24 August 2008 @ 10:46 pm
Two Sides of the Same Knut  
Title: Two Sides of the Same Knut
Author: Lilith ([info]lilithilien)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Draco really hates Potter. Pansy wants to know why.
Rating: R
Length: 2000 words
Disclaimer: All rights to these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her publishers and agents. I make no claim to ownership and expect no monetary gain, and I'm writing this story purely for enjoyment.
Note: Immense thanks to my beta, [info]sarcastic_jo, for unravelling the most mixed-up metaphors. All remaining mistakes are my own.


"Okay, Draco, I have a question," says Pansy, plopping herself into Draco's lap and making him squirm, just a little, because even if he is pretty certain that his interests lie more in wiry muscles and sharp hipbones than soft breasts, he's still sixteen years old and his body still responds to the smallest provocations. And if the sight of Madam Trelawney leaning over Longbottom during Divination was enough to make his trousers tighten, then having a warm body in his lap is bound to stir up all kinds of reactions that Pansy will no doubt take the wrong way...or use like a Slytherin, and he's not sure which is worse. And so he subtly shifts, moving her down his thighs, distracting her by offering the full attention she craves.

"We all know you hate Potter," she says, pitching her voice low so that the others in their common room will need to cease their conversations in order to hear. As, of course, they do. "But I want to know, what are the five things you hate most about him?"

"Five things, Pans?" Draco pastes on his most troubled expression. "That's impossible! I'd never be able to cut it down to just five. You know I could fill five feet of parchment on that speccy git!"

Pansy nods patiently. "I know, darling, but be judicious. What are the five things you hate most of all?"

"Let's see..." Draco rubs a finger across his chin. "So many things, however will I choose…?" He pictures Potter and instantly knows what the first thing will be. "Those stupid glasses, definitely. You'd think the Saviour of the Wizarding World would figure out how to cast a proper Reparo spell."

Yes, those blasted specs. Potter– Harry is forever forgetting about them. Too many times Draco has closed his eyes, expecting to feel lips on his, the brush of hair against his forehead, those little gusts of warm air as Harry pants against his skin…and instead he gets those damned glasses poking into his nose! It's more than just the annoyance, though. Any obstruction between them is loathed, whether it be clothing or House affiliations or their separate fates. But nothing—nothing—makes him feel farther away than those thick spectacles that conceal the brilliance of Harry's eyes. Draco still remembers the first time he pushed them aside so he could look at Harry, genuinely look at him, without that barrier between them. Draco could do nothing but stare, spellbound. "This is really me," Harry had whispered, just seconds before their lips crashed together. Draco remembers the feeling of… well of floating on that first kiss, there's no other way he can describe it. Surrounded by a warmth that saturated his entire being, soaking up that feeling of peace despite knowing that a dangerous undertow waited there, threatening to drag him down to its fathomless depths. But Draco knew that it couldn't reach him; those green eyes were locked onto his, a promise that he wouldn't be allowed to drown. Draco can't be sure when Harry wears his glasses, but whenever he takes them off, Draco sees that they still haven't let him go.

"Yes, the glasses," Pansy agrees, dramatically pretending to repress a shudder, "they are absolutely horrid. And I know he's a woeful orphan and all"—her mocking tone causes several of the gathering Slytherins to snicker—"but surely Dumbledore could cast an Occulus spell for his pet student." Amidst the approved murmurs she leans forward eagerly. "So what else?"

"I think I'll have to go with his stupid hair," Draco announces, after appearing to give the matter considerable thought. "It's ridiculous. You'd think those Gryffindors might learn some grooming charms to tame their mascot's mane, but I suppose it's hopeless."

Draco knows for a fact that it's hopeless. "I've tried everything," Harry says, chuckling when Draco insists on trying yet another of his mother's strongest styling charms. Nothing works; Harry's dark hair remains a tangled mess. It's softer than Draco had imagined it would be, though. It begs him to sink his fingers to the roots, to hang onto it like a lifeline when Harry goes down on him, to tug on so hard he might wrench fistfuls from Harry's scalp as he comes violently into Harry's mouth. But Draco has discovered one advantage to having such dishevelled hair: no matter how ambitious their exertions, no matter how much sweat soaks them or how hard Draco presses Harry into the mattress, that stupid hair never, ever looks any different.

"Completely hopeless," Pansy nods, disgust wrinkling her nose and making her look even more puggish than usual. "You'd think the Prophet would have higher standards than to print such ugly pictures all the time."

"Oh, and that's another thing," Draco offers, warming to this game. "I hate that the Prophet hangs on his every word. They treat him like he's some kind of star. As if anybody has the slightest interest in what Harry bloody Potter is up to."

