand, is now suspended half-way between the table and your mouth, for 40 seconds or so, going on a minute, now. Weaselboy and the Mudblood are engrossed in what appears to be a private conversation, but you don't appear lonely or left out. You appear completely zonked. This is bordering on boring now, Potter. My drive is wavering. I'm tempted to stop studying you and start antagonizing you, just to inject some sort of dramatic interest in this little play of yours. I'm sure you fancy yourself quite the dramatic hero. Tragic hero, perhaps, even. Who can tell? Perhaps Gryffindors are way too positive for tragedy to be acknowledged-- doesn't it just mean you need to try, try again?
Suddenly, as soon as your mouth closes around your toast, you sputter and cough, earning a momentarily concerned look from sidekick-boy. You smile at him, in what I'm sure was meant as a reassuring fashion-- to me you look like a fish out of water-- but it seems to be good enough for him. After one more somewhat sickened glance at the offending toast, you down the orange juice in your cup in one gulp, close your eyes as if in indecision, and then bolt out of the hall, as if Fluffy was after you. Well, well. Perhaps I should get to the bottom of this little melodrama I seem to see unfolding here. It might be amusing. It might be embarrassing-- for you, anyway. It has possibilities, whatever the case. All in the name of research, of course. I wouldn't exactly call it "scientific", but maybe... humanitarian. Yes, that's it. Draco Malfoy, humanitarian at large. It has a ring to it, does it not? Mm, I thought so....
----
disclaimer: boys not mine, are jkr's, and if you don't know that, this'll all come as a real big shock, so um, sit down.
category: slash. slashy slash slash. this is. *faints*
rating: oh yes-- this isn't nc-17 (uh...yet) but it could be when i get to it. so. um. hear no evil, see no evil, say no evil? something like that.
spoilers: none
warnings: plus, if Big Bad Draco scares you-- uh-- i'm sorry. angst. attitude. pathetic badassness. draco go hay-wire. etc, etc. where's harry? harry, (up)coming.
summary: draco keeps a journal, draco loses some marbles, draco really really wants to get some. draco thinks about how gosh-darn witty he is. draco feels like an angsty rock star, etc.
thank you: everyone who ever wrote a badass angsty!draco. i love you all :)
~one good reason ~
``and who am i, that i should be vying for your touch
i said who am i
i bet you can't even tell me that much"
~ani difranco
So this is how it begins. I suppose no one would've pegged me as the introspective type, and I like to think I'm not. But I would concede that I'm tense. Possibly too tense to continue like I have been, without some sort of outlet, some sort of release. My self-possession is something drilled into me from my earliest recollection-- to lose it would be to lose nearly everything. Self-possession. What a joke. Many have possessed me over the course of my life, but rarely, if ever, myself. Malfoy the Younger. Malfoy the Leader. Malfoy the Rival. Completely defined by who I belong to. And who I claim I want to own.
I wonder if someday they'll get a good laugh at this, when they realize the depths to which the infamous younger Malfoy had sunk. You don't grow up like I do, without knowing that right around the corner, waiting for your slightest misstep, lies endless mocking laughter, waiting to devour you, waiting to humiliate you. Without vigilance, you're doomed. They -will- laugh. You would, if you could, wouldn't you? That's the game, after all.
It may be self-destructive of me, starting this now. But in countless other ways, I don't know what else to do, to survive. I can't even blame you, Potter, for initiating this downward spiral of mine. After all, you've done nothing if not in reaction to me, I've tried to make sure of that. Ah yes, Harry Potter, alpha and omega, Conquering Hero riding in, sans white horse, making do with an owl. How quaint, after all.
At the heart of it all, is my need to say this-- any of this, or all of this-- actually, none of this-- to you. It's like bile at the back of my throat, building and building, all the words I never say, all the thoughts I quash before thinking, turning my face and my mood and my days sour as week-old milk. Who I am isn't hidden-- isn't a mask-- it just never was. Never can be. Doesn't mean I don't feel it anyway, trying to live its paltry life inside me. A self dying to live within me... sigh... I cringe at my own melodrama. Heh. At least I amuse myself with my own patheticness.
