Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Warning(s): Massive amounts of crack. HBP spoilers.
Summary: So it's true, what they were saying on the train? Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. Boy, has he ever.
Notes: Written for rosacurry for slashfest. The request was After the summer Rebel!Harry comes to Hogwarts. Draco is fascinated... and turned on. The title is also the title of a Marilyn Manson song and an adapted lyric from the song is used as part of the dialogue. Draco's "red herring" line at the end is by pikacharma. Many thanks to evilsource, much_reality, pikacharma and imadra_blue for their able assistance.
Length: 2200 words
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
( This Is The New Shit (original post) )
The Hogwarts Express could bite Draco's perfectly round white arse, really.
Draco sniffed indignantly, eyeing the gleaming red train. The blasted thing was so loud, he couldn't hear himself think -- and thinking was very important if one wanted to dispense with backstory and get moving, to abuse a pun. Draco tapped his foot, looking around. Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be seen, the brutes. He couldn't board the train without them: someone had to carry his trunk. The third-years he saw earlier were much too puny to be trusted not to drop his precious collection of Ming vases. Draco carried the vases with him just so someone would ask why on earth he toted his Ming vases around -- so he could reply with "none of your business, plebe."
Speaking of plebes, Draco hated Harry Potter. Hated him with the burning passion of a thousand stars going supernova, or possibly several million exploding teakettles. Potter was a prat of the highest order, really -- why did he have to go and ruin everyone's fun by destroying the Dark Lord? Why?
"Draco! You're looking fabulous today!" exclaimed a voice on his right, and Draco turned his head ever so slightly to see who it was. It was Pansy Parkinson, his unfortunately fashion-challenged friend. She was wearing a lime-green jumper with a large armadillo stitched on the front.
"You, on the other hand, are not," said Draco irritably. "Where are Crabbe and Goyle?"
"We thought they were with you," said another, much more agreeably male, voice. Draco didn't bother looking who it was -- only one person he knew spoke in a rich, deep baritone that felt like warm liquid honey down a throat: Blaise Zabini. Impossibly mysterious, ridiculously rich, unfortunately straight.
"Well, they aren't, and I have to get on that train," said Draco, pouting.
"Don't worry," said Zabini, moving into Draco's field of view. Draco rather wished he hadn't; having to listen to his voice was already doing funny things to his knees. Looking at Zabini did even funnier things to regions above Draco's knees, and that could potentially be very embarrassing. Draco looked down at the cracked pavement and pursed his lips.
"So, Malfoy, I hear your father's free now?" asked a third, annoyingly reedy, voice.
"Congratulations, Nott, you can now keep the money you've been saving for that hearing aid," said Draco. "You didn't seriously think they'd keep him in Azkaban, did you?"
"After sixteen people, three Chihuahuas, and my blind uncle's pet rat saw him torture a Muggle in broad daylight? Yeah, yeah, I kind of did," said Nott. "How'd he get off?"
Draco considered making a tasteless joke involving 'getting off' but decided he'd better not, not in Blaise's presence. Instead, he waved his hand airily in front of Nott's face. "Loopholes."
"Ooh, there goes Harry Potter!" cried Pansy excitedly. Draco could just kill her, sometimes. He glanced up and sure enough: further up the platform, Potter was being mobbed by -- literally -- hundreds of squealing girls... and... Crabbe and Goyle? Draco's eyes narrowed. Really, this was a bit much.
Potter had defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named earlier that summer. The story had been all over the papers since then -- apparently, the Dark Lord had made a number of Horcruxes. In a stunning display of sheer stupidity, Potter had cast a Summoning Charm -- Accio Horcruxes! -- and moments later, the things had come zooming over to him. They had included an assortment of household items and, most interestingly, a glum-looking witch by the name of Nymphadora Tonks.
Potter had then proceeded to mercilessly destroy said items -- the destruction of Miss Tonks had apparently included the utterance "Avada Kedavra, bitch!" -- and then he had set off towards the Dark Lord's secret underground lair. Once there, Potter had spent approximately fifteen minutes screaming "HECTOR!" at the top of his lungs, which had caused the sentry wizards much alarm. The Dark Lord had come out to see what the fuss was about, and then Potter had hit him with a spell that Draco himself had once experienced.