He hopes Pansy will misinterpret his venom. Draco truly does hate this, and he hates what it does to Harry. He's long ago stopped believing that Harry wants publicity. One too many nights watching him pace, red with fury, has cured him of that. And Draco is in turn furious that anyone else can get to Harry like that. Once he was the one to incite that rage. He wonders if Harry's friends offered the same advice then: to ignore his anger, to not let anyone get under his skin. Draco knows better. Harry's not one to let it ride; nor does he, like a Slytherin, plot his revenge. Instead he obsesses almost to distraction—like he did with their rivalry, Draco recalls—and the only way Draco knows to penetrate that crust of loathing is to turn it towards himself, to call up that rage and dispel it as only he can. "I despise you," he tells Harry, "and I despise everything you're fighting for." Angering Harry has a different effect now than it once did. Hexes still fly, but bloodshed brings lust and forgetfulness. When Harry ploughs into Draco so hard that it feels like he might split in two, Draco knows that the Prophet is the last thing on Harry's mind.

"Oh, yes," glees Pansy, clapping with delight at Draco's answer. More House mates are gathering and he senses their approbation buzzing like static around where he and Pansy sit. This is where he was born to be, at the centre of their lair. This is the attention and allegiance he should demand as the Prince of Slytherin.

"And why should a Gryffindor be a Parselmouth?" Draco continues, casting his voice a bit louder, playing to the sensibilities of his audience. They nod together, eager to hear his condemnation of their enemy. He can bring them together, this divided House. He can remind them of why they should be proud to call themselves Slytherin. "We are the House of snakes. Parseltongue belongs to us, not some Muggle-raised half-blood. That the speech of serpents should come out of his mouth is a travesty."

A travesty that makes Draco hard with a single word. Makes him come with a phrase and no other touch. Makes him feel like his brain's starved for oxygen, like his body is coiled too tight to breathe, apoplectic joy wiping out all other sensation. Harry doles it out sparingly, torn between his shame at possessing this gift and his pleasure in seeing Draco so incapacitated. "Did you know there's no word for 'love' in Parseltongue," Harry tells him, "but there are nine words for 'kill'." That last is added with a cruel edge that almost concerns Draco. He knows Parselmouths aren't evil, but he's not sure Harry believes that. But the touch of fear heightens his arousal, and he whimpers like a needy child when the next barrage of sibilance comes, writhing as helplessly as a cobra dancing for a wooden flute, his world spinning and his eyes fixed on the only solid anchor that still exists…

"That scar," he says over the approving whispers of his housemates, "that's the fifth thing. I hate that fucking scar that everyone thinks makes him so special. It's just a scar that he got when he was a baby. Is he going to rest on those laurels for the rest of his life? What's he done since?"

Yes, that's what he hates most of all, that fucking target on Harry's forehead. But it's no use pretending it's just a bit of scar tissue. Harry has been marked by the Dark Lord as surely as Draco's father was, as surely as Draco will someday be. It's that scar that will keep them apart even if they were to decide they wanted something more. Draco's not such a girl that he believes a furtive shag in a hidden alcove leads to true love, but then again he doesn't like having something taken away before he rejects it himself. "That's why you want this," Harry says, "that's why you're here, because you hate being told no." And Draco agrees that it is, that it's the only reason. "Liar," growls Harry as he pushes him to the ground and crawls on top of him, spreads Draco's legs and pushes inside of him, thrusts into his body with a force that Draco can hardly believe comes from a boy his own age. Harry might lack the refinements that would come from more experience, but Draco doesn't care; he clings to him, certain that he'll never again feel this kind of passion, this kind of fire.

His attention returns to his surroundings, to the Slytherins who seem to regard him with renewed respect. "Well done," proclaims Pansy, pressing a kiss solidly to his forehead. She's wearing a pleased smile and Draco wonders whether he's just been tested. It would not surprise him. Tests and trials, they're the bread and butter of Slytherin, for fluid loyalties must be reaffirmed time and again. Then again, he might only have been called upon to satisfy Pansy's boredom. A ravenous thing, it's feared by her housemates every bit as much as the Dark Lord.

But no, when she turns towards him alone her smile fades and her eyes darken, and he knows there's more to it than that. Panic roils in his chest, burning like indigestion, though he's careful to steel his smile. Pansy knows something, of course she does; she's as observant as Snape and every bit as cunning. He doesn't know what she's planning, but whatever it is he can't allow a flicker of concern to betray him.

He needn't have worried. Her voice is low and pitched just for his ears. "I guess now you'll want one of your late night strolls. Run along, then. You can thank me later."

And with a sharp pinch of his arm, she launches herself from his lap and saunters over to where Blaise is once again trying, in vain, to pull the Greengrass sisters. As she goes, Draco surveys the common room. From every corner, the Slytherins are gazing at him like they once did, but haven't for a long time; like he's the leader of their house. Funny, he hasn't missed that until now. Affecting an air of privileged boredom, Draco rises and makes his way to the door. Harry will be in the Room of Requirement, probably wondering what's taken him so long. Draco wonders what he'll say about Pansy's Slytherin-like method of re-establishing his prestige.

He really is going to have to find a way to say thank you.

~~~~ The End ~~~~