fic: A Matter Of Pride 1/2
Title: A Matter of Pride [1/2]
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17 (PG-13 for this half)
Word count: 11,447
Notes: Written for enchanted-jae at hds-beltane. (And she liked it! *happy dance!*)
Summary: The initial bet which goes so much more wrong than Draco could have imagined. The discriminating photos which Draco would sell his soul for, to save his pride. A safe place to relieve tension becomes tension itself. A silent acknowledgement of opposing sides, and yet, an acceptance. A willing surrender.
"Fine! If Slytherin loses this time, I'll dance naked in front of a bonfire on Beltane!" Draco swears one brisk morning whilst waiting for the Potions Master. He flings the loose end of his patriotic Slytherin scarf to cover his bare neck and scowls spectacularly. His breath rises in a small, warm puff of steam and the other three Slytherins, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle all shuffle or stamp their feet in the underground corridor, for although the weather outside is somewhat mild, temperatures never seem to rise significantly down in the dungeons.
"Is that a bet?" a voice which haunts Draco's dreams sounds behind him, and Draco turns even though he knows full well who spoke, eyes steely and jaw clenched. Harry Potter had managed to overhear what only the three other Slytherins were supposed to hear. None of them will actually make him dance naked around a bonfire if Slytherin loses; they probably won't even dare to mention it to Draco, considering the mood he's usually in after Slytherin loses to Gryffindor. The loss itself is enough humiliation that naked bonfire dancing just isn't necessary. However, Potter will make him. But he's said it now. No backing down. Not in front of Potter.
A fine shade of pink tinges the tips of Draco's prominent cheekbones as he makes his decision. "Yeah, Potter. It is. And if Gryffindor lose, you have to do the same," he adds, slightly haughtily. Harry Potter laughs outright in his face, and Draco's flush deepens, this time out of anger. His hand is already on its way to his pocket when Slughorn appears conveniently down the corridor and people bustle past. "I'll see you on the pitch then," the blond boy murmurs quietly as he pushes past to enter the classroom, fists clenched. He is fully aware that Slytherin has not won a game from Harry Potter yet. Crabbe and Goyle flank Pansy, more out of the need to flank something automatically rather than out of any particular loyalties to the girl, and all three sneer identical sneers as they walk past for presumably a free period, since none of them take Potions.
Harry wonders if Slytherins take group lessons in sneering, facing a mirror. He smiles a little, and slips into the classroom. Easy win. Gryffindor always beats Slytherin; there's no contest. He does wonder why on earth it gives him such a triumphant, vicious feeling to think of Malfoy dancing naked in front of a bonfire though. He thinks about it a bit more, and then decides that he really isn't the wonderful Saviour he is painted as by the Magical Media. He isn't above gloating over Malfoy's humiliation- at least, not a little bit.
* * *
The day dawned clear, full of sunshine but brisk and chilly. Draco forwent his scarf, knowing that once on the pitch, the movement and adrenaline would heat him up. He curled a hand around his broom, started, and took his hand off. He stared numbly at his palm for a moment, before wiping his clammy hand on the material of his robes. The boy sighed, and then firmly gripped his broom and went down to gather with the rest of his team. The stakes had been upped, and his heart was racing.
Draco reckoned that he had never flown better than he did that day. His moves were crisp and perfectly executed. The adrenaline poured through him, heightening all of his senses. No bludger managed to come within two yards of him, and that barrel roll in the twenty-seventh minute had managed to get that new Gryffindor boy flustered. However, whilst everything within his power to influence was spot on, Draco gritted his teeth in frustration, as his team just couldn't manage to outscore Gryffindor.
It wasn't that Gryffindor's Keeper was good. Weasley had all the ability of an amoeba. It was just that the other Weasley was putting all number of goals behind their Keeper. It wasn't fair, dammit! How was Draco expected to be responsible for the performance of six players not under his control? Fair. Not fair. Huh. Fair! The blond narrowed his eyes at Potter on one of his roamings across the pitch, trying to stay vaguely central lest the Snitch appeared in some remote part of the pitch.
Fair. Luck. The two elements had just connected themselves in Draco's mind. He thought quickly even as he stayed alert around the pitch. The Felix Felicis. Potter had it... he could be using it... dodge that bludger!- or he could have given it to his team mates because he was generous and loving and giving like that- "I'm on your team, don't bludger me, you moron!" Draco hollered to his right. However, Potter wouldn't do that, would he? Slughorn had already said that using it for sports would be illegal, and Potter was a goody-two-shoes, wasn't he? He'd want to beat Draco on his own, and- SNITCH.
