Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: ~1000 words
Summary: Eight years after Hogwarts, Draco-- aw, fuck it. Just shut up and listen.
Beta: imadra_blue, tangleofthorns
Note: Written for shikishi's Crackficathon. My prompt was Draco Malfoy, done in the style of Dostoyevsky's "Notes from the Underground". The title is from Your Ex-Lover is Dead by Stars.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
I write this from my flat in central London, which would be a nice enough place, I suppose, if it weren't for the Muggles that surround me. They have the strangest practices, some of which I will never get used to. I mean, whoever's heard of letting the rubbish just rot there for days? Right. Where was I? I suppose my father would have had a different sort of future in mind for me, but who was supposed to know that Father of all people would die in a prison cell? I wonder if there were rats. Do rats care about Dementors? I digress. I haven't done too poorly, considering the circumstances. Obviously, I can never be at the same position as Father was at my age, but at least I'm not dead (or worse, in jail).
Admittedly, I was down for a jack move when the war was over -- the only thing I could conceivably have done (without straying onto the dangerous path of a life of crime) was the illustrious career of selling tickets on the Knight Bus. This was right around the time that Stan Shunpike's porno career took off, incidentally, which was probably more of a surprise to him than it was to most others -- apparently, there is something in the air around the Azkaban fortress that has disinfecting and astringent properties. Stan Shunpike sans spots equals sex on legs, who would have thought? But once again, I digress. What I'm trying to say is that there are worse lots in life than spending ten hours a day answering Celestina Warbeck's fan mail.
Pansy, of course, couldn't be expected to wait around until I managed to amass a fortune writing saccharine acknowledgements to middle-aged men (and occasionally women). In the grand tradition of the general fickleness of females, she went off and married Theodore Nott, though of course I don't begrudge it. After all, I've always wanted in his pants and now I can occasionally indulge (what's a little Polyjuice between friends?).
So even though our arrangement (wherein Pansy and I would marry but not share the bed) didn't end up working out, I can hardly complain. Ever since Zabini nanced off to Corsica with that insufferable McLaggen, the pickings around here have been decidedly slim (I am horrified to admit that I'd even considered Crabbe and/or Goyle at various junctures) -- at least for me. I can't seem to ever be on the guest list for those sorts of parties, what with the former Death Eater business and all.
Working for Ms Warbeck, however, does have its privileges -- at least I get invited to those functions which she hosts (she quite frankly can't understand the ostracism, she says I'm rather pleasant; can't say I disagree). Just this last week, I was at the charity ball she organised for the benefit of the starving children of the magical reservation of Timbuktu. Of course, there are no actual starving children in Timbuktu, but these sorts of things look good on Ms Warbeck's career record. Plus, the tax breaks are welcome and besides, the parties are quite popular. Right, party.
I was just lounging in the corner, nursing a drink that was a violent shade of purple (I couldn't refuse it, not from Herself, you understand) when Potter walked in -- I hadn't seen him since the Christmas benefit last year. The Weasley woman was hanging off him like a crazed monkey, which would have been amusing to watch if it weren't for her red shoes. Honestly, who wears red shoes? It was really quite tragic, especially so because Potter seemed completely oblivious to her utter lack of fashion sense -- what more, he seemed completely oblivious to her.
I've always known that Potter was bent as a scenic railway but over the years he seems to have crossed more and more to the "raging" side of "closeted homosexual". It's really rather amusing, from this corner at least, that I should be able to indulge and he should not -- after all, he's the Great Wizarding Hero and I'm just a has-been Death Eater. And yet, I'm free to do as I will and he's not. It fills me with glee, I admit.
It's really too bad that I am who I am and he is who he is, because I sure wouldn't kick him out of bed.
I suppose there is something to be said for violently purple alcoholic beverages, especially because of the rather thorough fucking I received from Potter in one of the bathroom stalls that evening. I'm not quite sure how it happened; all I remember is making a disparaging remark regarding the Weasley woman's hideous footwear (while surreptitiously checking the front of Potter's trousers, as one is wont to do on occasion). Next thing I knew, I was being rather forcibly dragged into the bathroom where Potter was going to "teach me a lesson". If what followed was really what he meant by "lesson", I'll take a whole course of instruction, please.
Potter is pursuing me with the determination of a crotchety Chihuahua. You know, if I'd had any idea I was his first, I wouldn't have done it, because in true Gryffindor fashion, Potter wants too much. I told him last night it was just a fuck. "Nothing's ever that simple between us, Malfoy," was his reply. I want to run far away now.
I hope this letter finds you well, dear Mother. I promise to write again soon.
The graveyard was silently grey; a yellowed leaf fell listlessly next to the headstone near the back. The stone was all solid marble, the words "Narcissa Black Malfoy" proud even in their finality. A gust of wind picked up the parchment that lay atop the stone and carried it away, out past the wrought-iron gates.
The tall blond man who stood next to the gates followed the parchment's route with his gaze. Eyes as grey as the afternoon narrowed briefly, then the man shrugged and pulled his cloak's hood over his head. There was a loud popping sound and the man disappeared, as though he had never been there in the first place.
The parchment soared on, into the gathering twilight.