Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Malfoy Sensibilities ❯ Malfoy Sensibilities ( One-Shot )

Title: Malfoy Sensibilities (1 of 1)

Author: Paola

Disclaimer: Malfoy Sensibilities is based on characters and situations that belong to J.K. Rowling; publishers that include, but may not be limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages and people, dead or alive, are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author's.

Rating: T mostly, but M for language and occasional adult situations

Warning: Crack!fic, sort of, I guess, maybe. Slash, too. You have been warned.

 

Malfoy Sensibilities

 

It's one thing to have to spend hours to get his hair perfect, but it's quite a different thing altogether to have to spend hours to get his hair perfect in front of an uncooperative mirror. Really, does Hogwarts ever have anything that knows its place is beneath Draco Malfoy's station in life, which is so high up even Harry bloody Potter's flying skills can't endeavour to reach, and should therefore not be allowed to be uncooperative in any way or form, living or otherwise?

 

Flicking the errant strands insouciantly — because he can't do it irritably, heaven forbid, that is such a plebeian thing to do, and his standards simply can't be compromised, unless, of course, it involves some promising hay rolling, which he's all for, thank you very much — away from his eyes, he gives a slightly strained smile to said mirror, which is too busy flirting with him to properly do its supposed job of, well, reflecting his reflection.

 

“What, Draco, checking yourself out again? Gods in tutus, if you get any queerer you'd be contagious.”

 

Zabini's been listening too much to how Draco talks — surely someone like him can't have come up with a line like that on his own.

 

“That sneer, Zabini, sweetheart, is just delightfully perfect for someone who fantasized about a certain god in a tutu while competing in the solo Olympics in the common room last night. Tell me, was Potter wearing blue or pink, lace or ruffles?”

 

Draco suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, does he think nobody will ever find out his kink? What a closet wanker, this one is. Shaking hot white coconuts from the veiny love tree in the common room of all places! How cursed can he get to have to share a House with purebloods turning into bloody plebeian tossers by the hour? Not that he can really blame Zabini for his choice of wank fantasy — after the war, Potter just seems to have suddenly become a fine specimen these days that Draco thinks if he weren't such a Gryffindor he'd have a go at the Boy-Who-Lived himself. Preferably, of course, before the rest of the world gets to him. He swears that the Pasty-Snake-Man's only reason for pursuing Potter was to fulfil some perverted desire.

 

Ugh, now he's thinking it. God, I've just scarred myself for life!

 

Zabini's eyes flash although he recovers quickly, but Draco thinks he's too far above him to feel alarmed. Nobody, after all, plays this game better than he does. In fact, he plays it so well he might as well have been the one who invented it. My lord, what did people do for entertainment when I wasn't born yet?

 

“Jealous?”

 

Jealous, he says. As if. Draco throws his head back and laughs before sauntering over to the surprised boy, lifting a lofty hand to pat him on the cheek patronizingly. “I might be, if I weren't so much better than you.” And then he sweeps out of the bathroom, dramatically, like how he usually prefers his exits. He can live for a day without fixing his hair immaculately; after all, there's nothing sexier than after-shag mussed-up hair. They don't need to know there hasn't really been a shag to blame it on. At least, not this one time.

 

o-o

 

There's something to be said about snogging one of the hottest girls in school in the middle of a school corridor. And there's something to be said about being interrupted in the middle of a hot game of tonsil hockey with said girl in the exact same corridor — mainly “annoying.”

 

“Stand in the queue, Granger, and maybe I'll suffer a personality change and snog you, too,” he says in that sexy drawl of his. Oh yes, he knows it's sexy; he's heard one of the Patil twins call him a sex ranger because of it. Too bad Granger's too much of an uptight prude to appreciate his aphrodisiacal way with words. Clearly, one can't have everything. Even someone so gifted as he doesn't have ev— wait, he has money, he has looks, brains, innate talent, he has a godly oomph, okay, so he's the exception to the rule — still, for the sake of making a point, he maintains that one can't have it all.

 

Surveying the damage he's probably done, he takes note of how he finds it outstandingly entertaining to see the Mudblood, well, heroic Mudbl — fine, Muggle-born — go as red as the Weasel's hair.

 

“You should not be engaging in public displays of affection, Malfoy. Set an example!”

 

Just because she's not getting any doesn't mean she should go all prudish on them. Honestly, is everyone out to stymie his pursuit of worldly pleasures just because he was late in going over to the Light side? Hasn't anybody ever heard of the art of being “fashionably late?” It was bad enough that Blaise Closet-Poof Zabini cut down his mirror time.

 

Ugh, thinking of which, he should have that wanker gaoled! As a general rule, nobody curtails a Malfoy's mirror time. It's like Draco wearing anything but bespoke robes and footwear: It just doesn't happen — upsets the flow of the grand scheme of things or something.

 

He turns to the girl he's been happily kissing before the arrival of the Golden Trio has disturbed them then pats her rump. “Go on, pet, I still have inconsiderate subjects demanding my attention.” And then, ever so slowly, like he has all the leisure in the world, he turns back to said inconsiderate Gryffindors. “So, Granger, I suppose you're next in line. Have you brushed your teeth?”

 

“Bugger off, Malfoy, you prat!”

 

Ah, the sound of an angered knight out to save his damsel in distress, only Weasley's too poor to have an armour, much less a white horse, and Granger's too pleb to be a proper damsel. A distressing damsel, maybe, but a damsel in distress? That's a laugh and a half!

 

“You'd like that, won't you? Buggering. First Zabini, then now you, Ronnie baby. I know I'm such a delectable hunk of flesh, but show some restraint! Besides, I'm delicate, you know, I don't do rough: I don't `bugger;' I `lie with.' Unless properly convinced, of course.”

 

He's not surprised when Weasley moves to lunge at him, but he's surprised when Potter holds his raging friend back. What's gotten into his head anyway? Potter's really been surprising him recently, choosing to ignore him instead of fighting back, like he used to. Shame, he's always loved winding up the Golden Boy, too. Not in the sense that's a mite more appealing, however. Again, shame.

 

“No, Ron, you don't want a detention because of him,” the Boy-Who-Just-Won't-Keel-Over says. “He's not worth it.”

