HERE, HAVE SOME ***FREE*** CRAPPY FANFICTION, OKAY! :D
Title: ~*~The Gloaming!1~*~
Disclaimer: JKR and SMeyer own. I only play. You do not sue.
Continued from: Part 1
Potter was not at school the next day, and I immediately assumed it was because he was avoiding me. Since you see, the world revolves around me, so if anything happens in the world, it necessarily has something to do with me. My logic is ironclad.
Much to my annoyance, I couldn't seem to get the image of Potter out of my head, and to compound matters, it wasn't even the hilarious image of his hair on fire; for some reason I kept imagining him naked on bear rugs, with weepy violins playing in the background. This was very distressing; so distressing in fact that I was even clumsier than usual, and my daily number of tripping-related catastrophes tripled, culminating on Thursday with me falling into the cafeteria fountain and a marble dolphin landing on my head.
On Friday, Pansy and I were sitting in the cafeteria -- Brighton University students spent nearly all of their time in the cafeteria; you could really get a feel for the social dynamics of the place because nowhere do humans act as naturally as they do in the proximity of food.
Where was I? Oh yes, we were in the cafeteria, sharing a table with Romilda Vane, who had for some unknown reason decided I was, ah, "kakkoii desu ne", and Lavender Brown, who will be necessary later on in this narrative and so needed a prior mention.
So there we were in the cafeteria, twiddling our thumbs -- in my case, heavily bandaged thumbs -- and minding our own business when who should walk in but Harry Potter, accompanied as ever by the inexplicably beautiful Weasley and Granger. I did my best not to stare, but to be honest I was quite relieved he had returned, because I could finally stop spacing out in lessons as I attributed his absence to my presence at the university.
So I did what any self-respecting wizard on the verge of a dangerous obsession would do: I turned to my companions and pretended I hadn't noticed Potter in the slightest. I found that we had been joined by Luna Lovegood, who was wearing earrings that looked like pumpkins and weighed approximately as much, judging by the state of her earlobes.
"They're whimsicle," Luna said to a wide-eyed Romilda.
"That's not how you spell whimsical," Lavender pointed out rudely (you should never correct people's spelling or grammar; nobody likes a stickler, you know).
But Luna continued to look quite agreeable; she merely said, "Don't suppress my creative freedom, fool."
"Harry Potter is staring at you," Pansy said to me in a rather non-sequitur manner.
Now, instead of doing what any normal person in this situation would do -- namely to turn around and look -- I instead opted to behave like a twelve-year-old teenybopper and giggled into my half-eaten cupcake.
I was back in Super Advanced Potion-making and once again paired with Potter, who seemed to have decided not to glare at me today. In fact, he even descended to engage me in polite conversation peppered with doublespeak and vague sexual innuendo. I did not understand why such a change had come over Potter and wondered if perhaps he was secretly plotting my downfall by trying to obtain information about my totally mundane and boring life.
"So you didn't want to come here but your parents sent you anyway?" Potter asked, straining Bubotuber pus into the cauldron. "That doesn't seem very fair."
I had since discovered that if I didn't look straight into Potter's eyes, I could actually manage not to make an arse of myself -- at least not verbally. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Life isn't fair."
"Sasuga Draco-chaaaaaaaaan~!" squealed Romilda from the other end of the room. "Deep desu!"
In the soundtrack of my life, Romilda Vane was the drunken pirate who wanders into the midst of Christmas carollers and starts singing Yo-ho-ho and a Bottle of Rum while they're doing O Tannenbaum.
I smelled something burning again and turned around, fearing that Potter's flames of wrath were acting up again, but it was just our cauldron. I let it burn as I stared into Potter's eyes, which, contrary to all expectations, were still as green as they had been last week, greener than the grass fed to the sheep of Cumbria, greener than the sky when seen through a shard of a Heineken bottle, greener than a baby's nappy after a dinner of mushy peas.
That night, I dreamt of Potter for the first time. I didn't remember the dream afterwards, but I was overcome with an overwhelming, inhuman urge to see Potter, and nothing -- not even Evans's famous pancakes -- would do. Unfortunately, it was the weekend, and the university was closed; I wandered the grounds outside for a few hours, looking desolate and hoping that my pitiful aura would bring with it a dramatic rescue, but I only got a case of sore feet and a runny nose.
