evil has never loved you like I do
Title: Why Draco Malfoy Never Doodles
Author: veterization
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Rating: K+/PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Mild Draco/Harry
Word Count: ~700
Summary: Set during the scene in Prisoner of Azkaban in which Draco sends Harry a note in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
It had started out because Draco was incredibly bored.
He's always bored, really, and now only has one arm to entertain himself with. Pulling stray threads out of his arm sling is starting not only to lose its interest, but make his bandage appear so frayed and hand-me-down that all Draco needs is red hair and he'll be a spitting image of the next proud and foolish Weasley.
He can still scribble with his quill, something that Draco has convinced his teachers is a skill that is currently not properly functioning in order to receive the satisfaction of watching his Slytherin comrades frantically writing two feet essays while Draco watches. And when scribbling is possible, so is doodling.
It started out as a simple Quidditch sketch, a few stands here, a myriad of shrieking Slytherins waving serpentine banners the size of small blimps in their seats, and then it got out of control.
He supposes he may have let his mind wander a bit, because next thing he knows, he's drawn Potter, very crudely to the best of his absent-minded art abilities, perched and balancing on a broomstick that could have been drawn by a blind First Year.
The skill is not what's bothering Draco; it's the fact that he drew Harry Potter gracefully zooming about the Quidditch Pitch instead of a dashing, slightly disproportionate version of himself breaking out in a smile that could easily light up the world without contributing to global warming while resting comfortably on a shiny broomstick freshly purchased by his father.
He looks at the picture as Snape snatches five points from Gryffindor vaguely to his left and mumbles something about werewolves. Draco looks harder at his picture, as if trying to seek the answers to the world's greatest questions in his poorly fabricated sketch of pointy fingers and straw-like hair. He doesn't like to dabble in the unreachable realms of the subconscious despite the lessons he's been taught in Divination that stresses the importance of searching out such undiscovered epiphanies, but things like drawing Potter on his Potions homework is anything but conscious, clear-thinking behavior.
He glances over at Potter, currently muttering something quietly to Weasley that is most likely an offending jab at Snape's biased attitude against Gryffindors, hair sticking in all directions as if he had just walked through a hurricane and glasses resting on the bridge of his pointy nose.
When Draco watched him move, he supposes that despite his utter lack of coordination and grace on earth, he mysteriously pulls together a strong amount of it when he's up in the air. He flies brilliantly, like a man perfectly in tandem with his broomstick, and goes fluidly after fluttering snitches like a bird taking life in a human. His robes whipping around him, face furrowed in an undeniable expression of deep, aggressive concentration, hair sometimes plastered to his forehead by fault of torrents of rain and other bad weather conditions. Draco watches him sometimes when he's on the lookout for specks of whizzing gold. Sometimes he watches so hard he forgets where he is and almost tips off the end of his broom.
A skinny set of fingers curl around Draco's shoulder and he jumps as if he just got caught skimming through porn magazines in the common room. He looks over his shoulder to see Pansy arching out of her chair and peering over Draco's robes to catch a look at the parchment resting in front of him.
"What's that, Draco?" Her voice drawls in his ear.
Draco looks down at the drawing. Quickly, as if to rid the sketch of any slightly incriminating details, adds in a messy countenance of fear on Potter's face and leaves jagged lines leaving his head imitating hair. Pansy is raising her eyebrows delicately over Draco's shoulders. Desperately, he draws a cloud in the corner.
Pansy looks at the sketch for a few more seconds before smirking and whispering into his ear, "You should send that thing to Potter. Might really work up his nerves for the match."
Draco looks at her, grins convincingly, and tells her that that is a splendid idea.
Author: veterization
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Rating: K+/PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Mild Draco/Harry
Word Count: ~700
Summary: Set during the scene in Prisoner of Azkaban in which Draco sends Harry a note in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
It had started out because Draco was incredibly bored.
He's always bored, really, and now only has one arm to entertain himself with. Pulling stray threads out of his arm sling is starting not only to lose its interest, but make his bandage appear so frayed and hand-me-down that all Draco needs is red hair and he'll be a spitting image of the next proud and foolish Weasley.
He can still scribble with his quill, something that Draco has convinced his teachers is a skill that is currently not properly functioning in order to receive the satisfaction of watching his Slytherin comrades frantically writing two feet essays while Draco watches. And when scribbling is possible, so is doodling.
It started out as a simple Quidditch sketch, a few stands here, a myriad of shrieking Slytherins waving serpentine banners the size of small blimps in their seats, and then it got out of control.
He supposes he may have let his mind wander a bit, because next thing he knows, he's drawn Potter, very crudely to the best of his absent-minded art abilities, perched and balancing on a broomstick that could have been drawn by a blind First Year.
The skill is not what's bothering Draco; it's the fact that he drew Harry Potter gracefully zooming about the Quidditch Pitch instead of a dashing, slightly disproportionate version of himself breaking out in a smile that could easily light up the world without contributing to global warming while resting comfortably on a shiny broomstick freshly purchased by his father.
He looks at the picture as Snape snatches five points from Gryffindor vaguely to his left and mumbles something about werewolves. Draco looks harder at his picture, as if trying to seek the answers to the world's greatest questions in his poorly fabricated sketch of pointy fingers and straw-like hair. He doesn't like to dabble in the unreachable realms of the subconscious despite the lessons he's been taught in Divination that stresses the importance of searching out such undiscovered epiphanies, but things like drawing Potter on his Potions homework is anything but conscious, clear-thinking behavior.
He glances over at Potter, currently muttering something quietly to Weasley that is most likely an offending jab at Snape's biased attitude against Gryffindors, hair sticking in all directions as if he had just walked through a hurricane and glasses resting on the bridge of his pointy nose.
When Draco watched him move, he supposes that despite his utter lack of coordination and grace on earth, he mysteriously pulls together a strong amount of it when he's up in the air. He flies brilliantly, like a man perfectly in tandem with his broomstick, and goes fluidly after fluttering snitches like a bird taking life in a human. His robes whipping around him, face furrowed in an undeniable expression of deep, aggressive concentration, hair sometimes plastered to his forehead by fault of torrents of rain and other bad weather conditions. Draco watches him sometimes when he's on the lookout for specks of whizzing gold. Sometimes he watches so hard he forgets where he is and almost tips off the end of his broom.
A skinny set of fingers curl around Draco's shoulder and he jumps as if he just got caught skimming through porn magazines in the common room. He looks over his shoulder to see Pansy arching out of her chair and peering over Draco's robes to catch a look at the parchment resting in front of him.
"What's that, Draco?" Her voice drawls in his ear.
Draco looks down at the drawing. Quickly, as if to rid the sketch of any slightly incriminating details, adds in a messy countenance of fear on Potter's face and leaves jagged lines leaving his head imitating hair. Pansy is raising her eyebrows delicately over Draco's shoulders. Desperately, he draws a cloud in the corner.
Pansy looks at the sketch for a few more seconds before smirking and whispering into his ear, "You should send that thing to Potter. Might really work up his nerves for the match."
Draco looks at her, grins convincingly, and tells her that that is a splendid idea.