 

“Thrilling, Potter, I see you still hold me in such high regard.”

 

“Come on, let's go to breakfast,” Hermi-what's-her-name says, glaring at him once more before marching off towards the Great Hall with Potter and Weasley in tow.

 

What, is “ignore Draco” the new in thing now? Draco huffs and non-pouts — because Malfoys simply do not pout, it's like a universal convention: they sneer, they smirk, and they non-pout — at being cast aside quite unceremoniously. Who does Potter think he is to ignore him like that? The bastard. Hot, yes, but a bastard all the same. Don't they know that disrespect towards Malfoys was punishable by death in the ancient times? Doesn't anyone uphold the grandeur of the past anymore? Damn all history books for not emphasizing that fact more!

 

o-o

 

Potions is a class he's terribly good at but doesn't really enjoy, at least, you know, not deep down. For one thing, brewing stinks. Literally. Can't they include perfume or something? Or fragrant oils? Has the professor never heard of a fragrance charm before? Seriously! He's had to bathe thrice daily because of Potions class! Not that the new professor-who-disturbingly-resembles-Snape, both in attitude and appearance, is not an absolute joy — because he is since he's too biased towards Slytherin — but he's really tempted to drop the subject due to the stench alone. If he weren't so good at it, he might just have.

 

Now that he's got his attention on the new professor, he squints from where he sits to get a better look. Hm, he's not so bad to look at, he supposes. Just a little more trimming needed, perhaps. A little more colour in his wardrobe, can't hurt either. Or, well, an extensive plastic surgery by a world-class Healer, and Snape-wannabe will be the best looking guy out there. After him, of course. Oh, and after Potter, too.

 

Okay, so the new professor is a pleasure to look at in the way that it's a pleasure to look at Slughorn, which is…not.

 

Gods, it's a good thing Draco has higher standards or he'll be like a dog in heat like Longbottom, that masochistic little Gryff.

 

“Felix Felicitus, sir.” Granger looks deliciously affronted that it's him who got called to answer. Ha-ha, take that, you mousy, little, fashion-challenged know-it-all! She isn't the only one with brains in this class, you know, so she really should get off her high too-know-it-all horse.

 

“As expected, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin.”

 

He practically preens at that. This class certainly has its rewards. Not to mention that he's Snape-Look-Alike's favourite student, just like the real Snape. Oh, he just loves Potions! Just not, well, deep, deep down in his heart of hearts.

 

“Now, I want everyone to brew a perfect batch of Felix Felicitus, and that means no screwing up, Longbottom.” Draco thinks he can see Longbottom swoon. That kinky little do-gooder.

 

And then Mr. Snape-Look-Alike proceeds to assign them partners.

 

Oh, he just has to give Snape-wannabe points for knowing how to make a class interesting, partnering each student with someone from another House; even Snape Sr. didn't think of that when he was alive and kicking, or, well, alive and scowling. Luckily for him, he gets drool-worthy Potter, not that he ever drools for anyone of course. Unluckily for him, the prick is still such a Gryffindor, such a poster boy for everything that's light and holy and good and fluffily bunny-eared. Not to mention that he's his “arch-nemesis.” But that doesn't matter. It's just so exotically thrilling, this tension between rival Houses! Of course, Potter doesn't quite have an idea that such tension exists, but Draco will get to that. Eventually. Just right after he gets over the fact that I'm-Too-Sexy-In-Quidditch-Robes Potter is such a pansy Gryff.

 

“We brew this my way, Potter,” he says in that lilting manner that usually sends women swooning, much like Longbottom when being embarrassed by Snape-Junior-Of-Sorts. Not that it really has any effect on the Boy-Who-Had-A-Perverted-Snake-Man-After-His-Arse. Draco almost sighs. It's a good thing Potter is blessed with good looks — he's as dense as highly compacted cement! He fervently hopes Potter's brain hasn't gotten too addled by the war because wouldn't that be just bloody fantastic? He quashes the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Or what, exactly, Malfoy?”

 

“Or I'll rape you.”

 

Potter actually looks amused. “You're unhinged, Malfoy. Your sense of humour is disturbing.”

 

Draco regally arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow because that's the only way Malfoys know how to raise perfectly plucked eyebrows. Well, there's the case of Aunt Durilda Luveday who prefers a bushy unibrow, but the family tends to forget she exists. “Who says I'm kidding?”

 

Potter reaches for an ingredient, inadvertently leaning closer to Draco and probably causing his heart rate to speed up. Just a little. But it's probably more because of the thought of having to brew such a fine potion and not because he can just smell soap and subtle cinnamon on Potter's person.

 

“Okay, fine, I mess up, you rape me.”

 

This time, it's Draco who's amused. And very much so. “I didn't think you had a sense of humour, Golden Boy. You continuously astound me with your nearly non-existent personality. How lovely.”

 

Potter shrugs, like it's usual to have this kind of conversation with him, and he does it so casually, almost like an innocent come-hither motion of the shoulders. Draco is attacked with the sudden urge to cop a feel. Not that he would indulge the idea of course. That is just too tawdry for his taste. Tempting, but too plebeian, so no thanks.

 

“Come on, Malfoy, get to work. I'm not your slave to be doing all the cutting and slicing myself.”

 

He rakes his gaze over the ingredients, but keeps his hands away from touching anything. “You do realize, Potter, that you have just bargained your virginity, don't you?” Cue tauntingly sexy smirk. Ah, he's such a professional at this, he thinks he might just pat himself on the back. Or he can just move closer to Potter and have the privilege of inhaling his scent as a reward.

 

Potter pauses in what he's doing and turns to him, the little red high on his cheeks tells Draco “virginity” is really the word for it. He almost laughs out loud at that. The Boy-Who-Almost-Had-His-Arse-Raped-By-A-Creepy-Pervert-Called-You-Know-Who is a bloody virgin. This is just too, too amazingly precious!

 

“You know, Malfoy, you just made me seriously wonder if you're still kidding.”

 

Draco grins just a little too gleefully, a little too Slytherin-ly, and he's also just a little too chuffed with himself. “Oh, scarface, wouldn't you have fun discovering the truth?”