Perhaps I can imprison this traitorous other self in paper, confine it and restrict it to these silent words spilling so readily from me. This paper would have to be my other body. Alone, silent, complete within itself, no matter how much or how little is added to it. It's better that way. It can rip (enchantments or not), but it can't bleed. It can be crumpled and thrown away and laughed at... but in the end, I need not even know. And it's better that way. This self, which is free to love, free to want every impossible thing. I almost envy it, sometimes, my make-believe other life. Dreams are as real here as nightmares. Either way, I know I'll survive them-- I won't let them have everything.
So, begin at the beginning. Or maybe begin at the ending. And so, it all ended with, me realizing I didn't know the first thing about love, or the last thing, but being able to name it. Oh yes, it had a name. A horribly overly familiar name. I won't belabor the point. You and I both know your name.
You and I both know.... and you and I both know it doesn't matter. If you find this, my dear despised arch-enemy, I'm either dead or missing or both-- needless to say, out of your hair, just like you've always wanted, eh? I can only imagine your consternation if you ever found this carefully bespelled little book sitting, innocuous as you please, right on your bed.
---
``i love so much it just turns to hate
someday you will ache like i ache"
~hole
I want to fuck you blind. I want to hold your life in my hands, in these very hands, bloodless and girl-like, and oh so powerless. I want to growl my frustration and have you quake before me. Be mine, be mine, be mine, sweet valentine. Each time I see you, I want to growl, I want to release all this pent-up maddened energy any way I can. You make me enjoy my perversity more than I thought possible, with your purity and kindness slapping me across my face, a challenge to everything I was always content being. I forget what was it that occupied me, before. I can't decide whether I want to break you, or taunt you, drive you to the edge. Oh, how I love seeing you squirm. You can't ignore this either, can you-- my presence like a fist in your gut. This makes me smile. I have you, and you don't even know it-- this is what I tell myself. I have you already. It's just a matter of time before you realize it, before you come to me. I don't really know how-- or who you'd be, then-- after all, I like the chase more than the catch. I probably won't want you, Potter, if I got you. I'm not good enough for you-- you'd never want me-- so if I had you, I suppose that means your hands are just as dirty as mine-- and that bores me to no end, Potter. Everyone's hands are dirty-- everyone I've ever seen. Not the Boy Who Lived, oh no, he's going to save us from ourselves. Ha. Those fools. What do they know? Even if you saved them, they'd just fall prey to their perversions all over again.
I watch you, I taunt you, I needle you and ignore you and do my best to make your life the same living hell you make mine, but it's not working, is it? You have your precious Mudblood and that freak boy. The teachers dote on you, everybody's hero. You're the Dark Lord's number one annoyance. And I suppose for you, I'm less than that-- some sort of lesser annoyance, best not thought of. Who am I kidding. I'm such a fool, I can't even fool myself properly. All I want is for you to feel this too. I'd pretty much hand myself over to you on a silver platter, just like everybody else. Here, take me, Potter. What? You haven't noticed? Well, I'm offering. I -have- been offering, so long now, that if you took me now I think I might just cry. Yes I'm kidding, ha, that was a good one wasn't it? I hate you, after all. There are no limits to what I'd say to fuck with your mind. Or do. I might even fuck you. Careful, now.
I pass by you on the way to my breakfast table. Your eyes track me, even though you pretend not to notice. I allow myself a small smug smile.
"'Morning, Miracle Boy." I say, almost civilly.
"Fuck off, Malfoy."
"Ooh, such language from such tender lips, my tender ears are burning." I drawl, taking my time passing you.
You glare at me, clearly weighing whether to sink to my level (once again) and engage in some sort of righteous duel in defense of your Honor (am I wrong? You -don't- think of it that way?) As usual, you break.
