(no subject)
Title: The Art of Not Obsessing
Author: corvidae9
Rating: PG13 (but the future speculations hit a naughty RNC17 in the comments :P)
Word Count: ~1750
Summary: Draco is dragged back from his retreat and discovers something he could have lived his entire life without knowing. Of course, now that he does... damn it, no. He still didn't need to know.
Author Notes: Written for the flamingnargle Third Fourth Party challenge, Prompt: Draco and the Imperius curse. Harry/Ginny/Luna from Draco's PoV, meaning of course that he thinks a lot about himself in the process and ends up selfishly taking over the fic. Typical. Mention of Pansy/undisclosed Gryffindor and Harry/Draco peripheral ships that make baby Jesus antosha_c cry, but he has to read it anyway because it's *his* ship, technically! HA! Mine is an EVIL LAUGH.) ETA: Now includes links to accompanying art!
He'd never been a nice child, never the sweet baby that offered up kisses to his mother with an endearing, cherubic smile; he'd never been friendly and well-liked for who he was rather than what and he certainly had never been stupidly "in love", whatever that was supposed to mean.
Draco Malfoy had spent his life seeking out those that could be of use to them and exploiting them with varying degrees of callous selfishness, depending on how long he needed them to stick around. It was a little known fact, however that he did in fact tend to wind his -god forbid!- cherubic fingers through his mother's hair for comfort when no one was looking; or that he curled around Stoppleforth Bear at night because Stoppleforth had the patience and kind fortitude to smile at his worst behavior.
He was a product of his environment, and while the object of this tale is not to engender sympathy for the misunderstood-- for it is certain that anyone who has come to the conclusion that he is a selfish brat with little regard for others, they have generally understood him just fine-- it is important to understand why. As such, it is also important to understand the following:
1) In Draco Malfoy's world, it is perfectly acceptable to sleep with two women at once.
2) It is also perfectly acceptable to sleep with two men at once.
3) Hell, you could pretty much sleep with two or more of anyone at once and that's just fine, as long as no one ever finds out.
4) If someone finds out who you are in fact sleeping with, lie, hedge, bribe and/or slander your way out of being exposed, unless you plan to marry said lover (not at all predicated upon whether you actually like or HA! Love them).
That said, after Dumbledore died, he became convinced of the fact that no one he could bribe or promise with money, power, sex or the appeal of being someone in need of saving could save him from He Who Lacked a Nose. With his mother's blessing and hidden offshore accounts, Draco ditched Severus and left the country for more tropical climes, where he hid under giant palm frond umbrellas to shield his delicate skin from the harsh equatorial heat and hired cabana boys to bring him drinks and call him 'Enrique'.
Spanish language immersion during his summer in Spain had certainly paid off.
###
An owl appeared one day, tired and bedraggled, and Draco pulled the note from it's leg, disposing of the owl by bundling it into the arms of the dark-haired boy he was currently bodily shoving from his beachside bungalow with an offhand, "Si, si, maravilloso. Bueno, mijo-- que te vaya bien."1
The note was from one Pansy Parkinson, letting him know that Potter had done his damn job (and about time too) and that Draco should come home.
As if.
Draco hurried to the door to call after the boy still fastening his trousers one-handed on the front step, and spoke even as he scrawled a return note on at the bottom. "¿Oye, mijo? Trae me ese pajaro estupido otra vez." 2
###
Another owl several months later found him in the middle of something terribly pressing, namely a margarita (rocks) bender in the lap of a sturdy, light-eyed young man that he wanted to say was named Humberto. Odds were that it wasn't his name, but that's what Draco wanted to call him, and so 'Humberto' it was.
Pansy again, and wouldn't he please come? The gossip was dreadfully entertaining and Potter was so common in his need for attention and simply everyone was pining over the tragically missing Malfoy heir.
Well, hell. When she made it about him, it sounded a little more attractive.