 

o-o

 

“You know, I've heard he flies on both sides of the Quidditch pitch. Disgusting, that Malfoy is,” Ron shares with Granger and Potter, and Draco just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes; eye-rolling is so unforgivably undignified. They're just sitting two tables away from him, do they really think he can't hear them? Honestly. Is the Great-Sidekick-To-The-Vanquisher-Of-Perverted-Evilness a homophobe? Or, well, a bisexual-phobe, what's it called again? And Merlin, his sexuality is such old news! He wonders just how much this no-life trio has been so wrapped up on saving the Wizarding world one Voldemort arse-kicking at a time that they're so ignorant of anything that's happening in the halls of Hogwarts.

 

“It's none of our business, Ronald,” he hears Granger say, although she looks sick at the thought of actually defending him. Still, he has to give her points for having tact, which the Weasel, apparently, has a depleting supply of.

 

“But, Hermione, Harry said Malfoy threatened to rape him! That's just sick!”

 

Honestly, these pathetic wankers are just too — well, pathetic. And they call him the bad guy! He's more sinned against than sinning, does anyone even realize that?

 

“I didn't say `threaten,' Ron. I just said `he said' because you were asking what we were talking about. Calm down, Ron. We're ignoring him, remember? He's unhinged, you have to forgive him.”

 

He is so not unhinged! And did Potter just patronize him? Discrimination against the mentally unstable! Not that he's one of them of course.

 

“Blimey, Harry, don't you care? How can you not!” Okay, now Weasley is just working himself up in a dither. Not the classiest thing to be doing.

 

Granger sighs exasperatedly, and Draco sides with her on this one: The fucking Weasel is really exasperating.

 

“It was obviously a joke, Ron. Why would Harry care? You know, Harry's right. Our lives will be better if we just ignore Malfoy's antics. Don't expend too much energy on his behalf, Ron.”

 

Ron splutters, but before he can continue, Draco sidles over to their group, draping an arm lazily around Potter's shoulders. “Do you know what lover boy has actually signed away, Weasley? He's practically offered it to me for free!” He winks at Granger, and the way she instantly turns red indicates that she has gotten exactly what he means. Clever girl, he can just kiss her. Except he won't because she's a Mudb — okay, okay, a Muggle-born. Damn anti-discriminatory policies just because the evil of all arse-obsessed evils has been defeated!

 

Weasley takes a swing, barely missing Potter's head as he ducks right away when Draco extricates himself from the Golden Boy.

 

“Ron! You almost hit Harry!”

 

“Ron! You almost hit me!”

 

“Ron! You almost hit my lover!”

 

If Weasley gets any redder, he'd be sucking the red spectrum dry, and then they'd be one colour short.

 

Draco laughs, satisfied with himself because, truthfully, who isn't satisfied with Draco Malfoy? His sex appeal is enough to compete with the Earth's gravity, the way girls and boys alike gravitate towards him. Gods, he's too sinful, he's almost like chocolate, except better.

 

Still grinning at Weasley's scandalized expression, he ambles towards the door, waving at the Golden Trio. “Be seeing you, my deprived, little Gryffindors, preferably in the not-so-near future, but with your tendency to sprout just about everywhere like fungi, there's really no telling. Except you, love bunny, you can come to me anytime. And yes, I'm talking to you, Weasley.” Weasley's extra-scandalized expression is positively orgasmic.

 

“Hey! Watch where you're— Oh, why, hello there, Professor McGonagall, Headmistress extraordinaire. I didn't see you hovering by my path. How very lovely to see you! I would insist on tea and crumpets, but alas, I'm afraid these precious, virginal Gryffindors have caused me a terrible headache, so I must lie my head down in the infirmary for a while. But don't worry about me, I shall live to see another day.” Cue sweeping robes. Gods, he's really good at this! He really should consider patting himself on the back. Who cares if McPrudish takes away ten points from Slytherin?

 

o-o

 

There's nothing more refreshing than a secret shag in one of the classrooms when it's past curfew — my, if he gets any badder he'd be teaching the first years how to best work their little toy soldiers. Of course, it's always more refreshing and satisfying for the girl because she gets to be thoroughly explored by none other than Draco himself. It's unfair, really. Sometimes, he thinks being such a god-send to women is a curse. Being god-send to men, on the other hand, is both a curse and a present wrapped in silver and green and finished with a red and gold bow with a blue-white-yellow-black-striped card that reads: To Draco, we entrust inter-house cooperation to you. And doesn't he just love the concept of inter-house cooperation in every possible sense of the term?

 

Terribly chuffed with himself, he rearranges his robes as his sort for the month leaves the room. Yes, the month because he's not such a toffer despite what everybody thinks. He may look it, but it doesn't mean that he'd shaft every available being with legs. Come on, he has class.

 

When he exits the room, he's mildly surprised not to see his conquest but instead see Potter looking at him from across the corridor with a slightly amused quirk on his lips. Potter is amused. At him. Again. What has the world come to?

 

“Malfoy.”

 

“Golden Boy.”

 

“After appearing so keen on raping me, it didn't take long for you to relieve the tension in your trousers, I see.”

 

“Careful, Potter, one would think you're actually waiting for me to deliver my `threat,' as what Weasley likes to call it.”

 

“You would think.” He gestures vaguely, “So, are you done with your business?”

 

“Yes, not that it's any of your business.” Draco has a sudden vision of Potter doing his business with him, down on his knees, and he shakes his head to keep his thoughts clear. He should be the one who's careful or this Gryffindor idiot would be clued in to what he's really thinking, which he just can't have. At least, not yet.

 

He proceeds to dust imaginary lint off his shoulders, just to appear like he's not very interested in what has prompted Potter to look for him. Of course, it has never occurred to him that Potter might just have been wondering around and just happened to stumble upon him. After all, no one stumbles across a Malfoy because Malfoys are always actively sought, everyone knows that — he's sure it's written somewhere in Hogwarts: A History.

 

Okay, so his father may not be sought out for purely flattering reasons, but he, Draco, oh he's always sought out for reasons that make the most tomboyish of girls blush. Well, there's Aunt Durilda who's sought out for another thing…but she's a completely different topic altogether.

 

“So, knave, what have you come grovelling for?”

