Fanfic - Everything!Draco

[zeitgeistic]

Title: Everything!Draco
Author: Faire Weather
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: EXTREMELY Politically Incorrect. Extensive use of the ‘f-word’. Mild slash. Crack!fic. I’m not kidding when I say this is PI-if you think you’re going to be offended, don’t read it because I’m not really making fun of any particular…stereotype, I’m just personifying all of my odd and varied friends as Draco. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and co. do not belong to me. The plot is mine. The stereotypes aren’t.
Summary: Draco doesn’t know who he is; Harry likes to think that he can change that.


-x-

The first day was the easiest to swallow.

When Draco Malfoy walked into the Great Hall for breakfast that morning wearing all black with chokers, chains, spikes and studs decorating his person, no one thought too much of it. Slytherins were known for their affinity for black, as it were.

For some reason, it irked Harry, though. He wasn’t worried about Malfoy’s sudden change of style or demeanor; it just pissed him off a bit. Malfoy was the one constant in Harry’s life, and he damn well needed to stay constant.

But apparently, Harry wasn’t the only one a little bit aggravated by Malfoy’s behavior. At the Head Table, Severus Snape was positively growling. He attempted to finish off his coffee, but the heated glare he had trained on the back of Malfoy’s head wouldn’t allow it. He stalked out of the Great Hall only moments later.

Harry made it to his seventh year NEWT Potions class on time that day and was in his seat, supplies and books out on his desk ready for class, when Malfoy slunk in. The Slytherin was lacking his normal tight-assed posture-his shoulders were slumped and his head was down with his platinum blonde hair falling in his face.

The contrast of Malfoy’s hair with all the black was striking, even Harry noticed, but Malfoy didn’t seem to want the attention that day. So, no one commented.

Just as well.

Snape strode into the room, raised an eyebrow at his favorite student and proceeded to begin the lesson. He must have been in a rather jovial mood that day-or at least trying to ignore his Slytherins’ odd behavior-Harry assumed, since he not only didn’t call on Harry at all, but ignored the Gryffindors completely. They didn’t lose a single house point that class.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape drawled, “perhaps you can tell me what asphodel in an infusion of wormwood would produce.”

Harry thought it rather odd that Snape was so short on questions that he was resorting to the ones he’d asked Harry in first year, but, given the circumstances, decided to keep his opinion to himself.

Malfoy looked up through the fringe in his eyes, and if possible, frowned even more. His eyes and lips were lined in black and his hair was lank-Malfoy didn’t even bother to push it out of his eyes. In a low, solemn voice, he responded, “A bittersweet end to this half-life we call existence.”

Well then.

Snape was nonplussed and non-shocked. Perhaps he’d been expecting it. All of his Slytherins had been acting oddly lately, anyway. Maybe he’d just accepted their oddities. They were all dressed similarly to Malfoy; perhaps he was finally following a trend instead of starting one.

Professor Dumbledore, having noticed the change in Slytherins several months prior, had brought Harry up to his office and cheerfully explained that ‘the Slytherins are rebelling against their parents. Isn’t this wonderful news, my boy?’

Harry wasn’t entirely sure.

After staring at Malfoy with a blank expression for several seconds, Snape abruptly turned and faced Pansy Parkinson. “Ms. Parkinson? Perhaps you could enlighten us?”

“No,” she replied, and that was the end of it.

“Very well,” Snape sighed and continued on with the lesson, neither bothering to give the answer or broach the subject again.

A week went by, and Malfoy still hadn’t changed. Every day he was more depressed and solemn-looking than the day before. He hadn’t picked a fight with Harry all week and, truth be told, Harry was getting a little sick of it. There was no excitement left in life, so he decided to do something about it.

It was amazing how helpful illegal maps and invisibility cloaks could be, so when he saw a little dot slinking through the dungeons that night, Harry decided enough was enough: he was going to get a reaction out of Malfoy and he was going to do it now.

He wasted no time getting down to the dungeons and crept along the corridor until a figure came into sight under the flickering glow of a single torch. Malfoy was staring at Goya’s Saturn Devouring One of His Sons painting with an introspective expression.