Everything was wiped out of Draco's mind as he flattened himself on his broom and raced towards that little fluttering ball. Dammit, why wouldn't his mother buy him a new broom?! He'd gotten the head start, but Potter was already level, no, overtaking him, even. As the slim fingers curled over that ball, anger lanced sharply through Draco's body; he didn't think he could control it; he didn't even bother waiting for the confirmation, or rejoicing, or anything; he simply wheeled his broom in as sharp a turn as he could manage, getting himself off the pitch and as far away from Potter as possible. The skill had been his. The sight had been his. But Potter had the fucking better broom. Fair. He could snort at the word. He could cry at the word.
Draco was shaking with anger, shaking so badly that he couldn't get his buttons undone, because the small things kept slipping through his fingers. He gave up, angrily jerking the two sides of his robes and making the first two buttons pop apart harshly, sweeping blond hair which was falling over his eyes out of the way, only to brush a warm wetness off his cheeks. He hadn't even noticed he was crying, if crying was even the right word for it anymore. He ignored the tears, mentally blocked up everything except years' worth of ranting and raving about Harry bloody Potter. Everything that he had told himself a thousand times now repeated itself in his head, how Potter got rewarded for breaking rules, how Potter could flout wizarding law and get no penalty, how Potter had everything, everything his way. The years-old rant which had grown over time ran through Draco's mind, as it always did whenever Potter did something to add to it.
Although he hadn't been especially trying to find his way back into the common room, Draco's body had automatically led him there. He muttered the password and dragged his broom in, still half-wearing his Quidditch robes which were hanging loosely over one shoulder. The Common Room was empty, but Draco knew that it would be flooded in just a few minutes with angry, bitter Slytherins, who would be either annoyed at him for failing to catch that snitch, or sympathising with him. He didn't want their pity. He didn't need their pity. Pity was useless; it was only for wallowing in. His tears were an automatic human reaction to signals his brain was sending. It was an uncontrollable factor, but the boy was not going to give himself into it. The tears never changed, as he ripped the rest of his clothes off and pulled himself into the shower. Slowly and steadily, they continued seeping out the corner of his eyes as he scrubbed himself clean, trying to physically purge himself of memories which weren't going to change.
Humiliation. This intense, almost violent reaction was all down to humiliation. Practically all Draco had left was his own pride now, and it had recently been worn down, bit by bit, and now it was under enough pressure that it might just snap into two neat little halves and break him. The Slytherin realised, from the part of his mind which was still working completely logically, that this sort of reaction was... far beyond normal. This had never happened after another Quidditch game, and that led to the conclusion that Potter, Potter and that stupid, impulsive dare had led to this. Was he so pathetic that everything he did was influenced by Potter? That logical part of his mind said yes. He was little more than any other pureblooded Slytherin with loyalties towards the Dark Lord without Potter, without Potter being his personal mission, his archrival in everything.
"Draco?" Goyle's voice sounded clearly through the locked door. "We need to use the shower." Draco turned his back to the door and ignored him, breathing deeply. He needed to regulate his actions; it was a ritual of his to help him through emotional periods. If everything he did followed some personal routine, there would be no room for any other thoughts or actions to escape. He turned the water on hotter for thirty seconds. As soon as he counted to thirty, he switched all the taps off and slung his towel around him and opened the door for Goyle, not stopping to dry himself properly. As soon as Draco had started regulating his precise movements, he had bottled all his emotions up inside him again. He told himself that he'd be dressed and starting his Potions homework by the time ten minutes had passed. On the seventh minute, he was unscrolling a piece of parchment and ready to write. His pride might be battered and failing, but his façade was complete again.
* * *
Draco Malfoy had disappeared off the pitch by the time Gryffindor had finished celebrating. Harry had not found this in the least surprising. To be honest, he couldn't care less about how that whiny brat moped or tortured his friends or however else he would relieve his anger. He'd find him the next day, or the next time they had a lesson together, and remind Malfoy of their little dare then. As he slung an arm around Ron's shoulders and dragged his friend through the portrait hole and headed straight for the table of food stolen or coerced from the House-elves, Harry reckoned that he could forget sodding Malfoy for a bit, and just enjoy himself a bit.