 

Potter grins and shakes his head like how he would to an unruly child, and Draco is reminded of how weird it is that they're having this kind of exchange, not because he's feeling particularly anti-social, but because he's anti-Potter, sort of. Well…he's anti-Potter's-pillocking-ways-as-a-bloody-Gryffindor in general and pro-sexy-Potter specifically, but he'd never tell, of course. Next to himself, Potter probably has the most number of people, from both sexes, lusting after him. Surreal. Well, okay, not very, but close. But his popularity's probably due more to the fact that he has his Hero-Saving-The-Entire-Wizarding-World-One-Pervy-Snake-Man-At-A-Time act down pat.

 

…Fine, he admits, he thinks it's more to the fact that Potter's become such a sex symbol that people will still lust after him even if he's a defeated, brooding nonce of a hero.

 

“I know where to get the last ingredient for the Potions assignment, you know, that one that's the opposite of the Felix Felicitus.”

 

“Lovely. And you couldn't have waited until tomorrow morning?”

 

“No, because this is the perfect time to harvest it.”

 

“Harvest?” As in, like, servant stuff?

 

Potter rolls his eyes and grabs Draco by the elbow, consulting something that looks like a map, except it has — are those moving footprints? How curious.

 

“Come on, Malfoy, Filch is climbing up to this floor.”

 

The first thing that should come out of his mouth is a question as to how he can possibly know where Filch is, but Draco's never really been good at prioritizing, especially not when something unpleasant flies towards his attention, and currently, that unpleasant thing is Potter grabbing him.

 

“Unhand me, Potter.” He plucks Potter's fingers off his robe. Honestly, he's all for grabbing, but can't Potter have grabbed his arse instead? “Nobody manhandles a Malfoy and lives to tell the tale.”

 

Potter snorts, like the plebeian that he is. Ugh, it's a really, really good thing that he was in front of the line when God was handing out good looks or Draco would have thought that there's nothing salvageable in the person that is Harry Potter.

 

“Ron punched you in the face during the war, and he's still breathing to spread the story, isn't he?”

 

Draco huffs, insulted by the reminder. “For your information, you imbecilic poster boy for all that is impossibly fluffy, I let him. Everyone has to have his moment of glory after all, even Weasley.”

 

If Potter's affected by the name calling, he doesn't show it.

 

“Sure you did,” Potter replies, then he turns and climbs down a well of stairs, too narrow to be commonly used by students, and Draco wonders how Harry navigates around Hogwarts so easily as though he knows every ins and outs.

 

“What is that you're consulting anyway? And how'd you know the last ingredient? How'd you know tonight's the perfect time to” — he tries not to shudder at the term — “harvest it? I didn't even know that! Have you suddenly grown a brain to rival mine? Who are you and what have you done to Harry bloody Potter? Or is that you, Granger, polyjuiced so you can get in my trousers?”

 

“Malfoy, has anybody told you that you prattle?”

 

“I do no such thing!”

 

Potter grabs his elbow again and steers him towards a dimly lit corridor. “Come on, Malfoy, pick up the pace. The kitchens are just over here. We can get out of the castle through there.”

 

“A Malfoy always chooses to go at his own pace, thank you very much.”

 

Potter sighs but doesn't let go no matter how Draco tries to shrug off his grip or commands that he “unhand” him, and in a few minutes, they're outside of the castle and walking — cue Draco's internal, dramatic gasp — companionably, if a little hurriedly, towards the forbidden forest.

 

The Forbidden Forest — seriously, does Hogwarts have anything against its students? The Forbidden Forest! It's not like the forest's been domesticated after the war. It's still called Forbidden Forest for a reason. Why do teachers expect students to just trot in here to harvest a potion ingredient? Seriously. And not that he trots, of course, because Malfoys either amble or stride or glide, and that's all.

 

Draco holds his wand lower than his head, casting light on the ground to make sure he doesn't step on anything that will make him hurl. How can Potter walk so carelessly, what if he steps on centaur poop or something? Just the thought of it makes his perfect skin crawl.

 

“You didn't answer my questions, Potter. Questions, that's with an s.”

 

Potter waves the map. “This? It's something you will never have, Malfoy.” He then grins and proceeds to make Draco wish he can strangle the Boy-Who-Lived, preferably after a quick — probably not too quick — and sweaty tussle, however. Get your mind out of the gutter, Malfoy, you're becoming an insatiable sex mania— sex god.

 

“Hermione let slip the ingredient — you should've seen how scandalized she was!—”

 

“No thanks, Potter, I believe you when you say it's extremely orgasmic.”

 

“—After telling us to research it on our own, she accidentally lets it slip! Then, well, contrary to your belief system, I actually know how to do research. The ingredient's supposed to be harvested only at night.”

 

Draco shrugs, not admitting that Potter's guess about his belief system is right, but not quite admitting the opposite either.

 

“There's an apothecary in Hogsmeade that trades it, but where's the fun in that?”

 

“Apothecary? The saviour of my sanity? And you choose instead to do this on our own? Really! You call this fun, Potter? This is servant stuff!” And true to his breeding, he stays in one place as Potter inspects the ground for the plant. That is, ugh, too exceedingly pleb!

 

“Where have I heard that before? Scared, Malfoy?”

 

Wha— ahhh. “Oh, ha-ha, first year detention, very funny. I'll have you know, I ran to get help. I wasn't scared, scarface, I just didn't suffer from an impressive hero complex like you did. And probably still does.”

 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, Malfoy.” Potter shrugs without looking at him, and Draco bristles. He shall not be addressed like a commoner! People look him in the eye when talking to him! Unless they're cowering in fear, of course, then it's understandable. That imbecilic, low-bred, half-blood Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived! He isn't even that sexy!

 

…Okay, maybe he is, but that's beside the point.

 

“Help me search, will you? The dirt won't kill you, promise, cross my heart, hope to not die again.”

 

“You're getting too cheeky. How very lovely. If you're sneering, Potter, I'll really rape you.”

 

“Oh, are we back to that again?” Potter throws a root at him, which he catches on reflex only to grimace at the rough feeling of dirt scratching against the palm of his hand. Damn sexy Seeker reflexes!

 

He drops the root mutinously.

 

“Now, Malfoy, you're just being difficult. Very wilfully so.”

 

“Tell me, Harry Potter, why I'm here with you instead of your two faithful lapdogs.”