Loathe as Harry might’ve been to allow Malfoy that peaceful moment, he was a busy man, and Malfoy was just going to have to make some time for him.

“Malfoy!” he hissed, coming right up behind the blonde in hopes of getting him riled up. He was a bit chagrined when Malfoy didn’t even flinch.

“What do you think it means?” Malfoy asked sullenly, softly.

“What does what mean, Malfoy?” Harry countered, deciding to play the blonde’s little game for a while. Malfoy gestured to the painting and tossed his head to the side to get the lank hair out of his eyes. Harry noticed that the make-up around his lips and eyes had been smudged.

“It’s symbolic of death.”

Harry gave him a blank look. Of course it was symbolic of death. It wasn’t even really symbolic, actually-it was staring you right in the face.

“Saturn is god and he’s eating all of us because we’ve failed him.”

“Malfoy, you make a lousy philosopher,” Harry stated flatly, and walked away before his intelligence physically drained itself from his body.

-x-

Perhaps Malfoy took Harry’s words to heart because the next day, he walked into breakfast with his hair spiked straight up into a rather pathetic mohawk with green tips. He had some ragged old band t-shirt on with ‘God Save the Queen’ written on it in graffiti-style letters and dirty tight blue jeans. The black Converse All-Stars with muggle lyrics scribbled all over them couldn’t be ignored either.

Harry noticed that the Slytherin was also bitching and moaning to his house mates about all the non-organic ingredients in the food. He eventually settled for a cup of strong tea and some whole-wheat bread.

At the head table, Snape groaned and left the Great Hall. Harry reckoned that there was no more to see and followed Snape, taking his seat in the Potions classroom and waiting for the rest of the class to arrive.

“What do you think we’ll be brewing today?” Ron asked when he finally entered the room and sat down next to Harry. Hermione followed him in and sat on Harry’s other side without a word, opening her Potions book and immersing herself in it immediately.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged and turned back to the front of the room just in time to see Malfoy walk in, ridiculous hair flopping around with each step he took. Malfoy sat down across the aisle from Harry and didn’t even bother to get his things out of his bag-he just pulled his knees to his chest in the chair and started writing more lyrics on his blue jeans.

When the bell rang, Snape turned to the class and began without preamble. Harry’s parchments were full of notes, but Malfoy still hadn’t even taken out his supplies by the time Snape was winding down. There was five minutes left in class when he finally stopped and decided to try the question on Malfoy again.

“Mr. Malfoy, what would I get if I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Snape asked.

Malfoy’s quill stilled its assault on his blue jeans. He looked up and sneered at Snape. “Anarchy.”

Anarchy, indeed.

Of course, in some round-about, technical way, perhaps Malfoy really could get Anarchy. It really depended on the circumstances, and perhaps that was why Snape only rolled his eyes and dismissed the class without any sort of remark about insolence.

Harry, having decided to give Malfoy the cursory week to change things up again, was not at all prepared for the confrontation when he happened across the blonde in the courtyard six nights later.

Malfoy had a triumphant grin on his face as he emptied can after can of spray paint on the stone pathways and benches. He was painting rather large and detailed Anarchy symbols everywhere with the customary ‘Fuck you!’s’ interspersed somewhat strategically when Harry found him.

Harry winced-not because he really cared anything about the courtyard, but because Malfoy really didn’t have any sort of artistic talent whatsoever. It was going to take hours of Scourgify spells to get all of that nonsense off.

“Malfoy!” Harry groaned, stepping more fully into the light so that Malfoy could see him. The Slytherin paused mid-defiling and sneered at Harry. Well, at least that was an improvement from the blank looks he’d received the week before.

“What d’ya want, ya wanker?” Malfoy snarled in a disgustingly common British accent. Harry winced again, but only because it sounded so vile coming from Malfoy’s pretty mouth.

“Malfoy,” Harry sighed, pressing his fingers against some paint on a bench and making sure it was dry before he sat down. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re going from one extreme to the other. This is ridiculous and you’re pissing me off.”

“Good, you neo-fascist!”

