Kitayama might be taking a picture of this (mousapelli) wrote,
Kitayama might be taking a picture of this
mousapelli

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well. that was interesting.

I hate when I'm the first person done with a test, and everyone else looks like they'll still be working for awhile, and you search for the directions that you obviously missed that's keeping everybody else so busy, but honestly you're just done and then you look like a tool getting up in front of everybody and the teacher asks loudly "Done ALREADY?". Damn Horace.

I wrote an interesting little Draco POV that started out as fun and turned into an exchange between nox_draconis, boot2head, and harry_jp from the_second_war (it's fairly obvious where things switch over). Hope nobody or their player is offended, cause I love all your characterizations.

Turnabout


Draco stabbed at his lunch moodily, trying desperately not to listen to Crabbe’s attempt to tell a dirty joke which clearly he did not fully grasp and there was no chance of Goyle seeing the humor in. He wasn’t sure exactly when he had begun to loathe the company of his hand-picked minions, but like a razor cut that doesn’t hurt till you notice the blood, once he noticed they were a smidge irritating they suddenly seemed absolutely unbearable.

Lately Draco had been plagued by the sinking suspicion that he was not turning out to be as evil as one might hope, and what was the point of putting up with minions if you weren’t going to be evil, for fuck’s sake?

“And then the doctor says ‘that goatee used to be your boobs’!”
“I don’t get it.”
“Er, wait…I think that’s wrong…”

Draco ground his teeth together and ate faster, planning to slip out of lunch early and escape the idiocy.

“See, it’s her boobs, they’re on her face….well, it’s dirty.”
“Ha, good one!”

Draco stood up suddenly, able to take no more. He heard Crabbe and Goyle call out monosyllabic questions but ignored them utterly, not trusting himself to even look at them, much less speak. He thought he would go outside to get some air and clear his head before NEWT Potions.

He strode down the corridor as though he had somewhere important to be, a talent that had been driven into him at an early age. Malfoys didn’t meander, they didn’t amble, they strode. Draco suddenly remembered that he was killing time and made a conscious effort to slow his pace. When he stepped out onto the courtyard he took a deep breath of the Autumn air, which was beginning to hold the chill of the season.

He took a few slow steps along the wall that connected to the stairs, trailing his fingertips across the rough stone and thinking. Along with the revelations about his capability for evil and his dislike of his minions, Draco had begun to doubt that he should even be in Slytherin.

He just wasn’t ruthless enough, honestly. Although he occasionally abused the weak when it benefited him, he was more than halfway sure that he would rather not sell out his own mother if he could avoid it. She did send him all those sweets after all.

He didn’t have the raw ambition that the other Slytherins had. He didn’t burn to do anything more important than pass his next Arithmancy exam, and even that desire wasn’t really burning. It was more like a persistent itch. In fact, whenever he heard that someone was burning to do something, Draco personally thought that it sounded like they had a STD and could use some ointment.

Draco had often mused of late about just how the Sorting Hat had come to put him in Slytherin. He had a particularly amusing mental image of his father skulking into Dumbledore’s office and offering to keep the Hat in fashionable hatbands for the rest of its existence.

The smirk disappeared off his face when he rounded the corner and stumbled into Potter and Boot, leaning against the stone wall and smoking. Draco wrinkled his nose. He detested smoking, hated the way the scent clung to his hair and clothes afterwards. He tried to turn without drawing attention to himself.

"Malformed."

Too late.

Draco turned back to Potter and Boot, trying not to grind his teeth.

"Boot. Potter. Skiving off classes?"

"You'd love to catch me doing that, wouldn't you, Prefect?" Boot made the title an insult and Potter's mouth quirked at the joke. "This is my free afternoon, thanks."

"And I've got Potions with you," Potter reminded. "As you should know."

"Not very bright, is he?" Boot raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. "S'why he's not in Ravenclaw, I expect."

"How did you get into Slytherin, anyway?" Potter asked, ashing his cigarette with a practiced swish and flick. "You're not ruthless enough by half."

Draco was further nettled by Potter's apparent ability to read his mind and come up with the same conclusions about his mis-Housing.

