You see, this is what good feedback does. It produces more. Yes, this is a shameless plea. No, I'm not above that. ^.~ Then again, this could be the product of an illness-induced day of boredom and ponderings on minor characters. Whatever. Feedback is still adored.
I'm going back to bed now.
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Title: Most People
Author: Kicks (email@example.com)
Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, anywhere else just drop me a line
Warnings: POV, slash,
Feedback: Worshipped and craved. PLEASE!
Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it.
Notes: Hmmm, personally, I think Crabbe and Goyle are two of the most under-estimated and under-appreciated characters in the Harry Potter world. I guess it doesn't matter which one is POVing this, since I never give name. Hopefully it's pretty clear that it's one of them though.
Summary: Someone surprising helps Draco on the way to getting what he doesn't know he wants.
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Most people think I'm stupid.
Most people are right.
Yeah, I guess I'm stupid. I'm definitely not a candidate for Head Boy, or Prefect or anything like that. Nope, not even close. When the Professors read the names of the top ten marks in class, I'm never mentioned. I'm lucky if I can pull by with a high C average.
Him, on the other hand --he's * always * on it. He'd throw a fit if he weren't. No wait; let me correct that. His * father * would throw a fit if he weren't. Snape too, probably. You don't get to be the star Slytherin without a few expectations and responsibilities loaded on. He does most of the loading on himself, actually. Gotta live up to that family name. Hell, it wouldn't kill him to get a B if you ask me.
But that's the point. No one ever asks me.
Because I'm stupid.
At least when it comes to school and that sort of stuff. Everyone's stupid at something, I just happen to be stupid at academics. Can you blame me? It's not as if I choose to lower my IQ at birth. So I can't do advanced Arithmancy or fly through Potions without the slightest confusion or grasp the concepts of Divination, does that make me a lesser person? Does it make me less capable of feeling?
Most people think so.
He doesn't. He always treats me like an equal, taking careful time to coach me through the process of star charting, cutting into his own DADA essay to help me understand mine, reminding me which direction widdershins is when it's my turn to stir our potion. That's why I always jump at the chance to do him a favour. If it weren't for him I'd have been removed from Hogwarts a long time ago and I don't know what would've happened to me then. Uncle would not be happy. Uh uh.
Most people think I'm his goon, his personal little henchman and bodyguard all rolled into one. Hey, if that's what it takes to pay him back all I owe, I'll gladly offer myself up to that service. But frankly, he doesn't need it. His father is a very thorough man, very strict. Since he was a toddler he's been taught by the best the wizard world has to offer. He knows three languages, is adept at the piano, waltzes circles around the Professors, and can haul off with his fancy martial arts on a guy three sizes larger than him and win. Trust me, I've seen it. It's kind of scary.
Nope, he definitely doesn't need a bodyguard.
Most people think he's just a snobby, rich, pretty-boy too. Now, I can see where they get this opinion. He's rich. Duh. And spoiled by it. But don't ever tell him that, he can hold a grudge longer than a gargoyle --if he doesn't find some other way to enact vengeance on your poor, poor soul.
But he doesn't like to get his hands dirty; He thinks physical violence is vulgar. With him, it's all about elegance and taste and control. He's very clean, very precise, very clever and very graceful. I don't know anyone else who can walk with so much poise in these sodding school robes or look down their nose at someone three inches taller. Rarely have I seen him raise his voice more then the dictates of a gentleman allow, and only twice have I seen him raise a fist. See, when he fights, it's never with a fist, it's with his mind and his wit or if that fails, his status. I guess that's why people think he's a snob. He is, but on him, it's not a bad thing.
And finally, yes, I fully agree that he's a pretty-boy. Really, who doesn't? There's a reason most people think he needs a bodyguard. When everyone else was shooting up into lanky height and loose, flapping masculinity, he was coping internally with his seemingly permanent 5'9" and feminine looks. He looks like his mother: High cheekbones, heart-shaped face, pointy chin, large, intense, heavily-lashed eyes and a well-formed mouth. Not to mention the small-boned frame. If I tried, I think I could wrap both my big paws around his waist. But then, I'm bigger than average. Most people couldn't do that.
But it doesn't matter what he is; all that matters is that he makes me feel like I'm worth something. I'm not his goon, I'm his friend, and he's mine.
That's why I can tell that he really isn't as perfect as he pretends to be.
You see --he's no good at feeling. He never had anyone to tutor him on how to express sympathy or compassion or love. All he knows about people is the proper way to greet them at a cocktail party. Me, I'm good at feeling. I'm * smart * at feeling. If they gave a class on understanding people, I'd ace it without blinking. He can't even understand himself.
Which is why I'm going to embarrass him a little, upset his perfect poise, give him a chance for a good fight. With gravity that is, and I'm betting gravity will win.
I'm not really sorry that I'm going to have to do this. It's the thing a friend would do. And hey, he brought it upon himself in more ways than one. It's his fault the boy rejected him in the first place. It's his fault his sodding grudges last forever. It's his fault he's too stupid at people to see what he's feeling. So I'm going to………help him. Because I'm smart this way.
Here he comes, walking up the aisle, all smoothness and grace. My large foot, his small ankles, and bam! Success.
Whoa, I've never seen two people turn so red. Or a tipped potion disintegrate half a table. Unanticipated side effect, of course.
"Draco! My table! What happened?!"
He stutters, trying to disentangle himself from the boy he fell onto. "Sir, it was an accident. I tripped. Someone tripped me!"
Time to look away innocently.
"5 points from Slytherin for your clumsiness and a detention for my table. Potter, 10 points from Gryffindor for my table and a detention for tripping Draco."
Good old Snape.
"But sir! I didn't trip him! I—"
Unfortunately, the boy can't finish whatever he was going to say, because Draco just lost his balance again (oops!) and slammed them together to the floor in a tangled mass of limbs and curses.
"Get off me!"
"I can't, someone keeps pushing me!"
"Oh please, Malfoy, like I really believe that. You did this on purpose!"
"You think I * want * a detention with Snape, Potter?"
"I don't know, knowing you, you'll probably enjoy it!"
"Just what are you implying, you—"
"Boys! Dinner, with me, no excuses. Now get out of my class!"
They go. I smile.
Most people think being stupid means being stupid in everything.
Most people are wrong.
Most people are stupid.
 Widdershins is the magical term for counterclockwise.
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