“Is that supposed to be an insult, Malfoy, because fascism has some high points to it…”

“Oh, piss off!”

“No can do, Malfoy,” Harry said calmly. He looked about him at the red, black and blue covered courtyard. Malfoy really did suck at painting-even graffiti. “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t done anything to me all week except call me a Nazi-wanker.”

“Well, you are,” Malfoy replied a little more subdued.

“Yes, yes, of course, I know,” Harry answered, ignoring for a moment that if anyone was a Nazi-wanker it was Voldemort, and deciding to humor Malfoy for a while. “But, aren’t you trying to insult me?”

“Well, of course.” Ah, there was that superior drawl.

“Then shouldn’t you be calling me something a little more…offensive?” Malfoy seemed to ponder this. He looked down at his half-finished rendition of a Jackson Pollack painting and sprayed the last bit of a circle closed around an A, then plopped down on the bench next to Harry.

“…You’re offensive,” he nodded to himself, blue and green spiked hair not moving one inch from all the gel in it. “Yes, you offend my delicate sensibilities.”

Harry threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled-hard. “Honestly, Malfoy! What’s it going to take to get the Malfoy I know and hate back to me? You’ve come up with better insults for Ron’s mother!”

Malfoy preened at the left-handed compliment. “You think so?” The blonde suddenly started laughing. “Remember that one time I told the Weasel that his mother was so ugly she could turn a man to stone just by looking at her, and he said ‘yeah, well you’re so ugly you make me hard as a rock, too,’?”

Both of the boys were rolling on the stone-paved ground laughing hysterically by now. Malfoy was clutching his sides, not even bothering to worry about the smashed spikes on his head or the huge red Anarchy sign on the back of his shirt from landing in wet paint. Harry’s shirt, however, happened to say ‘Fuck you’ backwards in black spray paint.

Malfoy thought it rather fetching in an Anarchy sort of way, but he would never admit to such a thing.

“Even the Mudblood laughed!” Malfoy crowed. “And Weasley had no idea what he’d said!”

“I know!” Harry agreed, tears rolling down his face. “He can be so thick sometimes!”

Suddenly, Malfoy stopped laughing. “You know, Potter, I’m thick all the time,” he leered suggestively. Harry backed off, scandalized, but not because he’d just been indirectly propositioned by a boy-because Merlin knew that had happened many times, and he’d taken up those propositions many times-but because it was Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy was currently dressed like Sid Vicious and telling everyone to ‘Piss off.’

Harry hoped he didn’t start calling him Nancy.

“Malfoy, you really are a lousy artist,” Harry muttered and walked off, leaving a very stunned and very anarchic Malfoy behind to Scourgify the courtyard alone.

-x-

The thing about Malfoy was that he never did anything by halves.

When Malfoy was feeling sad, he was depressed; when Malfoy was feeling mischievous, he was anarchic. Thus, theory holds that when Malfoy was feeling calm, he was feeling utterly and completely high on life.

It was probably Blaise Zabini who was the first to notice Malfoy walk into the Great Hall the following morning. Merlin only knew how he didn’t see the blonde before breakfast, but obviously, he didn’t, because when Malfoy sauntered in with a big, cheeky grin and a tam on his head-just barely holding the shoddy blonde dreadlocks in-he sneered quite viciously.

“Morning, mon,” Draco said and flopped down next to his friend. Harry could smell the reefer on him from across the hall. Ganja, rather.

He wondered how Malfoy had found a spell to make his hair that dirty, and then wondered how Lucius would take the news.

“Good morning, Draco,” Zabini replied pointedly. “I see you’ve discovered the wonders of Jamaican culture…”

“Yeah, mon.”

Quite the conversationalist this morning, Malfoy was. He tried to offer Pansy something that looked suspiciously like a blunt, assuring her it was ‘da best, woman,’ but Pansy Parkinson must’ve disagreed because she wrinkled her nose up at his earthly scent and scooted down several seats to talk to Millicent Bulstrode instead.

“No woman, no cry,” Malfoy shrugged.