The ease with which Harry had forgotten Malfoy just a few hours earlier had been... well, easy. Unfortunately, not so now. Harry lay on his bed, tracing the soft lines on the canopy above him with semi-lidded, dark-lashed eyes. The adrenaline had drained from his body, leaving him physically tired, but annoyingly, still fully awake. Someone he had barely noticed during the game now came to his mind. He had seen Malfoy's expression as he had passed him on his broom, in the furthest part of his peripheral vision. He chased it around his mind's eye now, but the slight shot was not getting any clearer, nor was he getting the complete picture of Malfoy's expression. It had been an odd expression, the part of it that Harry had seen, and Harry had no way to describe it. He couldn't even tell if it were a positive or negative expression, but knowing Malfoy, there would little chance that it would have been positive at all. Chasing that imprinted, partial image of Malfoy's face around his mind kept Harry awake for quite a bit, that night.
There were another two days until Harry had his next Potions lesson. He had worked his way around every possible answer that Malfoy could possibly come up with, and was completely ready to blackmail the other boy should he need to. It hadn't occurred to him why he was so insistent that Malfoy should carry out his forfeit, perhaps it was something to do with how much he detested Malfoy's attitude, his pride, how he needed to be taken down a peg, or two, or ten. Having asked Hermione when Beltane actually was, Harry passed Malfoy on his way back to his seat after collecting some dried nettles. "Would midnight on Beltane do?" he asked subtly. Malfoy gave him flat eyes.
"I'm not doing your stupid dare," the blond hissed, under the cover of clanging the lid onto his cauldron. Naturally, Harry had expected that first response. He shrugged one shoulder discreetly and carried on to his own cauldron again. He could tell that Malfoy was narrowing his eyes at his back, wondering what he was up to. It wasn't that he could feel the weight of the stare, or anything. He just knew that it was something Malfoy would be doing.
Pretending that he had to stay back to talk to Slughorn about something lost Hermione and Ron easily, and Harry stalked Malfoy out instead, feeling somewhat uneasy that he was suddenly thinking that he was stalking Draco Malfoy. The idea of anyone stalking Draco Malfoy was a little disturbing. "So, Malfoy," the Gryffindor started as soon as the door closed behind them, preventing Slughorn from hearing, "Midnight it is. I'll send you instructions by owl." He smiled cheerfully, as Malfoy tried to throw him off by winding through the corridors in the dungeon.
"You can't follow me to my Common Room, Potter," the blond snapped quietly backwards, lest the stone corridors echoed their conversation to some unknown ears. "Someone's going to see you. And I'm not doing your silly little dare. I have better things to do with my time."
Harry sped up a little, now close enough to practically step on Draco's heels as they made another left turn. "But how would you like me to tell the whole of Gryffindor House about that 'silly little dare', Malfoy? What about the other Houses? I'm sure we could coerce you into it at some point. Wouldn't you feel quite honoured that three-quarters of the school would turn up in the middle of the night to see you naked?" Draco shivered, even though he was perfectly used to the slightly chilly dungeon, and Harry didn't fail to notice it. If Potter spread this around school, the whole school, there wouldn't be any way he could get out of this. He was not going to be some public laughing stock. He was not going to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to wherever Potter wanted him to go. He wasn't going to be dragged anywhere at all, dammit!
"What the hell do you want, Potter?" His voice sounded tired without meaning to. "Are you just trying to see me naked?" he sneered, obliterating the previous show of emotion that he had no wish to demonstrate in front of the other boy. He couldn't show Potter how much Potter affected him, in any way. It made his pride ache every time he conceded a little to the other boy. He fell silent for a moment, and Harry let him. He flew through the possibilities, something he should have done in the past two days, instead of blocking out any thought of this dare, hoping that it would just all go away. He didn't know why there was such a big fuss mounting up over this anyway; it was just a dare. But now Potter had wedged his say into it, there wasn't any way that Draco was going to be outdone, if only for his pride. Only. Hah, that was putting it lightly; his pride was everything to him.
Harry Potter chuckled behind Draco, and he suddenly envied the Gryffindor. To be able to chuckle, laugh, express joy so easily wasn't something that came so naturally to him anymore. And then he hated himself for envying Potter. "I just want to see you make a fool of yourself. You know that. I'll send the location," the boy turned around, walking back in the direction he came, leaving Draco feeling empty, dissatisfied with their... conversation, if it could be considered one. Harry, on the other hand, was simply feeling quite glad that he had had enough foresight to bring the Marauder's map, because he didn't have the slightest clue as to how to get out of these dungeons.