I could practically hear Potter's voice in my head: "I hope you enjoy disappointment."
I was consumed by the mystery Potter presented. And more than a little obsessed by Potter himself. It was certainly a change from things being the other way around.
Over the weekend, Romilda and Lavender had somehow managed to convince the entire university that I, and not Potter, was the most eligible bachelor in Brighton; I suspected the use of Unforgivable Curses and possibly love potions, though Romilda vehemently denied putting any love potion in anyone's chocolates.
So as is typical for stories of this nature, there was a dance coming up at some vague point in the future, and both Romilda and Lavender asked me to be their escort after telling the rest of the student body to back off or else. I was quite embarrassed by the attention -- and besides, I am extremely clumsy, so dancing is certainly high on the list of Things I Shall Never Attempt simply because no one sane would willingly fall flat on their arse in front a large audience unless they were being paid a large sum of money. Which I wasn't.
Instead of planning to have fun at the dance while not dancing -- by sampling the excellent snack food selection, for example, or making conversation with fellow humans -- I naturally decided that I must come up with a cunning plan not to attend the dance, since everyone knows that if you are at a dance, you will absolutely be forced into dancing whether you like it or not.
My cunning plan? A trip to Hogsmeade.
As I planned and planned, Potter started to inexplicably turn up everywhere I went. He told me I was exceptionally unobservant and utterly absurd, and he also made fun of my inability to walk across a flat, stable surface without finding something to trip over. I, however, did not notice these obvious signs of a potentially abusive individual, because Potter was just so darned handsome. It was hard to believe that someone so beautiful could be real.
I couldn’t allow him to have this level of influence over me. It was pathetic. More than pathetic, it was unhealthy.
But you know what? In this world, pretty trumps healthy and sane any day, so fuck off.
One day I went on a completely random and superfluous trip to the beach, where I met Astoria Greengrass who, like everyone else, took an immediate liking to me for no good reason whatsoever. I should note for the record that Astoria was whiter than I was and not a member of an indigenous tribe who are vaguely animalistic and shed their clothing at the slightest provocation, so at least this narrative managed to avoid egregiously racist overtones.
Anyway, Astoria told me this creepy story about The Cullen Curse of Brighton -- an ancient curse that befalls anyone who lives in the Cullen dormitory at Brighton Wizarding University. Let us ignore for a moment the fact that Brighton University had not existed long enough for anything except a bit of seasonal mould to set into any of its brand-new buildings. Look, there's Harry Potter! You've now forgotten what we were talking about; it's like a Jedi mind trick only much cooler. Wait, what's a Jedi?
So the Cullen Curse of Brighton befell residents of the Cullen dormitory, and it turned them into -- get this -- bloodsucking vampires. And guess who the current residents of said dormitory were? If you said Romilda Vane, Lavender Brown, and Pansy Parkinson, you are even more unobservant than I am.
So now, fraught with worry that Harry Potter may be some kind of half-baked vampire, I fretted as Pansy and I made our way back from our superfluous beach trip.
I didn't want him to be a vampire. When I thought of him, of his voice, his hypnotic eyes, the magnetic force of his personality, I wanted nothing more than to be with him right now.
"It's too bad we're wizards; we could have used the Internet to do some research," said Pansy as I outlined my worries in bright pink marker on a piece of paper.
"I really did like Astoria. She is someone I could easily be friends with," I said unrelatedly.
"Yeah, and you might marry her and have a child and name him Scorpius."
I decided to drown my sorrows in going clothes-shopping for the dance.
"I thought you weren't going to the dance," objected Pansy.
"Well, I've changed my mind! I'm allowed to do that with no explanation. Besides, Potter wasn't at school yesterday and desolation has hit me with crippling strength."
"You're a tosspot."
So Pansy, Romilda, Lavender, and I set off to find the most upscale robe shop in town. Along the way, I had somehow managed to get lost -- in addition to being clumsy, I have no sense of direction; my personality is just so full of flaws! -- and as I walked broodingly along a shadowed alley beset by hungry cats, I heard footsteps behind me.
"Sometimes I have a problem with my temper, Draco," the shadows said to me.
I shrieked like a coyote and leapt with surprising nimbleness onto a nearby rubbish bin, startling the resident feline overlord, who landed on my head and began kneading my scalp angrily.
