This is my first slash...I've been wanting to try my hand at it for a while now, but couldn't decide who to do (in a manner of speaking). So much of the slash that's out there features couplings that are just ludicrous. Then, in hopped that evil Plot Bunny--who's been appearing with wicked regularity--and said, "Fluffy, old girl, if you're going to write slash, you might as well indulge in some real perversity."--and proceeded to hand me one of the most absurd pairings imaginable. Odd, but lots of fun to write!
JK Rowling owns the characters and might well be appalled by what I've done with them. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Everyone hates me. Being hated isn't a new sensation for me; between fear of my family's connections and jealousy of our wealth, I've been on the receiving end of my fair share of animosity over the years. Now that Father is in Azkaban for that stunt at the Ministry of Magic last spring, it's pretty well universal: I, Draco Malfoy, am the poster child for pariahs everywhere.
Mother was in hysterics half the summer; first Father was arrested, and then came the trial and sentencing, and if as that weren't bad enough, she was voted out of the Daughters of Hecate. Black-balled, as if she was some mudblood. At least we still have enough money to keep up appearances. If it weren't for that fact, I think she'd've folded by now, taken hemlock and been done with it.
I'm back at Hogwarts now, and what happens? Slitherin is half deserted; I'm alone in our year's dorm--Crabbe and Goyle, whose dads were also arrested during the Ministry faux-pas, can't afford tuition anymore. I miss them, not so much for their stimulating conversation--let's not kid ourselves, they're dolts--but because the new sport in the corridors is Draco-bashing. I'm lucky to make it from one classroom to another unscathed.
My fellow students aren't the only ones who are cold to me. The teachers say 'Malfoy' as if the name were vinegar in their mouths. Even Professor Snape, my own head of house, purses his lips when he addresses me.
There's nobody I can talk to. Pansy Parkinson is still around, but there are some things you can't discuss with girls. Like girls--and the realization that's been dawning on me for a while now, that they just aren't what gets me going. The agonies I've had in the changing rooms before and especially after Quidditch practice, powerfully aware of warm male bodies moving with casual ease through the routine of dressing and undressing and showering...
It's difficult to concentrate on the potion I'm supposed to be concocting, thinking of all that supple flesh. This is our first potions class of the term, with Gryffindor, naturally, and Professor Snape is glaring at me nearly as much as he is them. Plus, he's assigned us a fiendishly difficult elixir to brew. We've just gotten back, we're out of practice. It's not fair!
The stopper from my flask of cobra venom rolls off the table--the table I'm sitting at alone--and comes to rest beside a Gryffindor's cauldron. "Can you get that for me?" I ask him, glancing over there as I measure three drops into my mixture.
"Get it your own self, Malfoy," he says with contempt.
Taking a step toward the errant plug, flask in hand, I stop. Why haven't I ever noticed before what magnificent eyes he has?
He stands his ground, guarding his cauldron as if he thinks I mean to taint the solution within. He's never looked me directly in the eye before, not like this. He's grown taller this summer, quite a bit taller, and I feel faint. He's going to be a big, sturdy fellow, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by a longing to offer myself to him. Let him use me, let me pleasure him, oh Merlin--!
"Stop pissing about, Malfoy," he says roughly. His voice has gotten deeper and more confident. Last spring's events have changed his life, too, it seems. "Get your stopper and stop looking at my potion. I'm onto your tricks." His voice slides up just a little at the end of the sentence. Mine is still cracking, it sounds like I have laryngitis half the time.
Some of the blood returns to my head as I bend over to pick up the cork from the floor. You must be mad, Draco, falling in love with a Gryffindor. And certainly not that one. Merlin's beard, of all the people to pick!
But I haven't, I want to protest, although I don't know to whom. I haven't chosen any of it, not being a Malfoy or a Slitherin or queer--and my heart has made this particular decision without consulting me.
Covertly, I look over at him, newly broad shoulders filling out his robes, a frown of concentration on his face as he measures out scarab powder. My foolish heart could hardly have made a less suitable choice. He has more reason to hate me than most, given who I am and what my family has done.
My heart isn't the only foolish thing about me; staring at him, I've added too much of an ingredient without stirring properly. The contents of my cauldron start to give off a noxious steam, and now everyone in the room glares at me.
"That's a zero, Mis-ter Malfoy," says Professor Snape with disgust, vanishing the brew and dispelling the odor.
Scant yards away--I can almost reach out and embrace my Gryffindor--I see a trace of a smile on his full lips. His potion seems to be coming along adequately; for once, it's me getting told off for carelessness. Me, Draco Malfoy, the golden boy...golden no more, save for the radiance of the passion I feel...
Putting my equipment back into its case, I sit for the remainder of the class, my hands folded primly on the tabletop, trying not to look too obviously at the diligent figure in the red-trimmed robe, trying not to think of him not wearing that robe, of the mysteries it conceals. Beneath my own robe, I'm in agony again, and but I know better than to ask to be excused--not in Professor Snape's current mood. Otherwise, I'd seek out the nearest mop closet and achieve release, wondering just how grown-up my Gryffindor really is. Wondering, if I asked him, if he could hate me enough to love me, to let me kneel before him and serve him...
The bell rings to dismiss us, and he files out with the rest. I watch him depart, and rise, painfully, collecting my books and cauldron and supplies case. Is this how it's going to be in every Potions class? Watching and longing, grateful for even a contemptuous comment tossed my way?
Care of Magical Creatures, too, I think. Twice a week to be near him; is that far too much, or not nearly enough? Someone's book bag slams into my leg, and I hear a passing Hufflepuff snigger. They all hate me. This is going to be the most hideous year ever.
Walking away with his mates from Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom doesn't see me watching him, which is just as well.