"Nothing's too good for -you-, Malfoy," you say, with such false sweetness.
I feel like grinning. You're so easy, Potter. So very easy. "Be still my beating heart. I think I might be blushing," I say, in the same sugary-sweet tone.
Clearly, you're not sure how to react, whether to drop the charade or keep going with our little game. I've flustered you. Again. And of course you will keep trying to pretend you're cool with it, you're perfectly "with it" in every way, naturally. Nothing a Slytherin brat could throw at you could possibly land a hit. You want to win just as much as I do, don't you. We're the same, Potter. One day you'll see. One day.
The Weasel speaks up, in his usual flushed and overexcited manner. "Leave off, Malfoy, what the hell are you on about, you moron??"
I laugh. He really is pathetic.
"I'll let you off the hook this time, Potter. But don't breathe -too- easy. I'll be back to finish you," I say, and stride casually to my table, turning back to wink at you and blow a kiss. You seem to have a conniption at this, alternately flushing beet red and looking like you're about to jump up and run to throttle me. Ah, such a sweet face you make, Potter. Apparently, the Mudblood's hand on your arm restrains you, but you seem too enraged to throw a comeback at me. Mmmm... today's breakfast is going to taste extra good.
~~
``give me one reason to be beautiful"
~hole
~~
I'm a right prick, am I not. I wouldn't stand up, I imagine, were it not for the strength of my arrogance, my pure blood lifting me up, giving me what passes for strength. I realize my fear. I realize my need. How can I not, always needing things given to me, always demanding, and it never being enough to satisfy. I pretend I have more, plenty, so much more than all those losers you associate with. In fact, I'm afraid I have nothing. I don't have any idea how you do it-- how do you manage to get them all to notice you, to admire you, to fawn all over you with no seeming effort or apparent game-plan? How do you manage to beat me at my own game without playing it, Potter?
I am a closet romantic. I think I worship pain-- not yours, mine. Why else would I even look at you? I bet that would shock you and your Gryffindor sensibilities. You don't bother needing an identity, you just fit it around you and it sticks, doesn't it. You redefine it, honor, valor, stupidity. You create new heights for it to soar in. Your defeat would be so beautiful-- so right. I used to think I was actually doing you a favor, bringing you to your senses-- and enjoying myself meanwhile, of course. It hurts me to see you. You think you're everything I'm not, and maybe you're right. I've never called you beautiful until you too, were greedy for victory, your dominance over me, your strength fisting me in the gut, spreading through my body like an orgasm.
Potions, today-- we're paired with the opposite house, again. Snape's been having a bad week.
"Need a hand, Potter?"
"None of yours, certainly."
"Ah yes, your Mudblood friend will save you once again, eh, wonderboy?"
You sigh, exasperated.
"Don't you ever get tired of harping on Hermione's parents? A bit too old to be pointing at mommy & daddy, aren't we?"
"Touche, Potter. I forgot you had none to point to."
You press your patented Malfoy-issue glare at me, a bit more ire now. Your mouth thins, your fingers clench on the table and I could see you fight yourself. Ahh, I drink it up.
"You really are pathetic, Malfoy. Well, I won't stoop to your level." Turning to
slicing and dicing once more, with a flourish of faux concentration.
Come on, you know you want me. Ahhh... yes. It's written all over you. All you need is a little... push.
So I push you.
Outside of class, we pretty much come to blows. Your eyes, the fire, the rage, is priceless. You look like you could bash my face in, but all you do is throw low-level spells at me, as if your sole goal was to irritate me into leaving you alone. I've had fantasies of this-- we'd be fighting, and then I'd rush you, and my mouth would fasten on yours, my teeth tearing at your lower lip, and the startling yet familiar tang of blood, not mine-- would flood my tongue, and then I'd punch you in the gut, and run. Run, because even in my fantasies, I'm not for real. I'm terrified.
