Title: ~*~The Gloaming!1~*~
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warning: Crack, sparkles, stray meta bullets.
Disclaimer: JKR and SMeyer own. I only play. You do not sue.
Summary: Draco Malfoy, a clumsy but adorable 19 year-old virgin, moves to Brighton to attend wizarding university (shut up, I can have a university if SMeyer can have sparkly vampires), where he is unexpectedly reunited with... READ IT IF U WANT 2 KNOW! ^__________^
Note: Inspired by a prompt given to me by pectus_pectoris, to wit: Harry/Draco - Twilight Universe with Edward!Harry and Bella!Draco.. The "plot" is adapted entirely from Twilight (the book). Quotations have been applied liberally all over the place, so if you recognise it, I didn't write it.
Beta: omg Twilight needs no beta!
Concrit: Just this once? Save it.
I'd never given much thought to what I wanted to be when I grew up -- though I'd had reason enough since the war ended -- but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.
I watched the dreary landscape roll by the carriage window as my guts performed advanced calisthenics in anticipation of seeing the first buildings of Brighton. Once that happened, I could no longer fantasise that I was being taken elsewhere -- perhaps to Paris. Or Casablanca. Once I was in Brighton, the unfortunate reality of my life would be reaffirmed: my parents had ejected me from the Malfoy ancestral home so that I may partake of higher education.
I didn't see what the big deal was, anyway: there had never been a need for education beyond Hogwarts. But ever since the Dark Lord had fallen -- don't get me wrong, good riddance to bad rubbish; he was a bit crazy anyway -- wizarding Britain had sought to redefine itself. Even my parents, ever the staunch conservatives, had fallen under the spell of propaganda.
Oh, I'm sorry, was that a cliché? Better get used to them.
Where was I? Oh yes, my mother. She's part albino you know. She was positively frantic that I receive a spot at Brighton University, considering my less-than-stellar track record at Hogwarts. Not that my marks were bad; no -- you may recall the sordid business with trying to murder Dumbledore and also trying to burn the school down a year later. The wizarding psychologist assured my mother that I had merely been acting out. In fact, the stupid old bag also recommended that I be sent to the new university as part of my rehabilitation regimen. Or something. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory.
What's the matter, have you got a problem with wizarding psychologists? Remember that the wizarding world can have anything if you just add 'wizarding' to the word. Wizarding photography, wizarding wireless, wizarding university, wizarding psychologist, wizarding poodle, wizarding semi-automatic weapon, wizarding Large Hadron Collider.
In case you haven't yet figured it out, my name was Draco Malfoy. Well, it's still my name, but -- tenses in the English language are fucking annoying. So here I was riding a carriage to Brighton -- don't fucking ask why I didn't Apparate; Apparition does not provide sufficient time for introspection peppered with dramatic pauses. Also, I didn't have a wand. My parents feared I might escape to Casablanca on the way and sent it ahead of me. As if I couldn't escape to Casablanca from Brighton.
Not that I would escape, you understand. What the fuck is there to do in Casablanca except drink and pretend to be a freedom fighter? Don't answer that. Anyway, I was making no plans for escape at this time: to be honest I was somewhat curious about this wizarding university business. And there was also the mysterious identity of the man who had agreed to take me in for the duration of my studies.
An old friend of the family, my father had said, but given our family's involvement in the whole Dark Lord affair, I rather suspected some skulduggery was afoot: the Malfoys had no friends to speak of. So clearly "old friend of the family" was my father's roundabout way of hinting at something potentially sinister, like a half-blood relative perchance. I wanted to meet this man for myself and assess the situation. Because everyone knows I'm a rational, reasonable kind of bloke.
I was startled out of my recollections when the first building of Brighton appeared before my eyes: it was a shop with a green awning bearing a golden letter M on one side and the word McDonald's in the middle: no doubt a den of evil. I found myself looking forward to visiting it in my free time. The carriage made sixty-eight successive right turns and then pulled to a stop in front of a two-storey building that looked quite identical to the buildings next to it. The door opened noiselessly, and my patron stepped out into the street to greet me as I alighted from the carriage.
