maudite_a_deux | Offered for comment

This idea came to me yesterday around dinnertime, and grabbed me so hard I didn't stop writing until five this morning. It's only about halfway done, and fairly rough yet, but I'd appreciate whatever feedback anyone cares to give me. I warn you that sentences run not merely on, but actually rampant, liberties are recklessly taken, and you all know how much I love a good split infinitive. (I'm afraid I may have gone bit too far in places; feel free to whack me with a ruler if it's warranted.)

This is, god help me, Harry/Draco slash, and a bit dark in places at that. I'll give it an R rating for language, violent themes, and repeated references to buggery, but any explicit acts of sodomy take place discreetly offstage.

5 March, 2006

Blaise,

It's good to hear from you after all this time. I'd quite accepted the idea that Lord Thingy really had done for you, and found myself rather at loose ends without the intellectual exercise of plotting your bloody (and excruciatingly painful) demise to keep me amused. Welcome back, you filthy murdering bastard, and remember, it won't come when you least expect it, because that would be too predictable. Nor when you most expect it, because that's when any good Slytherin would least expect it, which brings us full circle anyway. No, it shall be at some utterly random moment that I spring my incredibly cunning trap and make you pay for what you did to the Weasel.

Not that I ever cared in the least about that inbred cretin. Or the rest of his litter either, mind you, though I admit that despite their inferior pedigree, they all acquitted themselves tolerably well in the war. Anyway I'm well shot of him, and if things were different I expect I'd shake your hand and ask you to fill me in on all the gory details over supper. (I'm sure, knowing you, that the details were very gory indeed).

Unfortunately -- for you, not for me -- I am, as you know, quite intimately involved these days with Harry Potter (Saviour of the Wizarding World, in case you hadn't heard -- and I told you I'd be saying I told you so, as indeed I will right now: I told you so). In the circumstances, Weasley having been Harry's dearest friend, honour demands that I swear bloody vengeance upon your house and all that rot. It's not personal. You know how it is.

I do hope your parents are well. Please convey my best wishes to them both. I trust you already know what happened to mine.

As to your question, I never "pledged myself to the side of Light," you berk. Malfoys don't take sides, we pick winners. I pledged myself to no one but Harry. I never did explain why, though, did I? Maybe I should have. It's too late to make a difference now, but I suppose I owe you that much. You're my best friend, you deserve to understand why I'm going to kill you.

It started in seventh year, actually. I won't waste time explaining how I found myself facing down a hippogriff, as it's irrelevant and a bit embarrassing besides. You'd think I'd have known better, wouldn't you, after what happened second year, but then we Malfoys do not traditionally learn from our mistakes. Not that it's part of the family Code or anything, of course. It's more of an informal thing. Not something we're especially proud of. I'm working on it, anyway. Or at least I mean to do, sometime soon.

I know what you're thinking, but I'm serious. I am! It's quite near the top of my list, after "replace Harry's entire hideous wardrobe while he's not looking" and "pretend I don't know that he knows I used a wee bit of Dark magic to convince him we needed that shockingly expensive dragonhide sofa" and a few other matters of paramount importance.

Of course he'll never even notice his clothes have changed, the clueless prat. As regards the sofa, it's just easier to humour him by letting him think he's sussed me, even if it does make me grind my teeth to hide my fiendish cleverness under a bucket, or a basket, or whatever it is one hides one's light under. If he realises I'm onto him, it will surely end in tears -- mine, he gives in every time, just like you did -- or at the very least a screaming row, and you know I can't bear to lose an argument.

Especially not with him. Living with the world's most powerful wizard is enough to make even a Malfoy feel just a bit inadequate. If he cared to, he could incinerate me with nary a blink of those glorious green eyes, and devastate a city block as collateral damage. The control thing is still a bit of an issue, you see, though it's not Harry's fault. Even Dumbledore didn't have Harry's kind of power, and Harry's only 25. At 150-odd years, the old man still shook Hogwarts right down to the dungeons when he lost his temper, not to mention the roiling skies and thunder and lightning. I think Harry does quite well, considering.

By the way, it isn't Harry's fault it keeps raining, whatever that bloody rag the Prophet may allege. I'd like to imperio that wretched Skeeter woman into transforming and make her roast herself slowly over a candle flame until her wings burn off, and then -- well, I'm joking of course. I only study the Unforgivables these days. All in the name of science.