For some reason, the spell -- which had been invented by Draco's mentor and favourite professor, one Severus Snape -- had a markedly deadly effect on the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord's last words had reportedly been "Don't forget to feed Schnookums." As it had later turned out, Schnookums had been the Dark Lord's pet Pygmy Puff. So had passed the greatest Dark wizard of all time. Tragic, really.
One good thing that had come out of it all was that Severus Snape was now lauded as a hero for inventing the Spell That Felled. He had been invited to resume his post as Defence Against The Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Snape's response, issued from his residence in Spinner's End, had been a rather unsurprising "up yours". He had, however, forced the new Headmistress to take Draco back, which was at least something, one supposed.
The squealing was getting louder, which could only mean one thing -- the Potter procession was drawing closer. Draco assumed his best antagonistic stance, donned his most spectacular sneer, and looked up, preparing to dazzle the slobbering twits with his incisive wit. However, his entire strategy was forgotten as he noticed Potter. The prat had changed over the summer, and that was putting it mildly. His clothes were even baggier than usual, but they looked shockingly trendy. Potter was dressed all in black, with an inverted letter E emblazoned across the front of his hooded jumper. There was a red bandanna covering his head. Between Potter's teeth was one of those Muggle glow-sticks that the filthy animals liked to suck on. It was perhaps the glow-stick that caused Draco to reassess his priorities, because he rather liked people who enjoyed sucking.
Potter stopped in front of the Slytherins and glowered. Draco tried not to swoon as he took in Potter's bright green eyes, which were narrowed suspiciously. "Fuckin' Crips," muttered Potter around the glow-stick, issuing a cloud of smoke from the corner of his mouth.
Draco didn't know what a Crip was, but he suspected it couldn't be very flattering. He drew himself up to his full height and summoned a sneer. "Now, see here, Potter," he said in his best arch-enemy-that-hopes-to-get-into-your-p
Potter took the glow-stick out of his mouth slowly and regarded Draco with contempt. He spat on the ground in front of Draco and said, "I didn't forget, Malfoy."
"You didn't forget what? My name? Congratulations, pin a gold star to your arse."
Weasley's little sister stepped between Draco and Potter, a blazing, hard look upon her face. "Shut it, ferret-face," she said, then attached herself to Potter's arm. For a moment, Potter looked as though he might throw up, but it didn't last long. He shook the Weasley off himself, cocked an eyebrow at Draco and kept walking.
In retrospect, it was the swagger that did Draco in, really. Suddenly, there was no more Zabini on Draco's mind -- the Zabini-space was filled, irrevocably and alarmingly, with Potter's arse and the way it wiggled when Potter walked. After Draco had come out of the Potter-induced daze, he snapped his fingers irritably in front of Goyle's face. Incidentally, and rather unsettlingly, Goyle appeared to have been staring at the same thing as Draco.
"Crabbe, Goyle, load my trunk into the train. Now," said Draco loudly. "Goyle, you and I are going to have a talk once we've boarded."
The following weeks were rather embarrassing for Draco, when all was said and done. He was watching Potter all through meals, during lessons (for some reason, Potter's Potions talent seemed to have gone the way of his dork appeal), from the top of the Astronomy Tower during breaks, in the evenings during midnight strolls with various girls. Draco began to realise that infatuation with Potter was even more hopeless than infatuation with Zabini. Potter was straight.
It was a dark and stormy Friday night in October when Draco decided to follow Potter for the last time. His grades were suffering and he wasn't eating properly and damn it, it all had to stop. At least Zabini might let Draco suck him off once or twice at some undetermined point in a very hopeful future. Dressed in his ninja best, Draco ducked behind suits of armour and tapestries, hot on Potter's trail. It was clear that Potter was headed for the courtyard, but whom was he meeting?
The only person in the courtyard, however, was Seamus Finnigan -- and that couldn't be right, could it?