 

“Their names are Hermione and Ron.”

 

“Like I said, two faithful lapdogs.” He must have sounded a little bitter because Potter drops the subject. Oh this is just rich! The Gryffindor hero's pitying him because of the death of one of his own lapdogs. The nerve of him. He doesn't need his pity, oh no, Malfoys are not to be pitied by the Boy-Who-Just-Won't-Die. It simply does not happen.

 

Not that he's extremely bitter, of course. Sad, kind of, yes. But bitter? Not really. It wasn't Potter's fault that his two dearest pillocks were too dumb to control high magic, gosh, one was even too dumb to survive his own spell!

 

“Don't you three bond over activities of this sort? Camping and scrounging the ground for more colly matter?”

 

“Colly?”

 

“Dirty.”

 

“Well, I'm sorry we're too painfully common, unlike you Slytherins who probably bond over golf.”

 

“Golf?”

 

“Never mind.” Potter pauses in his search and looks back at him expectantly. “Well?”

 

“Well what?” What's the idiot talking about now? The only thing in his mind right now is, truthfully, either getting to bed or getting into Potter's bed, but neither seems to be the right response at the moment.

 

“You've been faffing—”

 

“I do no such thing!”

 

“—around for the longest time, I don't think we're actually going to accomplish anything tonight.”

 

“Then maybe you should have asked Granger and Weasley to accompany you! Division of labour, Potter, ever heard of it? You harvest like a servant and I brew like the rightful Malfoy that I am. You harvest with your pals because that's what you do best, saving the world and frolicking in places that are too filthy to be considered proper playgrounds! Plebeians, it's what you three are! Mudblood, and poverty, and harvesting! Seriously! And you think I'd have fun?”

 

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

 

Okay, Potter sounds mad, so maybe Draco has really overdone it. But, come on, just because the bloody moron of all morons saved his arse in the war doesn't mean he'd get down and dirty for him, unless they're talking about a different kind of “getting down and dirty.” However, Draco's getting a little too mad, too, to think of certain situations with Potter that involve less clothes and more skin.

 

“What, `Mudblood' and `poverty' too crass for your ears?” he taunts, superciliously, just how he prefers it. Oh, he knows insulting Potter's friends is one of the best ways to raise Effing-Righteous-Potter's hackles and probably cause hexing the next second in the general direction of his pale but marvellous self, but the imbecile makes it so damn easy for Draco to target his friends! “Ooh, embarrassed about your friends? I would be if I were your sorry self.”

 

When Draco wished for a tussle with the Boy-Who's-Angry-But-Still-Very-Desirable, he didn't exactly mean a dogfight — oh far from it! — with tackling into the — ewww! — ground. There's lots of undesirable things on the forest floor that are now probably sticking to his robes and his — oh god, oh god, oh god — hair, and he can probably get a disease from all this grunge and grime and dirt and filth and soil, and he really should be more concerned about being slugged by a possibly deranged sex on legs, but — oh god, did he just see something slink into the decaying leaves surrounding them?

 

“Remove yourself from my person at once, Potter!” The fist comes down dangerously close to his beautiful nose — a patrician nose, if he may say so himself — and stops barely a centimetre from doing damage. For a moment, Draco feels almost surprised, and then he registers their position, and it's all he could do not to squirm. Hot-Sexy-Potter's going to kill him one of these days, and not the killing that goes quickly with party flashes of bright green and maniacal laughter — more like the kind that's sweaty, and scorching, and wanting, and Draco valiantly suppresses a shudder that's just about to arrow a frisson of something straight to the place of his services.

 

He's breathing almost too shallowly for his liking, but he supposes Potter's thinking it's due to the adrenaline of being tackled unexpectedly, and he assiduously works on displaying an indignant face. Oh the horror! Being nearly aroused in the Forbidden Forest!

 

Biting off an unrefined curse about to fly out of his mouth, he pushes hard, not expecting the Golden Boy to suddenly have no fight, and his attacker rolls gracelessly to the side, laughing, of all things!

 

Quickly picking himself up and studiously dusting himself off, he musters a glare at the crazy bastard on the forest floor. “And what are you laughing at, commoner?”

 

“You! You're hilarious, Malfoy! When you're tackled, you try to slug the bloke who tackled you, not order them imperiously to `remove themselves from your person at once!'”

 

He favours Potter a wry, almost derogatory, smile. “I'm absolutely beside myself in rapture that you find my misery hilarious.”

 

“Come off it, Malfoy. Can't you talk like a normal teenager like everyone else?”

 

“And be part of the plebeian court? No thanks, Potter, no other offer has disgusted me more.” Except, maybe, whatever Zabini comes up with. “And do come away from the ground, it's positively grimy. Not that I'm duly concerned about your sparkling health, of course. God knows you don't need more people waiting on you on hand and foot. The entire Wizarding World is already abuzz about it, very embarrassingly so, if I may say so myself.”

 

Potter laughs again and he's tempted to pick up the plant root he dropped earlier and fling it at Golden Boy, except he won't because that's just crass. Plus the root's dirty, so it's out of the question.

 

“Fine, fine.” Potter picks himself up. “Unhinged, it's what you are. Should've known from the start. Heck, you introduced yourself as `Malfoy, Draco Malfoy!”

 

“Thrilled that you still remember.” He watches as Potter returns to his “harvesting,” not really feeling guilty over doing nothing to help except stare at his arse and quash the desire to cop a feel. Ugh, of all the commoner ways to be stuck on, `copping a feel' isn't the most forgivable.

 

“Two things I don't forget: kind, remarkable introductions and remarkably stuck-up ones. Here, catch!”

 

Ugh, ugh, and double ugh! Can't his sexy Seeker reflexes give him a break? He drops the root again, resists the childish urge to rub his hands on his clothes, and casts a cleaning charm on them instead, all the while ignoring Potter's eye-rolling.

 

Potter holds up more of those dirty roots then turns to him to smile quite…charmingly that it almost takes his breath away. Dammit, bloody, effing Gryffindors are not allowed to have that kind of smile! They're bloody do-gooders whose only amerceable quality is foolhardy bravery, and that kind of smile is simply sinful — illegal in the four kingdoms across goddamn Britain, he's sure!