Severus Snape, Blaise Zabini and Harry Potter slapped their foreheads in unison-then glared at each other when they realized it, and stalked out of the Great Hall.

Harry took the long way to Potions that morning, so he was not surprised to see that not only was Malfoy already there, but everyone else was as well, and the only seat left was…right next to Malfoy. Obviously no one wanted to be so near the smell. Malfoy was starting to get ripe.

Well, at least they wouldn’t be arguing today. Malfoy was in a hell of a ‘one love’ mood. He was twirling one of his dreadlocks in his left hand while he jammed on the desk with a red, yellow and green quill to some beat only Malfoy knew.

“Last night I had a dream
Lord it made me sick”

Harry cringed at the next line and Snape gave Malfoy a wicked glare before attempting to resume his lecture. Malfoy was not to be deterred, though; he pulled out a bongo drum from his bottomless bag and kept singing, getting louder with each verse.

“If I was an ant crawlin' upon the wall
Tell me baby would it make no difference at all
If I was a roach on a tree tell me would you smoke me?

Bright lights put me in trance
But it ain't house music makes me wanna dance”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape sighed, “since you refuse to cease interrupting my class, would you mind answering for the class what I would get if I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

“Peace, love and unity, mon,” he answered happily and continued singing, pulling out a half-smoked joint and lighting it before he started on the next song, this one by Ziggy Marley.

“Only if I fed the concoction to Potter afterwards,” Snape muttered and returned to his lecture, speaking louder to try to be heard over Malfoy’s a cappella rendition of Bradley Nowell lyrics.

Harry didn’t even wait a full day to put an end to this particular Malfoy personality. After dinner, for which Malfoy didn’t show up, he rushed to Gryffindor Tower and retrieved his Marauder’s Map. Malfoy was sitting by the lake.

He rushed out, not bothering with the invisibility cloak, and plopped down on the grass next to Malfoy.

“Um…hey…mon…?” Harry said, trying to communicate to Malfoy in a language that he would understand and respond to. This would all go so much smoother if he could just get it over with as quickly as possible.

Malfoy pulled a little plastic bag out of his pocket and started rolling up another joint with a surprising amount of talent.

It wasn’t often that you found someone who could roll one up so quickly and efficiently after only a day of smoking the shit.

"Nuh bodda me,” Draco replied and lit the joint, inhaling deeply and smiling, “less yuh wan s’ganja.”

What? Nuh bodda me? No bodder me? Oh, No bother me…don’t bother me. Got it. “Um…suuure,” Harry replied slowly. “I’ve never had it before.” Malfoy grinned knowingly and passed it over with half-lidded eyes.

“Mi cyan 'elp yuh wit dat problem. Da bes’, mon,” he said with a lazy nod. Harry tentatively took a drag, raising his eyebrows at Malfoy and wondering why he was going to such great lengths to get the Slytherin to stop…whatever.

“Um, Mal-mon…foy, why are you smoking this?”

“I be praisin’ Jah.”

“Jah?”

“Yah.”

“Ah.”

Harry pondered this new development for a moment, deciding it would possibly be more difficult to get the old Malfoy back if he’d taken up a new religion on top of a new lifestyle. He shrugged to himself. Malfoy would come around eventually.

He leaned back on the grass and watched as Mon-foy finished up his hourly cataract suppressant and pulled an acoustic guitar out of his bottomless bag. He was half-afraid Malfoy might get the bongos out, too, and demand that Harry play with him, but he didn’t, and Harry sighed in relief.

That was until Malfoy ran through 40 Ounces to Freedom, Three Little Birds, and African Herbsman. Harry had to put his foot down on the last one.

“Malfoy, you’re Aryan,” Harry said flatly. Malfoy only shrugged and went back to singing Sublime songs.

“Wan’ caress me down?” Malfoy asked with a leer, setting his guitar to the side.

“Not particularly,” Harry answered though in his mind, he was sure that were Malfoy not such a crazy weirdo, he would do it in a heartbeat.

“Ah, well no…man…no cry,” Malfoy replied with a shrug. He took another hit off his joint and started coughing frantically.