Draco packed his things straight away and Apparated directly out of his room to the Colombian ministry, where he and his Galleons negotiated for an afternoon PortKey to London. From there it was a matter of a short Apparation to Parkinson Manor, when he was led up to Pansy's second floor sitting room by a house elf in an immaculate tea towel embroidered with what else? Pansies. 'Lady of the Manor' suited Pansy rather well, it turned out. Tragic, her father in Azkaban, her mother in seclusion at the estate in Sicily. Simply tragic.
He was not in the least homesick. Not at all. Draco actually clung to Pansy because he was still dizzy from the long-distance Port Key and she was of a convenient height to be able to drape his arms over her and lean heavily, and he did. Once the clinging was over, Pansy filled him on on all of the details behind Voldemort's Defeat, and who was wearing what at the big Ministry celebration thereof, not to mention the juiciest dirt on most surviving Weasleys and Gryffindors, and the latest count as to which of their schoolmates were incarcerated, released as part of a plea bargain or still hiding out somewhere in Switzerland, jealously guarding their non-combatant status (Theo had sent chocolates that were to die for).
But she'd been holding out. Draco leaned back in his chair, nonchalant, swirling the cognac in his glass. "Darling, far be it from me to be unappreciative of your enchanting tales, but there's a hole in your narrative. What's Saint Potter gone and done to merit him an entire phrase in your owl when not even Bulstrode's tragic choice of careers did the same?"
Lounging in an equally impressive manner, Pansy held her glass up in order to properly appreciate the natural light flickering through the aged liquor, elbow still firmly planted on the armrest of the chair. "Oh, that." Her eyes flicked to Draco and back- a move that he caught immediately but in matching form, pretended not to have done- and she continued, nonchalant. "Dreadful. We know Potter had the bad sense to date the Weaselette as painfully cliché as it may seem, but right before he aerated The Dark Lord, Potter was actually seen with Loony Lovegood. With Loony; as in caught in flagrante. Honestly!"
Draco narrowed his eyes in... disgust. Right. "Ugh. That's just sad. H--"
Holding up a well-manicured nail, Pansy's predatory smile widened, if at all possible. "Quite. But in hospital after he did the Deed, Loony and the Weaselette were part of the big, weepy vigil over his almost-corpse, and made it clear that they were doing more than holding each other for comfort, or some such."
Disbelief clearly etched on Draco's face, he sputtered, "Loony left Potter on his deathbed for the Weaselette? Has anyone thought to check whether the loon is under the Imperius?!" Realizing he'd sat forward rather unexpectedly, Draco made a conscious effort to smooth his brow and take another sip as he settled back. "...Because, obviously, even the mentally infirm among us should be able to know enough to stay away from such poor quality blood traitors."
Pansy, however, was obviously having difficulty containing her outright glee. "Better. Or I suppose, worse, since it involves Potter regaining consciousness. But once he did, they were both caught sneaking into his hospital bed - bookending him 'for comfort' as it were. Both."
Draco blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
Eyes glittering Pansy went on, "Oh, yes. You heard correctly. In a fit of pique, Potter told the Prophet, and I quote, 'Yes, I am seeing them both. Piss off.'" And then threatened the reporter, who went on about his questionable mental faculties." With a snort, Pansy added, "As if that was news. Really."
Tossing back the rest of the liquor in his glass with no regard for its age or bouquet, Draco scowled and tossed it over his shoulder, knowing the house elf would either catch it or take care of it. The crass gesture gave his mood away entirely, and Pansy arched her eyebrow at him. "Are you quite well, Draco?"
The lack of shattered glass seemed to indicate that the house elf had indeed caught his discarded glass, but Draco did not notice, in favor of indulging a rare, genuine pout. "Just ducky."
Pansy said nothing, but fixed him with a look that had worked to extract the truth from him (as best as one could from Draco) since the time they were five years old. Draco rolled his eyes and let his head back thump back on the chair. "That's not fair. Why does Saint Potter get a free show every night of the week? Wanker could probably start a harem and have women lined up to join it. And, and! Men, too. Fucking poof in het's clothing, is what." Fully sulking now, Draco slumped further if possibly. "I deserve at least that. The err- harem of my own. That is."