 

“I suppose we have enough now. I got for Ron and Hermione, too.”

 

Speaking of those two devils, Draco is reminded of what caused Harry to almost land a damaging fist on his face earlier, and even though he really is better off not talking about things surrounding that again, his curiosity is simply killing him. And if curiosity does kill a cat, then he'd probably be a dead meow soon, but come on, the boy hasn't even told him why he was dragged here in the first place, knowing that it's impossible to get him to harvest. Potter has to know that, at least. The Forbidden Forest scares him not exactly because of whatever dark creature inhabits it, but because of the abundance of…creepy crawlies.

 

Potter nears him, rolls his eyes again, then conjures a container for the roots. He carelessly picks up the ones Draco dropped, muttering something that sounds like `spoiled, oversized lizards.' What, is that supposed to be a reference to his name? Excuse me! A dragon is barely a lizard, thank you very much!

 

They walk in uneasy silence until Draco really can't stand not getting answered anymore. “Okay, Potter, when I asked a question, I really expected to be answered. Ignoring a Malfoy is a criminal act punishable by death.” Except, of course, in Aunt Durilda's case — the family simply cannot not ignore her.

 

“Er — okay. What was the question?”

 

Draco takes a deep, cleansing breath and tries to stifle the strong, forceful desire to castrate this god-awful, but terribly sexy, boy who's now looking at him innocently questioningly. Must I repeat myself a thousand times?

 

“Do my robes make me look fat?” Ugh, seriously! “We all know I'm not your choice of companion ever — although I still can't understand that seeing I'm possibly the best thing that can happen to anyone who crosses my path — so why did you so ungraciously drag me here? You knew I wasn't going to help you, in any way or form, dig around for some filthy root when I could just flaunt my money and buy from the blessed apothecary in Hogsmeade!”

 

That same contained amusement once again passes over Potter's face, like it did in the Potions dungeon earlier today. “I swear, Malfoy, you love to hear yourself talk.”

 

He arches a regal eyebrow.

 

“We saved your arse twice in the war, Malfoy, because Dumbledore apparently believed you were worth saving—”

 

“And here I am thinking it's because a thing of beauty, once lost, will be gone forever.”

 

“—and we decided that he was smarter than us all so we believed him. I don't know, he saw something redeemable in you—”

 

“My good looks? Charm? Incredibly sharp wit and undeniable sex appeal?”

 

“—and I decided I'd find out. It may not be too obvious, but we don't hate you, well, anymore. We don't hate anyone who sided with us. And yes, that's me, Hermione, and Ron, even though Ron still needs a whole lot of convincing sometimes.”

 

Well, he didn't expect that. The Boy-Who-Is-Too-Sexy-For-Death-In-The-Hands-Of-An-Old-Perverted-Snake doesn't hate him, will you look at that!

 

“Are you saying you want to be friends?” He scoffs. The idea is simply ridiculously ludicrous, and the double adjectives all the more emphasize its absurdity, and Draco thinks he's just full of synonyms tonight. Being friends with Potter is absolutely fabulous — fabulously out of the question. Friends with benefits may be a different option altogether, but that isn't what the high-and-mighty Gryffindor is offering.

 

“Well, no.”

 

What? Okay, that, he didn't quite expect. If Potter has said yes, then Draco has more than a slew of insults to hurl, well-equipped that he is with words that can make his mother blush. But a `no?' Well…the only thing that comes to his head is `okay' and that, dear folks, is just too lame.

 

If all things fail, goes a line in the Malfoy prescript, vilify your quarry until his ancestors are turning in their graves, and if that still fails, look pretty. Oh, imagine that, it's the first prescription that has failed him: Affronting Potter and his ancestors will make him seem crazily pathetic, and looking pretty, well, he's already in one of his prettiest and it doesn't seem to be getting anywhere. Gosh, he can't believe it — one of the precepts doesn't help in any way! Sacré bleu! No Malfoy has been failed by the prescript of the family in, like, forever. Okay, there's Aunt Durilda, but she's incapable of looking pretty, so she doesn't count.

 

“I mean, you don't go from being enemies to being friends right away. There's got to be, I don't know, a rite of passage or something.”

 

Gee, Potter, you make it sound like a Death Eater initiation night. But before he can list all his arguments in his head, he realizes the opening Potter has unwittingly provided, and in one fluid motion — because he's elegant and graceful and just fluid that way — he pins Potter against the nearest tree, adrenaline pumping in his veins as the idea solidifies in his head. And Potter remains wide-eyed, maybe wondering what's gotten into Draco, but doesn't struggle, confident that since he saved him during the war, Draco can't possibly be thinking of harming him.

 

Draco smirks in all his Slytherin glory — and proud of it, babe — knowing that he's gotten what he wants even if he hasn't yet started the process of taking. Malfoy precept number one: Yours is what you desire, and yours even before acquisition.

 

“Rite of passage, you say?” God, he wants to laugh. Manically. Harry Sex-In-Robes Potter is pinned between him and a tree, and, former enemies or not, it's one hot situation. And before the poster boy for all that is fluffy can speak, Draco zealously seals his lips over his.

 

And…by gods it's — it's…disappointing.

 

“Wow, Potter, you kiss like a guy straighter than ruled line.”

 

“Um, yeah, probably because I am straight.”

 

Draco releases him and this time, rolls his eyes, because really only something as undignified as that can be a reaction to Potter's denseness.

 

“No, you imbecile. That's not what you're supposed to say at all! Where is your sense of drama, Potter? You're supposed to say `because you took me by surprise, but let's try that again!'”

 

“No, I should be disgusted, but you're too off your rocker that the feeling of disgust and insane humour cancel each other out.”

 

“I will let that insult slide. For now. But, see, this is the rite of passage you're talking about!”

 

“What? Get myself harassed? Are you sure you're kidding when you said you're going to rape me? Should I be quaking in my boots now? Because I'm starting to think you hadn't meant it as a joke.”

 

With all the patience that he has never tried to muster before, Draco steps away, smoothes his robes, and absent-mindedly brushes a stray leaf from Potter's clothes. “Potter, listen here and listen well. I need to know if my potential friend passes my standards because that's the only way that can convince me to shake hands. And I have only one criterion, but my standards are pretty high. I'm a demanding person, you know. I demand the best. And to become my friend, I have to be convinced that you, my dear, dear Harry Potter, are an excellent kisser.”