When I wake up at night from these messed-up night-visions, the word trying to break free of my lips is what really provokes my horror. Harry, I croak. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry.... You can't hear me, but I can hear myself, I can feel myself, I can taste my own sweat, feel the sheets clinging to me as if I was in need of a second skin, as if the one I had already wasn't traitorous enough. Every lie I've ever told seems to settle in the back of my throat sometimes, and it won't let me swallow-- I can feel the inevitable urge to regurgitate, the pieces of me I've invented wanting to rip free, strip me to the bone, leave me naked. This is your doing, Harry. I want to hate you for it. But I can only need you-- without you, who would I be? What would I fear?
Ah yes, feel the self-absoption. Smells like teen spirit, eh Harry? I'm not going to break free or break out or break loose. I'll just be bitter, I think. You be the posterboy, I'll be the bellboy of the apocalypse. I guess it's decided, then. No need to write poems, now. No need to cry. It ends.
``I serve my head up on a plate.
It's only comfort, calling late."
~placebo
I dance circles around you, and sometimes I go right through you. I just, rip right through you. I think I have dreams, sometimes. I rescue you. I turn around and my desires focus and strip to their center and all I want is to show you how to live. I don't fear anything, it's my hour to shine. I've considered-- cursing you just so I could bless you back again. No one would need to know. I'd know. The moment your life dipped into my hands, warm and smelling like gingerbread cookies. Ahh, Potter, who knew? The gingerbread man.
I wait for the moment-- I know its coming. I know I can't hold out very much longer, I can smell it, my own dissolution. I'm coming undone, my heart streaming in bloody ribbons. I am not afraid, and I think this is some sort of sick anticipation. Each night, the dreams are more clear, and now I've started actually remembering them. Sometimes this split makes me question my sanity-- am I really two people? Who is this, that wants you? Why do I have to see two ways to every step I take? Maybe if I smiled at you, you'd smile back. Life is getting a tad predictable, Potter. I can see twelve steps ahead and more. It's been so long, you're starting to tune it out, to tune me out, and so am I-- bored with myself. I can pretend it's not a game I've been playing, but what's the use? I've always been told straight out, these are the stakes and these are the rules and these are the steps, and everything-- and everyone else-- that you can't use, is expendable. You think I take it seriously? Who can take that seriously? If I took myself seriously I'd have cut too deep one of those times, when I remembered there's no use, there's just no use, crying or dreaming or needing or any of it. If I surround myself with idiots, it isn't because I am one, not quite.
That's why. Do you know something I don't? That's what I want to know, really. How do you get away with it all? You were branded for a destiny since before you knew who you were, since you were born, practically-- I know all about that-- yet. Yet. You seem to always end up holding the cards. Smiling, laughing, sneaking around the edges of what you should be "allowed" and then jumping right past them. Bastard. Fighting power, you only gain it... fighting me, you only gain it. Over me. Was this what I was born for? Born to lose. To you. Your dirty shadow, your laughable antagonist, the thorn in your side.
Dreaming.... In my dream, as usual, I'm wandering in the Forbidden Forest, looking for something very very important-- if only I could remember what it was-- where I'm lost and small and nearly invisible between the trees. No one would hear me if I screamed. I don't think I would hear myself. Then I see a light-- flickering, but warm, and slightly growing in the distance, coming towards me now. Then I hear it-- your voice, strong, carrying quite clearly even as I'm quite sure mine still can't fight its way past my throat.
"Anyone there? Hello?"
"Harry..." I croak, my voice sounding like the snap and rustle of the trees, like a twig breaking under my feet.
You come into focus, by the thin light of the moon, holding a larger-than-usual lantern, as it sways in the wind.