Watching him critically, Pansy sipped the last of her drink and set it on the side table with a very small 'click'. "Apparently, Costa Rica did not put a stop to your obsessing."
His head whipped around to her, and Draco spat, "I don't obsess. Malfoys do not obsess."
Pansy's expression softened to almost pure fondness, speaking as she reached over the gap between them to take his hand. "Sweetling. He may be an Auror-in-training and able to throw off an Imperius, but even he isn't impervious to certain Potions... and there's a good reason Bulstrode is his partner." Feeling him perk, she continued. "And I have it on good authority he spent quite some time obsessing over you."
"Leave off, Parkinson, that's just--"
"Vile? Manipulative? Cheating?" Smiling with too many teeth, Pansy grinned again. "Slytherin?"
Draco shook his head once, vehemently. "Ridiculous. Anyway, I'm going right back to--"
Cutting him off, Pansy spoke as harshly as she ever had to her oldest real friend. "To continue picking up look-alikes with skin too dark to be just right?"
Draco stared past her in absolute silence.
Pansy arched a smug eyebrow. "No, I didn't think so. I had Popsy make a room up for you. We'll get started tomorrow."
"Parkinson..."
Standing briskly, Pansy pulled him to his petulant little feet. "Shh. I'll walk you up myself. And on the way, I have my own story to tell you."
With a snort of amusement, Draco followed, muttering, "Unless you've found true love with the Weasel or the Mudblood or both, I still win."
Pansy patted his arm, for once sounding the tiniest bit uncomfortable as she smoothed her hair with her free hand. "About that..."
###
For those of you that don't speak Spanglish, here's the closest I could get:
1. Yes, yes, marvelous. Well, [literally 'son', though more a general endearment that that is in english, like 'dear' or maybe 'baby'?], have a good one.
2. Hey son? Bring that stupid bird back.
Author: corvidae9
Rating: PG13 (but the future speculations hit a naughty RNC17 in the comments :P)
Word Count: ~1750
Summary: Draco is dragged back from his retreat and discovers something he could have lived his entire life without knowing. Of course, now that he does... damn it, no. He still didn't need to know.
Author Notes: Written for the flamingnargle Third Fourth Party challenge, Prompt: Draco and the Imperius curse. Harry/Ginny/Luna from Draco's PoV, meaning of course that he thinks a lot about himself in the process and ends up selfishly taking over the fic. Typical. Mention of Pansy/undisclosed Gryffindor and Harry/Draco peripheral ships that make baby Jesus antosha_c cry, but he has to read it anyway because it's *his* ship, technically! HA! Mine is an EVIL LAUGH.) ETA: Now includes links to accompanying art!
He'd never been a nice child, never the sweet baby that offered up kisses to his mother with an endearing, cherubic smile; he'd never been friendly and well-liked for who he was rather than what and he certainly had never been stupidly "in love", whatever that was supposed to mean.
Draco Malfoy had spent his life seeking out those that could be of use to them and exploiting them with varying degrees of callous selfishness, depending on how long he needed them to stick around. It was a little known fact, however that he did in fact tend to wind his -god forbid!- cherubic fingers through his mother's hair for comfort when no one was looking; or that he curled around Stoppleforth Bear at night because Stoppleforth had the patience and kind fortitude to smile at his worst behavior.
He was a product of his environment, and while the object of this tale is not to engender sympathy for the misunderstood-- for it is certain that anyone who has come to the conclusion that he is a selfish brat with little regard for others, they have generally understood him just fine-- it is important to understand why. As such, it is also important to understand the following:
1) In Draco Malfoy's world, it is perfectly acceptable to sleep with two women at once.
2) It is also perfectly acceptable to sleep with two men at once.
3) Hell, you could pretty much sleep with two or more of anyone at once and that's just fine, as long as no one ever finds out.