 

Silence.

 

“And I assume that the rest of the Slytherins have passed this test?”

 

Seriously, is Potter kidding? “Are you daft? I don't need to know the kissing prowess of my minions! Eww, gross, Potter! That's like asking me to snog the house elves. Besides, if I've done that, I'd have ended up being tied in a bed of rose petals, covered in syrup, naked, ravished, and with a line of Valentine's cards singing me praises! Which is unforgivably lame, believe me — not that it has ever happened to me, of course.”

 

“I will choose to ignore that imagery.” Then Potter frowns, looking a tad horrified. “God, Malfoy, you're making me talk like you!”

 

He sniffs. “Then all the better for you.” He turns around, the swish of his robes fascinating in his ears and he thinks those drama classes are surely paying off. He can hear Potter catching up, and he doesn't let him speak. “You're supposed to be flattered, Potter. Tickled silly pink. Blushing from the roots of your messy hair to the tips of your toenails, which I'm willing to bet have not seen a good pedicure because, well, we can't all be like me, and given your lowly breeding, even if you're Harry Potter, saviour of bunnies and kneazles and the occasional Weasley, you're going to have to be waitlisted because my pedicurist is lovely and fabulous like that. I bet even old Cliché can't force her to do his toenails—”

 

“Old Cliché?”

 

“Voldemort, Potter, keep up. Anyway, the point is, you're supposed to prove yourself worthy of my friendship, and I'm not even asking a lot. And you have to be thankful that I have deigned to consider this likely relationship between the two of us because only God knows who you'll be wanting me to befriend next if I eventually give in. And I'll have you know that I don't just befriend anybody. You ought to know, after all, I did offer my friendship back in first year — which you so ignorantly declined, what were you thinking? — because I thought being Harry Potter was a good enough reason to be friends with you. The name itself brings you to the top of my list, and don't look so shocked, it's true, even though you have terrible manners and very clearly no breeding at all.

 

“I'm on top of the food chain, Potter, the Ozwald Boateng to your neophyte designer self — again, stop looking so dumb! He's not really a Muggle, you know. Honestly, do you think a normal man can create such exquisite pieces? But we're digressing.”

 

“Malfoy, you've lost me along kneazles.” By the time Potter has found the chance to speak, they are already inside the castle.

 

Draco lets out a bone-weary sigh. Why must he be around such an ignorant creature? Oh yeah, because Potter's yummy even if he's painfully nescient. Gods, the sacrifices he makes! “My point is, Harry Potter, we can be friends, really, but I must know that you can pass my standards. I can't have anyone of my coterie below what is acceptable. It's a dreadful thing to think about! And I am such a fine example of the male species that you are expected to grovel at my feet just to be snogged by me. But see, I am very charitable so I'm saving you from doing such a thing and offering it for free. And believe me when I say how above satisfactory this offer is because there is no such thing as free these days. Believe me. Just the other day, I had to kiss cheeks with the apprentice of the owner of the new boutique store in Hogsmeade just so she would change the ribbon of my parcel from silver to platinum. She said they're the same colour! Really, anybody who's somebody knows that silver is not the new platinum. Please.”

 

“God, Malfoy, you can really prattle on and on!”

 

“I do no such—” Draco will really like to finish his sentence because he does not prattle, but at the moment, Potter has just shoved him against the wall and is kissing the breath out of him. And oh my fucking god, he takes it back, it's so not disappointing! The Boy-Who-Lived can kiss! And what a fucking kiss it is: not too demanding, but not too placid and soft either, almost teasing actually, almost calculatingly teasing as he runs his tongue on Draco's lower lip before nibbling on the flesh.

 

And then Potter proves just how skilfully he can French up a snog, and Draco's only too sure that if he weren't pressed against the wall, he'd be buckling towards the floor. Bolts of electricity are rapidly lighting up his every nerve ending, and he's just too aware of every part of his body that's pressed against the Golden Boy's.

 

When Potter sucks on his tongue a little too aggressively, Draco can honestly say that of all the people who's done that to him, Potter's the only one who's succeeded in tearing a quick moan from him. And god this is too hot, too mind-fucking hot. Abso-bloody-lutely erection-inducing.

 

After a few more glorious moments, Potter gives his mouth one last sweep of his tongue then ends the rather torrid lip-lock. “I must say, this must be the most effective way to shut you up, Malfoy. Merlin knows even hexing you doesn't work.”

 

For a moment, Draco's too disoriented to understand what the Boy-Who-Just-Snogged-Him-Senseless-And-Is-Now-Responsible-For-His-Hard-On is saying. He's just been kissed to the point that he thought he could've come in his pants right there and then, so he thinks it's just fair that he be given a second to catch his breath — and calm the little general down. Of course, when he's regained his wits, he almost wants to thwack Potter hard because the effing prat doesn't even seem to be affected! Gee, what a way to insult his pride!

 

“You're straight.” Okay, that isn't the most intelligent thing to ever come out of his mouth, he admits.

 

“Er—yes. Haven't we established that?”

 

Draco closes his eyes and inhales a deep, cleansing breath, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger for no other reason than he looks cool when he does that. “You slay me, Potter. You really do. Oh my heart, be still.”

 

“Malfoy, are you okay?” Draco can imagine Potter's worried look behind his eyelids. Gods in tutus, the boy is worried for everyone, even for those who don't really like him! God bless his soul.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I take it I passed?” Potter smiles cheekily, and Draco has to order his heart again to please be still. “I can do a lot of things if I put my mind to it, Malfoy.”

 

“Fuck you and your cheeky attitude, Potter.”

 

Potter laughs. “I don't know if you think about it this way, but you saved my life during the war. Maybe not as a very conscious effort, but it's all the same to me. Your mother saved my life, too, did you know? Kind of like a thank you gift when I told her you were fine. I'm guessing by the look on your face that she hasn't told you anything about this, but it's true. At that time, I envied you because you have a mother who cares for you, who's alive. And even if I hate your father — because Merlin knows the stuff he's done to get me killed — I envied you for having him, too.”