He was a tall man, with greasy dark hair to his shoulders, a prominent, hooked nose, a fake moustache, and a purple headband bearing the words "Chief Hit Wizard". My anticipation faded to disappointment: I had never seen this man before. No one I knew wore such a headband.
"Greetings, Draco," the man said silkily.
I'd never heard his voice before, either. The mystery would continue until I managed to get him drunk and spill all his secrets. All in a night's work, as they say in Casablanca.
"Good afternoon," I said politely, pulling my trunk up as the carriage rolled away. "My parents did not tell me your name, kind sir."
"Call me Evans."
I didn't understand why there was a dramatic pause there; perhaps I was missing something crucial -- but who could blame me? Abandoned by my parents, sent to live with a weird headband-wearing bloke, forced to attend an institution of dubious educational merit... my life was so hard.
Ah, much better.
I tripped six times as I followed Evans up the steps into what was to be my new home: I am terribly clumsy, you see; it's my worst personality trait. Then I fell down the stairs, broke every bone in my body, and spent six weeks recovering in bed, occasionally sneaking peeks at the Muggle television set in my room, which was always tuned to a most bizarre programme: a field of grey and black, flickering endlessly with white flecks, a bold commentary on the futility of all existence. I had never known Muggles could be so very avant-garde.
Needless to say, I had begun my term at Brighton Wizarding University quite late, but it turned out that the first six weeks were all physical education anyway -- a new initiative that would supposedly put us in touch with our Muggle sides. Considering how clumsy I was, it was a good job I missed it all; plus, as a pure-blood wizard, I had no Muggle side, so it would have been preposterous for me to try to get in touch with it; it would be like trying to communicate with my chipmunk side, or my large hadron collider side.
After my verbal orientation session, the dean bid me wait until a student could be brought in to show me around prior to proceeding to my first class -- Super Advanced Potion-making (this would be followed next year by Super Duper Advanced Potion-making, then Really Extremely Advanced Potion-making, and then, in our final year of studies, we would cover Supremely Amazingly Extremely Advanced Potion-making).
When the student arrived, I was quite pleased to see that Pansy Parkinson's parents had also seen fit to send her to this ludicrous institution, for it was she who stood before me, her face just as pug-like and adorable as ever.
"Why, fancy seeing you here," I began, but Pansy simply grabbed my hand and started dragging me away from the dean's office.
"Save it for later; I'm hungry," she growled, manhandling me along a corridor covered in completely superfluous foliage, towards a dining hall that was half the size of the Hogwarts Great Hall -- I suppose not every Ron, Hermione, and Harry from Hogwarts would be granted the privilege of attending Brighton. That made me feel a little better.
"Shut up and get some food before it's gone," Pansy advised me, handing me a tray. "Just say what you want, and it'll appear."
"Then-- how can it ever be gone?" Logic had never been one of Pansy's strong points, I felt.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Because the emancipated house-elves making our food are entitled to a two-hour break every fifteen minutes."
"That makes no sense."
"They're specially trained time-defying house-elves; that's how they can make your food immediately: they bring it from the future."
I set the tray down and considered my options. I had just had breakfast with Evans not too long ago, and I wasn't hungry at all, but there was something about being told something was scarce: it made you want it even if you didn't particularly need it.
"A... large chocolate cupcake," I said to the tray. A cupcake roughly the size of my head appeared in the middle.
"Oh, I want sprinkles," I added belatedly.
Blue letters appeared on my cupcake, spelling out i want sprinkles.
"They just don't make house-elves like they used to," I said with a sigh.
Next to me, Pansy was busy tucking into a cheeseburger. She looked very unlikely to answer any of my questions, so I began to look around to see if I'd spot anyone else familiar.
I did, of course. Practically everyone else in the cafeteria looked at least vaguely familiar from my Hogwarts years, even the girl with neon-green hair and fake cat ears who sat a few tables away chattering excitedly at a bored-looking Neville Longbottom (who had shed his baby fat and was looking quite presentable, I must note with not inconsiderable chagrin).