Your face is impassive, curious, and fleetingly, I wonder what the hell are -you- doing here. Breaking the rules as usual, Potter? Well, well. I suppose I'd be grateful, if this didn't mean I'd have to come up with some sort of excuse, and muster up a couple of insults (it does take some effort after all). Maybe you're here just to see me. Maybe you know exactly where I am, and you've been looking for me. Maybe you can feel me from a mile away, like I can feel you. Maybe (this, amusedly) you wanted to be alone, with me. Definitely. That last one.
In my dream, I'm not afraid to smile at you. I feel daring and contrary. I could blame it on the spooky moonlight if I wanted.
"Why, if it isn't Potter, shoving his nose where it doesn't belong. Again."
I can tell you'd cross your arms at this point, if you weren't holding a lantern with one of them. You huff.
"Fine, then. I'll be on my way. Have fun freezing to death, Malfoy."
Well, I'm satisfied.
"Fine then." Good. Well, go, then, Potter.
But this is my dream. And my dreams are sadistic.
Instead, you sit down by a pitch-dark tree, setting the lantern on the ground, leaning your head back, seemingly engrossed in the geography of the night sky.
I sit down, as usual, by the tree opposite you. And I'm actually pretending I'm not looking at you, even though I'm staring like a complete idiot. But you never notice. And then I take my clothes off. And you don't notice. And there I am, sitting naked, leaning against the tree, freezing my toes off just as you'd predicted, as you hum some stupid Muggle tune under your breath. I don't know where my mind comes up with Muggle tunes in its sleep, but there you go.
The tree gets restless. Before I know it, its limbs and branches have wrapped tightly around me (just as I thought, sadistic forest, sadistic dream, sadistic bloody Potter). I can't move. I feel pathetic-- powerless-- paralyzed. Now you notice. You crawl towards me, on all fours. No need for the lantern, your eyes are glowing pure leaf-green. You and the tree, not so different after all. There you are, on all fours, right in front of me, just how I wanted you. Except not. Because you know. You know. I'm at your mercy and you know.
And I can't scream. And all I can bring myself to want is for you to crawl just-- a bit-- closer. Yes, closer. Touch me, damn you, I want to scream, but of course I can't. I can feel your breath on my mouth, now. You smell like forest and peppermint and gingerbread cookies. I-- want-- to lick you. I still want to scream. But I want to lick you even more.
"Say it," you whisper against my mouth. "Say it."
"No."
"Say it," you're saying without sound, your fist tangling in my hair, tugging my head back, exposing my neck.
I can't say anything. If I don't, you won't. You won't touch me.
So I say it.
"I'm yours, Potter."
"Again!"
"I'm yours...."
Your tongue flicks out, traces patterns on my upper lip, dips down, sweeps in a languid semi-circle around my lower lip, slowly, very slowly.
"....?"
"Harry...."
"Yes," you murmur, worrying my lower lip between your teeth, leaving my heart suspended, gurgling, terrified, astounded, amazed, somewhere inside my throat. "Yes, Draco."
"Harry," I sigh. You smile against the corner of my mouth.
Your hand is tight, gripping my cock so hard it's almost painful.
"Don't forget it."
And then you're gone, and I'm still lost, and I still can't move, and I wake up, completely terrified of myself. It's my hand, after all. And I'm gripping myself so tight, so painfully tight-- like I think I can keep myself contained if I just hold on tight enough. But none of it is going to help. Nothing is going to keep me from bursting.
--
Well, that just goes to show you. I guess I have no clue as to what goes on in that head of yours, Potter-- and likewise, mine. No, I don't know what's going on in my head, either, these days. It disturbs me, somewhat, but I'm used to it-- being disturbed. I should enjoy it-- I muddle though each day as though it was just like the one previous. I'm stuck in the first year, still, whereas... whereas you've grown up, haven't you? Or am I giving you too much credit? I've started to watch you more methodically, trying to figure you out-- I don't know why.