4) If someone finds out who you are in fact sleeping with, lie, hedge, bribe and/or slander your way out of being exposed, unless you plan to marry said lover (not at all predicated upon whether you actually like or HA! Love them).
That said, after Dumbledore died, he became convinced of the fact that no one he could bribe or promise with money, power, sex or the appeal of being someone in need of saving could save him from He Who Lacked a Nose. With his mother's blessing and hidden offshore accounts, Draco ditched Severus and left the country for more tropical climes, where he hid under giant palm frond umbrellas to shield his delicate skin from the harsh equatorial heat and hired cabana boys to bring him drinks and call him 'Enrique'.
Spanish language immersion during his summer in Spain had certainly paid off.
###
An owl appeared one day, tired and bedraggled, and Draco pulled the note from it's leg, disposing of the owl by bundling it into the arms of the dark-haired boy he was currently bodily shoving from his beachside bungalow with an offhand, "Si, si, maravilloso. Bueno, mijo-- que te vaya bien."1
The note was from one Pansy Parkinson, letting him know that Potter had done his damn job (and about time too) and that Draco should come home.
As if.
Draco hurried to the door to call after the boy still fastening his trousers one-handed on the front step, and spoke even as he scrawled a return note on at the bottom. "¿Oye, mijo? Trae me ese pajaro estupido otra vez." 2
###
Another owl several months later found him in the middle of something terribly pressing, namely a margarita (rocks) bender in the lap of a sturdy, light-eyed young man that he wanted to say was named Humberto. Odds were that it wasn't his name, but that's what Draco wanted to call him, and so 'Humberto' it was.
Pansy again, and wouldn't he please come? The gossip was dreadfully entertaining and Potter was so common in his need for attention and simply everyone was pining over the tragically missing Malfoy heir.
Well, hell. When she made it about him, it sounded a little more attractive.
Draco packed his things straight away and Apparated directly out of his room to the Colombian ministry, where he and his Galleons negotiated for an afternoon PortKey to London. From there it was a matter of a short Apparation to Parkinson Manor, when he was led up to Pansy's second floor sitting room by a house elf in an immaculate tea towel embroidered with what else? Pansies. 'Lady of the Manor' suited Pansy rather well, it turned out. Tragic, her father in Azkaban, her mother in seclusion at the estate in Sicily. Simply tragic.
He was not in the least homesick. Not at all. Draco actually clung to Pansy because he was still dizzy from the long-distance Port Key and she was of a convenient height to be able to drape his arms over her and lean heavily, and he did. Once the clinging was over, Pansy filled him on on all of the details behind Voldemort's Defeat, and who was wearing what at the big Ministry celebration thereof, not to mention the juiciest dirt on most surviving Weasleys and Gryffindors, and the latest count as to which of their schoolmates were incarcerated, released as part of a plea bargain or still hiding out somewhere in Switzerland, jealously guarding their non-combatant status (Theo had sent chocolates that were to die for).
But she'd been holding out. Draco leaned back in his chair, nonchalant, swirling the cognac in his glass. "Darling, far be it from me to be unappreciative of your enchanting tales, but there's a hole in your narrative. What's Saint Potter gone and done to merit him an entire phrase in your owl when not even Bulstrode's tragic choice of careers did the same?"
Lounging in an equally impressive manner, Pansy held her glass up in order to properly appreciate the natural light flickering through the aged liquor, elbow still firmly planted on the armrest of the chair. "Oh, that." Her eyes flicked to Draco and back- a move that he caught immediately but in matching form, pretended not to have done- and she continued, nonchalant. "Dreadful. We know Potter had the bad sense to date the Weaselette as painfully cliché as it may seem, but right before he aerated The Dark Lord, Potter was actually seen with Loony Lovegood. With Loony; as in caught in flagrante. Honestly!"