Apparently, it could. Draco's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he watched Finnigan get on his knees in front of Potter. The next ten minutes were filled with Potter's ragged breathing, Finnigan's loud slurping noises, and Draco's skyrocketing sexual frustration.
The next morning in Potions, Draco wrote a note to Potter. It said:
I saw you last night.
Draco fashioned the piece of parchment into a paper airplane and sent it at Potter's bandanna-covered head. It glanced off and began to fall, but Potter caught it and opened it. Draco watched as Potter's expression didn't change a bit. Damn it, he had been hoping for at least widened eyes or a sharp intake of breath. Smirking, Potter wrote something on the parchment, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at Draco.
A pudgy hand caught the parchment before it could reach its destination. That great pot-bellied oaf of a Slughorn was grinning lasciviously at Potter. Draco shuddered. "What's this, then?" asked Slughorn as he smoothed out the parchment. "I saw you last night. Dee Em. That will be Draco, won't it?" He smirked in Draco's general direction. Draco seethed. Slughorn ignored him and read on. "Was it good for you? Aich Pee. Oho! Now, boys, I hope you can settle your -- ah -- differences during some other time. Harry, I'd like you to see me after class, please."
Draco was positively livid by the time the lesson was over. Potter hadn't even so much as glanced in his direction again. What was all this supposed to mean?
During lunch later that same day, there was an ugly scene in the Great Hall. It began thus:
"WHAT'S GOING ON BETWEEN YOU AND MALFOY?" screeched a shrill female voice. Draco looked up, mildly curious -- after all, it wasn't every day that one's name was called, Banshee-like, out in the Great Hall. The source of the infernal noise was the Weasley girl, and the target was, apparently, Potter.
"Shut the fuck up, Ginny, you're giving me a headache," replied Potter, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Draco's heart began to perform a sort of wild monkey dance.
"WHAT? HOW DARE YOU! :O!" screamed the Weasley girl. Beside Potter, the girl's brother was slamming his head repeatedly against the
The Weasley girl drew her wand and hurled a hex at Potter, which he dodged, seemingly without effort. He seized her wrist and forced her to drop her wand. "Glad we cleared that up, Ginny. You know, I like boys better, anyway," said Potter, then stalked out of the Great Hall. Draco swore he saw Finnigan's eyes glint hungrily as Potter passed. Oh, that just wasn't on.
Later that evening, Draco was making like a hound dog and looking for Potter. His only difference from a hound dog was the fact that he was utterly failing at finding Potter. He did find a bit of lint in Goyle's left shoe, though. About ready go give up, Draco walked out into the courtyard, which held a special place in his heart ever since yesterday. To his utter astonishment, Potter was standing there, looking sulky as he leant against the statue of Circe.
Draco suddenly had a strange sense of déja vu. "Didn't we have this conversation before?"
"I rather doubt it. Before last year, I would've been hexing your balls off by now."
"Before the defeat of You-Know-Who or--"
"You-Know-Who? You can stick that shit You-Know-Where! His name was Voldemort and he's really dead, okay, so you can say it now. Go on."
Draco blinked. "V-v-v," he began, but stopped.
Potter smirked and folded his hands across his chest, leaning back a little. "You always were a cowardly little cunt, Malfoy."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "V-v-v-voldy... vot."
"Oh, what's the matter? Scared that the big bad Voldybuns is going to get you?" taunted Potter, his voice filled with glee.
"Fuck off, Potter," spat Draco, and walked up to him. "I'm not here to discuss evil overlords with you."
"HEY!" came a loud voice from behind them. Draco turned around and saw Finnigan standing in the doorway, looking murderous. He quickly slipped a hand behind Potter and grabbed his arse, then pushed his thigh against Potter's crotch. This time, there was a definite sharp intake of breath, and Draco felt strangely giddy.
"Go away, Seamus," said Potter, his voice a little strained. "I prefer blonds, you see."
Draco didn't have to turn around to know that Finnigan had left: he could hear the sound of his obscenities receding into the distance. Then Potter kissed him, and Draco couldn't even hear the obscenities anymore.
"You taste fishy, Malfoy," said Potter after they broke apart.
"Potter, you prat. That's just a red herring."