 

Does Potter even know what he's doing to him? Every year before the war, he wanted the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Will-Probably-Not-Die-Anytime-Soon to envy him, but Potter seemed simply to, well, not. And now he does. He honest-to-goodness does! Because he still has his parents! His corrupt, self-serving, but nonetheless loving, parents! Potter envies him, oh my heart, really, be still.

 

“I saw a lot of things that even half of Voldemort's inner circle wasn't privy to. Lucius was begging for your safety. I envied you for that. But I have something that you don't.”

 

“Frightening lack of a divine pedicurist?”

 

Potter grins again. “I didn't think the day would come when I'd find your sarcasm less annoying and more funny, but no, I didn't even realize I needed a `divine pedicurist' to live. Anyway, what I'm saying is: I have Hermione and Ron.”

 

“Yes, because Granger and Weasley are miraculously — ordinary. Potter, I fail to comprehend the validity of your point, but if it makes you feel intelligent, I support you whole-heartedly.”

 

“I don't have minions, Malfoy — I have real friends. Merlin knows you need some yourself. So let's be friends. And no matter how sarcastically you rebuff me, I know you know I'm right. Besides, I passed your test, didn't I?”

 

It's really incredible how Potter can galvanize him into action — if “galvanize into action” actually means “render speechless,” that is. What exactly do you say to something like that? Grhmphswh? Besides, he should be really offended that Potter thinks he has no friends, except he isn't because Golden Boy is surprisingly, annoyingly right. Ugh, he hates it when Potter's right — it's like the world's coming to an end.

 

“Think about it, Malfoy. This will be, let's say, your baby steps towards maturity,” Potter chuckles at his own joke, and Draco wonders if he can get away with throttling the Hero-Who-Saved-A-Thousand-Arses-From-Voldie's-Perverted-Desires.

 

Potter checks his weird map again and doesn't wait for him to reply before speaking once more, “Well, I gotta go now. You may want to return to your House, too, while the dungeons are still Filch-free.”

 

Before Potter can round a corner and disappear for the rest of the night, however, Draco manages to snap out of his shocked silence. “I was only trying to annoy you when I laid my condition down! I don't want to be really friends with you, Potter! Unless being friends means shagging each other's brains out, which I am all for.”

 

Potter turns to him and smiles that maddeningly tolerant smile — the one that's still too sexy for Draco not to feel unsettled by. “I don't believe that. And you can start trying to convert me to your religion when you decide to stop being rivals.”

 

Dammit, since when does Potter do cheeky? It shouldn't happen that way! It's like saying Malfoys chase their white peacocks in nothing but neon pink socks­ — it's insane! Well, fine, Aunt Durilda has a fetish for peacock chasing in just her — er — neon pink socks, but she really isn't a very celebrated member of the family.

 

“I will really rape you for being incorrigible, Potter.”

 

“I don't know what incorrigible means, but okay. Although that will have to wait until we're better acquaintances.”

 

“Ugh, Potter! I will tell you kissed me! I will tell that youngest Weasley! I will destroy you! I will pillage your tower and take your bloody Gryffindor ideas as spoils and your bloody Gryffindor women as concubines if you insist on being friends!”

 

“Creative, Malfoy. Good night,” is what he replies in a bloody sing-song voice! And then he's gone, leaving Draco gaping in his wake.

 

Ugh, Potter, you fucking Golden Boy, you will rue this day, I swear on Aunt Durilda's Snape plushie. Draco stomps brattily towards the Slytherin dungeons, grumbling about stupid Gryffindor need to be friends with everybody and stupid Gryffindor Golden Boys and their stupid, sinful kisses.

 

Draco drops gracefully on his bed as soon as he's reached the dorms. If being practically one-upped by said stupid Gryffindor Golden Boy isn't bad enough, he's even beginning to think that Potter's offer may not be so bad. Dammit, did he drug me when he kissed me? Since when do Potter's ideas become acceptable to his superior Slytherin mind? Ugh!

 

Wait…

 

Unless…he uses Potter's idea for his own amusement. Draco brightens up. Of course, of course that's a brilliant idea! Ah, he can almost feel the need to pat himself on the back once more for his magnificent thinking. If he becomes friends with Harry Gryffindor-Idol Potter, he'll be the poster boy for inter-house cooperation, and wouldn't that just open up lots of…opportunities?

 

Gods, he can barely stop himself from being too fabulously delighted!

 

“And what are you so damned pleased about?” comes an irritated voice from the bed to his left.

 

Draco turns to see Zabini glaring quite heatedly at him, but he's still revelling in the brilliance of his idea so he only smiles widely at the coloured boy. “Oh, nothing, my dear, loveable, closet homophile, except that — Oh! Hey, Blaise, my favourite Zabini, did you know that Potter tastes of oranges, sunshine, wind, and, oh, sex?” He licks his lips suggestively.

 

“Wha— How did—” Gods, the fish-out-of-water expression on his roommate's face is positively — well, not orgasmic, but close.

 

Draco gives him a slow, teasing smile. “Good night, Zabini. May you wank better now that you know how your god tastes like.” My god, too, Zabini, he's my god, too. Then he promptly draws his curtains close, immensely pleased with himself. “Pleasant dreams, sweetheart! I know mine will be.”

 

­-finite

 

Golden Boy wants to end here, but Draco can't possibly be satisfied with only, what, ten thousand words to describe his greatness? That is so short! So pleb! Great wizards are supposed to get thirty thousand words at least, and gods, he's more than a great wizard! But then, if he doesn't let it go, Boy-Who-Snogs-So-Bloody-Amazingly might get really mad, and then there'll absolutely be no chance that he might concede to another erection-inducing snog session, ugh! Seriously, one would think Harry bloody Potter didn't enjoy that, but he certainly did, if I may say so myself, divine kisser that I am. But in any case, I, orgasmically blessed Draco Malfoy, ends it here, although very grudgingly so...unless properly convinced, of course.

 

-The End...maybe

 

Reference/s:

 

“A distressing damsel, maybe, but a damsel in distress?” - reference to Capt. Jack Sparrow's words in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

 

Aunt Durilda Luveday - is a tribute to the wonderfully crazy character Uncle Ethelfride in Draco Malfoy, The Amazing Bouncing…Rat? by Maya