When Draco finally reached his Common Room (it had been just around the corner from where Potter had left him, so it was a good thing the boy had gone by then) and gotten in with the password 'pomegranate', Pansy eyed him from across the room. He picked his way around to the sofa that the girl was occupying and flung himself across it, head landing in her lap. "Yes? I can tell you want to ask me something."
Parkinson smiled. "How observant you are, Draco. I was just going to say; you had a lesson with Potter just now, right? What did he say about that bet?" She was certainly interested. Pansy would give a lot to see Draco naked, the boy bet, slightly amused. He felt fingers comb through his hair, which simply confirmed what he thought.
"I'm not doing it, of course. It's utterly ridiculous," Draco dismissed, rolling his head on her thigh so that he was more comfortable. He heard the girl make some distinctively disappointed noise, and felt her pluck at his hair. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself in front of Potter."
* * *
A non-distinctive school owl landed in front of Draco's toast, and also dropped a foot into the butter dish. He reached out, and casually plucked the letter off the owl like it was nothing new. "Wassat?" Crabbe asked through a mouthful of egg and bacon.
"Probably McGonagall giving me a detention for something," Draco shrugged it off with an ease he didn't feel inside, tucking it into an inside pocket so that no one could read it. He finished breakfast quickly and took off, thankful that he didn't have many of the same lessons as Crabbe and Goyle. Inside the letter, there was a description of an area beyond the perimeter of the Forest and around the lake. It wasn't even a letter, should someone read it, it was just a short paragraph with exact details of location, though there were no clues as to who wrote it, when, and what occasion. It wasn't like Draco didn't already know though. There was a last line though, separate from the rest.. It read: 'If not, then a week after. Everyone will be there.' A subtle threat. Draco hadn't thought that Potter could be so tactful, he always seemed so brusque and rash.
He'd be there. He supposed. He hurt already, just thinking about how much of his pride he would have to sacrifice.
* * *
As Draco rounds the corner, he can see the red and orange licks of flame in the distance already. There seems to be no set path, but it's not hard to pick his way over. He gapes at the absolutely huge bonfire that Potter's sitting so calmly next to. Someone's going to see this thing, Potter!" The other boy lounges on the ground, apparently warming himself.
"Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy. This is where the kept the dragons for the TriWizard Tournament, you can't see anything from the actual school. Thought you were going to back out of this and send Filch again, like in First Year." There's an easy, casual air around Harry, which makes Draco want to throw him in the fire and laugh as he burns. But he's the Saviour Of The Universe, so he's probably fire-retardant or something equally unfair. "Aren't you going to strip, Malfoy?" That's a smirk and a drawl that Draco can see etched in the darkness. Potter is definitely picking up bad habits from him.
Had glares the power to physically injure, Potter would have keeled over backwards right then. Of course, had glares really the power to physically injure, Potter would have died long ago. However, Draco doesn't really want the whole of Gryffindor (and probably a good proportion of other Houses too) trooping down to watch him dance naked around a bonfire, so he removes his cloak and tie, never letting up that scowl.
"That's not naked," Potter points out, possibly quite smugly, and Draco flushes, almost backing off right there and then. He can't go through with this, he can't, because that would cost him everything he has left.
"I know!" The boy snaps, taking his time undoing his buttons and sliding his robes off, back turned to Potter. He can still tell that the other boy was staring though. Finally, embarrassingly, he is completely naked. The almost invisible hairs on his arm stand up although the fire's radiating steady heat. And then there's silence. He doesn't quite dare to turn around, or move, or do anything at all. Apparently, Potter doesn't want to do anything either, apart from stare at the dancing shadows on his back.
"MALFOY." The tone is sharp and cuts suddenly into their prolonged silence. Draco jumps and swivels around. He squints into the darkness, eyes too used to the flickering light of the fire. 'Click!' A flash of light momentarily blinds Draco, and by the time he's realised that Potter's taken a photo (a freaking photo!) of him, Potter is already running away, and getting further every second. Ho shite.
Draco turns to pull some clothes on and race after the Gryffindor; his eyes grow wide. That fucking bastard took his clothes! He prayed to all and any God-slash-gods which might or might not exist to take mercy on him as he runs through the grounds after the figure of Harry Potter, occasionally seeing flashes of light, which means that Potter is taking more photographs of him.