"It's harder than it should be -- keeping track of you," said Potter, emerging from the shadows.
"Why are you even keeping track of me?" I asked, but I was secretly thrilled that someone as devastatingly gorgeous as Potter would deign to keep track of me. Shouldn't everyone be thrilled to be ceaselessly followed by a man, as long as he was beautiful?
"I followed your scent," said Potter. "I couldn't help it. You should really stop bathing in your aftershave." He looked very brooding for a moment. "It makes me... anxious... to be away from you."
He was so amazingly, impossibly, inconceivably beautiful. There was nothing about him that could be improved upon. Not even the stalking. Breath after breath caught in my throat until I choked nearly to death, but Potter saved me anticlimactically.
"I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Malfoy," said Potter after reviving me. "Come and see how I sparkle in the sun!"
And he bore me away in his arms, moving faster than a top-of-the-range broomstick, to the opposite end of the alley where the sun still shone. And heavens to Betsy, he took off his shirt.
"Do I dazzle you now?"
"I... think so?" I said. I had been blinded by the evening sun and hadn't really seen much at all.
"I wish you could sense what I sense," Potter continued as though I hadn't spoken. "The sweet smell of your throat."
"Right, because I've only got blood in my throat, and none in my armpits," I remarked, backing away a step.
"You don't understand how hard it is for me," Potter whined. "Your blood calls to me, but I am a good guy so I can't just kill you and drink your blood! So I dine on grizzly bears in the woods and I even feel bad about that, because omg the poor grizzly bears!"
Common sense told me I should be terrified. Instead, I was relieved to finally understand how he felt. And I was filled with compassion for his suffering, even now, as he confessed his craving to take my life. Yeah, don't even look at me; that was straight from the fucking book.
"I get it, okay? You want to kill me and drink my blood! That's so romantic," I sighed, and tilted my face up to Potter's despite being taller than he was.
Then his cold, marble lips pressed very softly against mine. Because marble can totally do that. And there was violin music, and rose petals fell from the sky, and the angry cat from the rubbish bin finally gave me up as a bad job and got off my head.
After the kiss -- which lasted for many weeks filled with torrential rain; take that, J.K. Rowling! -- I was overcome with confusion and could only cling to Potter and wail incomprehensibly, because kissing can totally make you incoherent like that.
"I do not understand why I love you so much," I sobbed into Potter's sparkling shoulder. "It just makes no sense! Sure, you're beautiful, but that's not enough to fall for someone, especially not when you have a modicum of intelligence to speak of!"
"I know exactly how you feel," Potter said, rubbing soothing circles into my back with his pretty, pretty hands. "I have no idea why I fell for you, either; I believe a heavy kettle to the cranium may have been involved."
As I stood there, still sobbing, I realised that despite my two or three misgivings, I just couldn't resist him in anything. Which was totally romantic and not at all creepy. After I was able to man up and contain my desperate weeping, Potter took my hand and began leading me out of the dark alley in a heavy-handed attempt at symbolic irony .
"Wait, aren't we going to have sex?" I asked. This was, after all, a work of fan fiction.
Potter's eyes widened as he turned to gape at me. "Gosh, no! Sex is evil! Especially gay sex. So we should really wait until we get married, at least. And before that, we should have some totally pointless adventures of epic length and little in the way of redeemable dialogue, in which I save your life and kill some people, then those people come after you for revenge using an army of baby vampires but of course they fail because we team up with the Greengrass family who are secretly furries; the furry is the natural enemy of the sparkly vampire you know. In the meantime, our relationship will grow increasingly co-dependent as we fail to develop any likable traits or exhibit even an iota of personal growth -- in fact, what little exists of your personality will totally disappear and be replaced by an all-encompassing desire to make me happy, and then my magical sparkles will cause you to have an unusually speedy wizarding male pregnancy and bear a child named Albuscorpius who will creepily turn out to be Astoria's soul mate. Dramatic pause."
"How about we forget all that and just have some graphic, no-strings-attached sex up against this wall right here?" I suggested as Potter stopped to catch a breath.
"That works even better," Potter admitted, his perfect eyebrow furrowing slightly. "But then no one will buy the book. Muggles like having sex as much as we do, but for some reason lots of them think describing sex is a terrible thing to do."
"Don't worry. We'll fade to black."