"D'you think his father paid the Hat off?" Potter asked Boot in a mock-whisper. Boot didn't laugh out loud, but his torso rather rippled in amusement, and only because Draco was glaring so hard at him did he see Potter's eyes follow the ripple appreciatively. Draco flicked his glance back to Boot's face in time to see the wink.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Draco saw the way their bodies were angled towards each other, the conspiratorial tilt of their heads and their just-barely-too-close slumps against the wall with new clarity.

They're bloody shagging! Draco suddenly realized. And although he couldn't read Boot as easily, Draco could tell from the subtle blush that crossed Potter's nose that it wasn't casual, at least not for him.

"You'd know more about than I would, Boot," Draco responded coolly to the jibe, watching for their reactions keenly. "Given your insight into my father's personal life."

Potter glanced up at Boot, and even though he hid his confusion smoothly, Draco had been watching too closely, he already knew.

Potter had no idea that Boot was blackmailing him with Lucius' things, and Draco smiled because after two months of humiliation, he finally had Boot by the balls.

Boot was smart enough to see the shift in power immediately, he wasn't a Ravenclaw for nothing, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he stared at Draco rather than return Harry's glance.

"Pity you can't ask him," Boot said in a voice meant to carry the utmost of arch apathy. "Him being dead and all."

"Pity," Draco agreed, cold smile not altering one iota. "I'm going to Potions, Potter. If you don't want points taken from your House, I suggest you come with me and be on time. For once."

If Draco had any doubts at all about the suspected relationship between the two Sixth Years in front of him, they were Avada Kedavra'ed utterly by the quick brush of knuckles that was almostsovery accidental as Potter dropped his cig to the ground and ground it out with his heel.

Draco turned without actually waiting for Potter, although he could hear him trailing behind, and was silent for the entire trip to the dungeons. Potter didn't speak, and he was just fine with that, because he was busy planning exactly how his next meeting with Boot was going to go.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, so glad you could join us," Professor Snape peered at them down his nose as they entered the classroom. Draco considered pointing out that they might be several milliseconds late, but filed the comment away for the next time he was overly desirous of incurring his Head of House's wrath.

"What are we, several milliseconds late?" Potter snarked back at Snape, and Draco was disconcerted for the second time by the mind-reading even while he was amused by Potter's blundering tactlessness. He was going to have to pick up Occlumency at this rate.

"Mr. Potter, is it your desire to have detention more times than any other Gryffindor in the history of Hogwarts?" Snape snapped, storming over and glowering at Potter. "Because you are well on your way…"

He broke off suddenly and peered more closely at Draco, sniffing the air.

"Malfoy, have you been smoking?"

* * * * * *

Draco returned to his rooms still in a darkly good mood, deliberately taking his time over putting away his Potions supplies neatly in his trunk before going over to the parchment. He wanted to savor every moment of this.

Just as he expected, there was a terse note from Boot, and it looked to have been quilled immediately after their run-in outside.

Tonight. Greenhouse. 10.

Draco considered briefly writing back and changing the time, just because he could goddamn it, but he wanted this over quickly. If Boot had taught him nothing else, it was that he didn't let other people have the upper hand with him for long. Draco did not, however, intend to reply to the message. Let Boot wonder if he was coming or not, that would be a welcome change certainly.

He toyed with his quill for a few seconds longer, thinking about and then discarding the idea of dropping a private line to Potter. Nothing actually about the incident, mind you, he just wanted the satisfaction of knowing that Boot would have no idea what was behind the infuriatingly polite [Private to Harry].

Better not to, Draco decided, moving away from the desk. He wanted this whole exchange to end cleanly. Besides, he still had no idea whether Boot actually had some sort of crush on Potter or was simply fucking him, and until he knew that, Draco had no way of knowing how far he could push.

Draco's cold machinations pleased him as he started in on some homework, only half-paying attention to the Charms essay.

He seemed to be a Slytherin after all. Funny how he'd been taught the lesson by a Ravenclaw.

Draco would be sure to thank Boot for that tonight.
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