When Draco catches up, he can see Potter laughing his head off. "Don't you fucking DARE!" he attempts to shout in a whisper as he figures out what's going on. Potter tucks the camera safely away and swings in an exaggerated manner. Draco watches his clothes separate out and land in the lake. "POTTER!" Livid. That's what he is. And naked too. One happy boy, he is not. "My wand was in my pocket! My wand is sinking!" He feels like going over and strangling the dark-haired boy, but that would include getting very close to another boy whilst naked, Potter no less, and his emotions are just a little too battered to take any more bruising.
There is a soft sound behind him, and Draco's pretty certain that it's a snort. "Is that a euphemism for lack of sex?" There's more than just a trace of amusement, and Draco turns around to give the other boy a thwack, but suddenly backs up; Potter crept up on him! That's not allowed! His scowl is half replaced by a look of alarm, and then one of utter shock as Potter slings an arm around his waist, jerking him close to smother him in a sloppy, rushed kiss before pushing backwards. Draco shrieks like a girl. Shit! Shitshitshitshitshit! Draco scrabbles around in the cold water.
* * *
It was one in the morning, and Draco had just finished a shower, lingering over the warmth, trying to drive the cold out from his bones, not only because he had been pushed into a freezing lake by an immature prat, but also because he hadn't thought the night could get any worse than him having to dance naked around a bloody bonfire and having Potter oogle his bits. He had been so, so, so very wrong, and now he wanted just to flop between his silky covers and just go to sleep, bone-tired as he was, but he couldn't, because there was something plaguing his thoughts. No, not something, because he knew exactly what it was. It was that Potter had pictures of him.
If this was some elaborate Gryffindor prank, the boy was too numb to think about it. What he did think of was how to get it back. His ideas ranged from killing Potter, to begging shamelessly. He also thought of what would happen if those pictures circulated around school. It wasn't an idea he would particularly have liked to entertain, but it had barged its way into his mind, and was merrily wreaking havoc on his imagination. His mind picked at that image of Potter laughing as the camera clicked like a vulture. His mind pulled it apart, dissected it, examined it, poked at it until it fell apart and he couldn't think of any more ways for Potter to publicly humiliate- no, destroy him, and it was just replaying the same ideas over, and over, and over, until it worked like counting sheep, and the boy dropped off because of sheer exhaustion, his mind still reeling. His last thought before falling asleep was one of detached alarm: He kissed me, didn't he?
Tired. That was possibly the only thing that Draco was even vaguely capable of thinking first thing in the morning. His mind was weary from contemplating what Potter could, or would, or might possibly take mercy on him and not, do. He'd just have to wait, see what the Gryffindor's intention was. It hardly stopped him from stumbling gauntly from one idea to another though. Urgh. He swept a hand through his hair. He looked haggard, and he hated that. It made him feel even more haggard than he already felt beforehand. Splashing cold water onto his face didn't make him feel more awake; it made him shiver, and swipe anxiously at the droplets which dropped inside his shirt and traced trails of chill water down his skin.
If Potter hadn't contacted him by lunchtime, Draco reckoned that he would probably just jump the boy himself, not patient enough to wait for the blackmail, or threat, or whatever the other boy had planned. Unfortunately, lunch had just finished and there was still no sign of black hair near his peripheral vision. Draco scanned the Gryffindor table discreetly, and spotted the boy still at the table, his anger suddenly rising in him. How dare Harry Potter be happy, and laughing, and smiling, and, and, and... happy when he was making Draco's life a teetering misery?! It wasn't allowed. He found himself rising and a third of the way across the room before even realising that he had moved, and with no action plan in sight. It was plain luck for him that Potter started moving out of the hall with his two friends, and he slowed a little, trailing the boy, knowing that Potter would notice him and do something to talk to him. Simply because if Draco didn't get the chance to talk to him, he was going to curse Potter through the wall.
Harry catches a glimpse of white blond hair bobbing in and out of his sight, and hurriedly mentions to Ron and Hermione that he's left a book in the Great Hall, lagging behind and leaving them to quibble about Quidditch. Slipping into the dark space under the stairs, it's barely ten seconds and Draco Malfoy is staring furiously down at him as he settles himself on the floor. "Yes? I didn't know you longed so much for my company," Harry just can't suppress a slight tinge of amusement as he remembers last night. It isn't that he doesn't have a few guilty feelings for doing something which could easily classify as cruel, because he does. His stubborn, proud side just insists that the blond git had deserved it.