But it was what I saw next that startled me so much that I even forgot to pause this narrative dramatically. Near the unnecessarily elaborate water fountain decorated with leaping dolphins and cavorting squid, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley sat at a triangular table that was obviously theirs (it had their names on it). And I could not help but stare at them in transfixed awe, a flabbergasted trance, a stricken fascination, and in a barrage of other descriptive abortions. I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. That had certainly never been true of Potter, Weasley, or Granger in any of the years that I had the misfortune of knowing them.
"That’s Harry Potter," Pansy put in. "He doesn’t date. None of the girls here are good-looking enough for him."
"I know who he is, Pansy," I said very patiently. "We were sort of arch-enemies at Hogwarts, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," said Pansy, looking unconvinced. "Sure. I remember."
"Did you say arch-enemies?" shrieked the green-haired girl with fake cat ears, startling Longbottom into dropping his fork. "That's so... so... SUGOI, DESU NE!"
"Ah... excuse me?" I asked, blinking at the girl, who was grinning rather unsettlingly as her eyes cut from me to Potter. She looked disturbingly like one of those kitty clocks whose eyes move with the pendulum.
Pansy sighed. "And that's Romilda Vane. She likes Japan."
The intrepid trio rose from their seats and took their trays to a station near the entrance, seemingly unaware of the commotion they were causing. Of course, what else was to be expected of such eminent personages: they were the heroes of the wizarding war, even though rumour had it they spent pretty much the whole year camping in the woods and communing with nature. Or each other. But I didn't want to think about that last one. Anyway, they were heroes and--
"Come on, we'll be late for Super Advanced Potion-making," Pansy said, dragging me away. I was really going to have to have a discussion with her about the manhandling. But mostly I kept thinking about how startlingly pretty Potter had looked -- sure, sure, so had Weasley and Granger, but Potter was still the prettiest.
Of course it was just my luck that I ended up paired with Potter in Super Advanced Potion-making -- stop snickering, that's not a lazy plot shift at all; there is most assuredly a reason for this fuckery! I kept stealing looks at his brooding and beautiful face as I peeled Shrivelfig after Shrivelfig, but Potter didn't seem to notice me there; he kept chopping up Belladonna roots by the fistful, so methodical and intense that smoke began to rise from his ears after thirty minutes, and soon his whole head became engulfed in bewitching green flame.
I gaped at him, wondering if I should say something, but his face just looked so beautiful illuminated by the flames that I couldn't bring myself to say a word just at that moment, at least until I began to smell his hair burning, and it didn't smell very beautiful at all, I'm afraid. Potter stared directly at me, apparently still oblivious of his current predicament.
"What? Do I dazzle you?"
"No, you tit, your hair's on fire," I returned promptly.
I immediately felt mortified. Mortified? Faced with Potter? Me? The fuck? Nonetheless, it was true. Also, I dropped my Shrivelfig. Because I'm clumsy, see. Yet I didn't care about the fucking Shrivelfig; I was transfixed and held by Potter's eyes. They were green -- emerald green. Like deep pools of water strained from the greenest part of the rainbow. Like emeralds, they were hard and unyielding. And very, very, green. Unlike emeralds, they were full of revulsion.
Potter strode out of the classroom like his hair was on fire. Which, incidentally, it was: but no one except for me seemed to have noticed it at all, which was quite curious: perhaps it hinted at some deeply hidden bond between me and Potter, one that would irrevocably tie us together in an unholy union of disparate souls.
Pansy tugged on my robe sleeve. "So, did you stab Potter with your wand or what? I’ve never seen him act like that."
"We may possibly have a bit of history," I mumbled, so unintelligibly that nobody understood me. Which was sort of the point of being unintelligible, but I just thought I'd point it out so there's no confusion.
I knew it then as I know it now: Brighton was literally my personal hell on Earth. Literally. It was literally hell. That meant it had pitchforks, devils, the whole lot. Or maybe not. I just really liked the word "literally" -- it really gave scope to things.