“Mon-foy,” Harry sighed, flicking his roach in the lake, “you make a lousy druggy.” He stood and began walking back to the castle, completely missing the solemn, defeated look Malfoy gave him as he walked away.

-x-

Harry almost didn’t come down to breakfast the next day he was so worried about what Malfoy might look like. But, he had to know. He had to, and thus he forced himself out of bed at the usual time, mumbled something wretched to Ron-which he would later deny to himself was not because he was frustrated about Malfoy-and dragged himself down the stairs to the Great Hall.

And not a moment too soon, obviously. Honestly, what would Malfoy do without Harry’s insightful advice?

He didn’t even make it all the way to the Gryffindor table before Malfoy sauntered in-one hand on the waist of his too-baggy trousers trying to hold them up. For a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy was mocking him, but then he noticed the baby blue visor on Malfoy’s head: upside down and backwards. And the green plaid boxers covering Malfoy’s arse. And the all white trainers. And the t-shirt with a picture of an American rapper that Harry couldn’t name off the top of his head, but was certain had been shot several years back.

He stopped mid-stride and turned to stare fully at Malfoy. That was when Malfoy noticed him and decided to come ‘start some shit’. As he got closer, Harry noticed that his hair was clean again-thank god-cut short in the back with his fringe brushed down over his eyes, and that he was wearing PoloSport cologne.

“Malfoy,” Harry nodded warily when they finally stood face to face.

Malfoy grinned and tugged on his pants. “What up, Potter?”

Harry didn’t even give him the decency of an answer, he just grabbed Malfoy’s forearm and started dragging him back out of the Great Hall-witnesses be damned.

“Chillax, yo!” Malfoy yelled as he struggled to refrain from tripping over his pants. Harry paid him no mind, and continued out the doors, pausing to give Ron and Hermione a brief nod and a pointed look before he continued.

Malfoy was cursing under his breath and hopping up and down as they walked, but his attention was distracted when Ron sniggered something like ‘Slytherin whack-job’ and he screeched and started throwing up snake-shaped hand gestures as he swore to Ron that he would ‘pop an AK in his ass’ one of these days and hollered ‘Slyth-side’ just as they exited the hall.

Harry pushed him up against the wall, breathing furiously and clenching his hands in anger. Honestly! Malfoy was just going too far.

“What the fuck, yo?” Malfoy wailed. “I’ll kill yo ass!”

“So do it then, Malfoy!” Harry yelled back. “Fucking do it and stop prancing around like an idiot every other day!”

“This is all part of the plot, man,” Malfoy whined angrily. “They got Big and they got Pac and now…”

He didn’t get to finish because at that moment Harry grabbed him and kissed him.

“Finally,” Malfoy muttered and pulled Harry back into the kiss. They did not make it to Potions that morning.

-x-

The next day, Harry was running late and, subsequently, missed breakfast altogether. He’d spent most of the afternoon and a good bit of last night snogging and rutting against Malfoy. Having walked in his dorm room at half four in the morning, it was no wonder he overslept.

He bolted from Gryffindor Tower, muttering angrily about how Ron didn’t see fit to wake him in time, and rushed through the door to potions just as Snape was moving to close it.

Expecting to be docked dozens of points for his tardiness, Harry was surprised when Snape only raised an eyebrow and smirked at him, even going so far as to refrain from mocking him.

Then, he turned to face the class.

There was Malfoy, sitting in his usual seat with his usual hair and his usual sneer and his usual pressed trousers and shirt and polished shoes ready to take notes as usual. Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock and he made his way to the only empty seat in the room, blushing slightly because it was right next to Malfoy again.

“Potter,” Malfoy acknowledged with a nod.

“Malfoy,” Harry returned and turned his head to find Snape regarding both of them quite carefully.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape drawled carefully, as if he was afraid of pushing his luck. Draco’s head snapped up respectfully. “What would I get if I were to add an asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Draco stared blankly at him for several seconds while the rest of the class watched with held breaths. Finally, with a smirk plastered clearly across his face, he answered, “The Draught of Living Death, Sir.”

Snape exhaled loudly and said to Harry, “Twenty points to Gryffindor.”