"The photos, Potter," hisses Malfoy, completely ignoring the company remark. He can't be baited this way, by petty taunts, anymore. There is something more important at stake. "What the hell do you want? Money? My undying loyalty? Power over me?" His tone is bitterly sharp, derisive. He can give Potter money, his loyalty is forced elsewhere, and Potter already has power over him, so Draco sure as heck hopes that Potter wants money, even though he already knows that money isn't it.
Harry props his head up on his hand, and snorts, "Malfoy, they aren't even developed yet. If they're not good, they're not worth anything. And I don't want your filthy money, or loyalties, or whatever. But why don't you tell me what you're up to this year, and I'll swap."
No. Draco paled, something almost impossible for his skin tone. "I can't," he replied flatly. There was no negotiation in that, but Harry hadn't expected that to work. He really had thought carefully about this. Voldemort would probably kill Malfoy or something, and he didn't want to be behind more deaths, even if it was the Ferret.
"I know," Potter shrugged. "So will you sit down? My neck hurts looking up at you," he waved his hand vaguely at the large amount of space under the stairs. "So. What would happen if I blew the pictures up and sold them to Teen Witch Weekly?" The boy didn't really have any intention of doing that; that really would be too cruel for him to be comfortable with himself doing it.
Something inexplicably fearsome caressed Draco's spine, something intimate but terrifying all the same. "You can't do that either," he said carefully, slowly. He did his best to keep a blank face, to not reveal the thumping of his heart that he's sure was echoing around the entrance hall, not to reveal the childlike whimper he really wanted to let out, and hold something big and squishy, something he hadn't been allowed to do for a long time. He didn't sit down; he was too busy trying to hold his pride together with fraying bits of string and Spellotape.
"Fine, whatever," Potter stood up, as if he doesn't care about what he's causing inside of Draco, and the blond knows that Potter probably doesn't care. "I'll let you know whenever something comes up." He slung his bag over his shoulder, and made to get out of the space, but Draco stopped him with a hand suddenly gripping his shoulder.
"Why did you kiss me?" he blurted, looking desperate. Draco never knew he was going to ask the question, and he certainly hadn't known that the question had mattered to him so much. Never knew, or never admitted it, at least. The grip on Harry's should tightened, and it's clingy, and childish, and scared, and neither of the boys mentioned any of this.
Harry gave Draco a look with hooded eyes, dark sweeping lashes hiding the true intent embedded in those eyes, eyes which were the windows to the soul. "You're smart when you're not plotting evil things, Malfoy," a snort, "so figure it out." Harry took the hand clutching him and prised it off with a gentleness that Draco would never expect, and then suddenly he was crushed against the wall, and then... nothing. It happened too quickly for Draco's brain to comprehend; it was only just unravelling the events now, when Potter was already halfway up the flight of stairs. "By the way," a slightly manic grin curved across Potter's face as he called down, "you have the cutest blond curls. You know, down there." A deep flush of pink traced Draco's cheekbones.
It had been all gentleness, then a hard, quick kiss, rough pressure on his mouth and a demanding tongue flicking in, then gone, all in the space of two seconds, leaving Draco feeling ambushed, invaded, and somehow... tingly. He didn't know what 'tingly' signified, but... well. Maybe he could just get someone to Obliviate him, and have him forget all memories of Potter kissing him, kissing him both times. He just wanted a simple life, and then waltzed in Harry Potter, intent on making twists to his life at every turn.
It was nothing. There was nothing. He just pushed blindly through life like a dumb animal, subject to those who held power, rank, emotional ties above him. Draco hated being a pawn. They were always the pieces that were smashed up first, he mused as he pushed a pawn into a sacrificial position in his game against Blaise. An owl dropped onto the arm of the armchair he was sprawled across; he no longer had the energy to sit up straight, or look wonderfully perfect anymore, it was all spent on his days thinking, thinking more than he ever did for his OWL exams. Tearing the letter off its foot, he scanned the few lines, and frowned. They made no sense on first reading, only a classroom, date and time specified, but on second reading, Draco had absorbed the entire note, and shoved it gracelessly into his pocket, expression never changing towards his friends. Blaise's knight raised its miniature sword and solidly smashed at his pawn. The pawn disintegrated into small fragments over the chessboard.
[ Part 2]