Perhaps if I feel I know you to my satisfaction, you'll stop exerting this sadistic influence over my sanity and tenuous hold on identity-- perhaps I can let you rest in peace, then, so to speak. I suppose it should bother me, that I don't mean that in the way I once would have. But, no, really, I never wanted you dead. Humiliated, knocked down a notch, dethroned, even-- but dead? Dead was never interesting-- it seemed to happen a lot, all around me. Death is for the uninitiated, which I suppose meant you-- you're either with me or against me, all that. And I don't think I had to guess about that-- I knew you were against me. I don't think I gave any of it as much thought as I should have. Glory, purity, power, destiny, duty-- you'd think they raised me in some sort of Catholic school in the 18th century. At least I'm spectacularly lacking in guilt, thank the gods. I was-- I am-- afraid of the reality behind the words I utter. Intelligent enough to perceive that reality's existence, but not enough to realize I can't just-- avoid things forever. Of course I can avoid things. What I say goes, right. I must take care to say the right things... and not let the wrong people hear, but-- well-- it used to make me feel better, anyway.
So as I was saying-- my newfound study. Harry Potter 101.
What have I learned?
You make a lot of stupid jokes, Potter. You seem to have a blatant disregard for what could be construed as your own limits. Or maybe you're just too impulsive-- or too stupid-- to ever consider consequences. You and the Weasel-- quite a pair. But I suppose everyone needs their sidekicks, even I. Someone more pathetic than they are-- someone willing to take their shit, or clean it up-- or both. Either, really. I always thought you needed someone to keep your ego in check. I don't know, maybe Weasel-boy is doing too good of a job. You seem subdued lately-- it's been driving me onward in my little project, your seeming withdrawal. Something's on your mind-- nothing obvious-- following you doesn't get me anywhere interesting lately. Not that I do it that much-- responsibilities and all. Got to make the last year count, and all that. As much as I play the chessgame of my life, I really don't think I -want- to know what my move is when I graduate. The final nail in the coffin of my self-possession, I suppose. Nothing too surprising. And you? I doubt there's any surprises to be had there, either. You pressing on, fighting the "good fight", whatever -that- does for you-- maybe it gets you off somehow. I wouldn't know-- but, I can imagine, it may feel good, being the Hero. I imagine being wanted for your blood is nothing new to you either, but you seem to lack either resentment or pride at this.
You stare down at your toast, seeming to space out there for a second. I've mastered the art of spacing out, or paying very close attention (often similar-seeming), without looking it, of course. The trick is to keep your face and hands moving, don't let your eyes fixate on any one point for longer than 15 seconds and you're fine. Your toast, on the other hand, is now suspended half-way between the table and your mouth, for 40 seconds or so, going on a minute, now. Weaselboy and the Mudblood are engrossed in what appears to be a private conversation, but you don't appear lonely or left out. You appear completely zonked. This is bordering on boring now, Potter. My drive is wavering. I'm tempted to stop studying you and start antagonizing you, just to inject some sort of dramatic interest in this little play of yours. I'm sure you fancy yourself quite the dramatic hero. Tragic hero, perhaps, even. Who can tell? Perhaps Gryffindors are way too positive for tragedy to be acknowledged-- doesn't it just mean you need to try, try again?
Suddenly, as soon as your mouth closes around your toast, you sputter and cough, earning a momentarily concerned look from sidekick-boy. You smile at him, in what I'm sure was meant as a reassuring fashion-- to me you look like a fish out of water-- but it seems to be good enough for him. After one more somewhat sickened glance at the offending toast, you down the orange juice in your cup in one gulp, close your eyes as if in indecision, and then bolt out of the hall, as if Fluffy was after you. Well, well. Perhaps I should get to the bottom of this little melodrama I seem to see unfolding here. It might be amusing. It might be embarrassing-- for you, anyway. It has possibilities, whatever the case. All in the name of research, of course. I wouldn't exactly call it "scientific", but maybe... humanitarian. Yes, that's it. Draco Malfoy, humanitarian at large. It has a ring to it, does it not? Mm, I thought so....
----