Draco narrowed his eyes in... disgust. Right. "Ugh. That's just sad. H--"
Holding up a well-manicured nail, Pansy's predatory smile widened, if at all possible. "Quite. But in hospital after he did the Deed, Loony and the Weaselette were part of the big, weepy vigil over his almost-corpse, and made it clear that they were doing more than holding each other for comfort, or some such."
Disbelief clearly etched on Draco's face, he sputtered, "Loony left Potter on his deathbed for the Weaselette? Has anyone thought to check whether the loon is under the Imperius?!" Realizing he'd sat forward rather unexpectedly, Draco made a conscious effort to smooth his brow and take another sip as he settled back. "...Because, obviously, even the mentally infirm among us should be able to know enough to stay away from such poor quality blood traitors."
Pansy, however, was obviously having difficulty containing her outright glee. "Better. Or I suppose, worse, since it involves Potter regaining consciousness. But once he did, they were both caught sneaking into his hospital bed - bookending him 'for comfort' as it were. Both."
Draco blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
Eyes glittering Pansy went on, "Oh, yes. You heard correctly. In a fit of pique, Potter told the Prophet, and I quote, 'Yes, I am seeing them both. Piss off.'" And then threatened the reporter, who went on about his questionable mental faculties." With a snort, Pansy added, "As if that was news. Really."
Tossing back the rest of the liquor in his glass with no regard for its age or bouquet, Draco scowled and tossed it over his shoulder, knowing the house elf would either catch it or take care of it. The crass gesture gave his mood away entirely, and Pansy arched her eyebrow at him. "Are you quite well, Draco?"
The lack of shattered glass seemed to indicate that the house elf had indeed caught his discarded glass, but Draco did not notice, in favor of indulging a rare, genuine pout. "Just ducky."
Pansy said nothing, but fixed him with a look that had worked to extract the truth from him (as best as one could from Draco) since the time they were five years old. Draco rolled his eyes and let his head back thump back on the chair. "That's not fair. Why does Saint Potter get a free show every night of the week? Wanker could probably start a harem and have women lined up to join it. And, and! Men, too. Fucking poof in het's clothing, is what." Fully sulking now, Draco slumped further if possibly. "I deserve at least that. The err- harem of my own. That is."
Watching him critically, Pansy sipped the last of her drink and set it on the side table with a very small 'click'. "Apparently, Costa Rica did not put a stop to your obsessing."
His head whipped around to her, and Draco spat, "I don't obsess. Malfoys do not obsess."
Pansy's expression softened to almost pure fondness, speaking as she reached over the gap between them to take his hand. "Sweetling. He may be an Auror-in-training and able to throw off an Imperius, but even he isn't impervious to certain Potions... and there's a good reason Bulstrode is his partner." Feeling him perk, she continued. "And I have it on good authority he spent quite some time obsessing over you."
"Leave off, Parkinson, that's just--"
"Vile? Manipulative? Cheating?" Smiling with too many teeth, Pansy grinned again. "Slytherin?"
Draco shook his head once, vehemently. "Ridiculous. Anyway, I'm going right back to--"
Cutting him off, Pansy spoke as harshly as she ever had to her oldest real friend. "To continue picking up look-alikes with skin too dark to be just right?"
Draco stared past her in absolute silence.
Pansy arched a smug eyebrow. "No, I didn't think so. I had Popsy make a room up for you. We'll get started tomorrow."
"Parkinson..."
Standing briskly, Pansy pulled him to his petulant little feet. "Shh. I'll walk you up myself. And on the way, I have my own story to tell you."
With a snort of amusement, Draco followed, muttering, "Unless you've found true love with the Weasel or the Mudblood or both, I still win."
Pansy patted his arm, for once sounding the tiniest bit uncomfortable as she smoothed her hair with her free hand. "About that..."
###
For those of you that don't speak Spanglish, here's the closest I could get:
1. Yes, yes, marvelous. Well, [literally 'son', though more a general endearment that that is in english, like 'dear' or maybe 'baby'?], have a good one.
2. Hey son? Bring that stupid bird back.