Besides, I think the Ministry may still be screening my correspondence. If you're reading this, Shacklebolt, I'm sure you'll be appalled to hear that last night I buggered the Boy Who Lived right up on the dining table. Twice. And that was after he got down on his knees and begged for the privilege of sucking the Malfoy cock. (All right, it wasn't exactly begging, but he did ask very nicely.) If you don't believe me, I'll be happy to let you use my Pensieve the next time Harry invites the Order to dinner. Oh, and I'll make sure your plate is on precisely the same spot I had Harry's delectable arse.

Now, where was I? Harry's arse, the Ministry, imperio -- right, weather. Anyway, it's all lies. Harry almost never makes weather. Minor earthquakes and the odd explosion, certainly -- the east wing was mostly empty anyway, and nothing else has collapsed since we tripled the wards on the bedroom -- but he's getting much better since I made him take up meditation. (Though I've yet to convince him that "bugger" is a questionable choice of mantra.) It's deplorable the way Harry gets blamed for every freak storm these days, especially when this year's Wizard's Almanack clearly predicted a stormy season due to heavy sirocco activity in North Africa.

Which brings me back round to the sofa. And it really is a very nice sofa. The finest Italian baby dragonhide (just the silky-soft bits from that vulnerable area at the base of the throat, and you can imagine how many of those it takes to upholster a sofa -- I pray nightly that Granger doesn't find out or we'll never hear the end of it -- of course, glove leather would have cost less, but Harry will leave scorch marks on anything flammable when he's distracted), in a delicious sort of crême brulée color that very nearly matches my hair. I look absolutely ravishing stretched out on it in the nude. So does he, for that matter, but you mustn't tell him I said so, lest he develop an overinflated ego. There's only room for one of those in the Manor, and mine was here first. It's the whole foundation of our relationship, you know -- he has no self-esteem whatever, whereas I've got enough for at least two.

I can just picture your face, Blaise. Don't look so alarmed. I'm not completely lacking in self-awareness, as, in fact, the hippogriff story -- which I shall come to presently, never fear -- also demonstrates. Other than beauty, intelligence, wit, and vast riches, I've really very little to recommend me. Not that those things wouldn't be enough for most people, but you know Harry. He's excruciatingly Gryffindor. His lot are all about courage and nobility and charging heedlessly into mortal bleeding peril without a thought for himself, never mind me, for god's sake. I'm not sure what he expects me to do if he gets himself blown to bits.

It's just possible I may have grown a bit fond of the daft git, though I'll hex you into the next century and deny everything if you dare repeat that to a soul, living or otherwise. He must never know, you understand. There's the Malfoy pride to consider. Why he puts up with me is anybody's guess. As he correctly points out, it can't possibly be my charm. Malfoys don't do charm. I sometimes suspect he only loves me for my hair. I've been growing it out lately. Speaking of charms, I'm using that one of Father's that gives it a silvery cast. You'll see it when I come to kill you. I think it makes me look distinguished. (Harry says it makes me look like a ponce. I suppose I can live with that, so long as I'm a distinguished ponce.)

Anyway, there I was, facing down an angry Hippogriff. Did I mention before that it was angry? I'd thrown a rock at it, you see. I couldn't see what it was in the dark, could I, and I never imagined that after I was maimed in second year they'd have let that oaf Hagrid have another. (It turned out to be the same one anyway. Merlin, how I loathe that hippogriff.) Besides, whatever it was would obviously have to be chained up, wouldn't it? So I was standing back from the fence, where it couldn't reach me. Or so I thought, anyway, until it came straight over the rail and viciously attacked me.

If there's one thing I learnt from the war, it's to be man enough to admit I'm a coward. It's ever so much easier this way. I don't know how I didn't think of it sooner. When one comes right out and says so, people tend to believe it, and not expect too much in the way of bravery or selfless acts of derring-do -- a distinct advantage when one is surrounded by Gryffindors. (Harry says people just believe it of me, but I've seen enough cowardly behavior in the last few years to reassure me I am not alone. Harry thinks it terribly droll to say I may be the only coward brave enough to admit to it, but I don't believe this diminishes my magnificent, all-encompassing cowardice in any way. I am, inarguably, a coward, and am resolved to concede the fact until my timely and long-anticipated death at an absurdly advanced age.)

As a coward, it was only to be expected that I'd react to a hippogriff attack by falling to the ground and curling into a quivering fetal ball like a startled hedgehog, which is exactly what I did, coming to rest right between the creature's taloned forefeet as it prepared to savage my tender flesh with its terrible beak. Harry insists I was also whimpering, but I feel certain this is merely one of those unnecessary embellishments that creep into such tales in the retelling.

Not that he tells it often. That Gryffindor nobility isn't all bad -- he doesn't like to embarrass me. Which I appreciate, as there is a considerable difference between admitting to one's own cowardice and watching one's lover gleefully regale one's every acquaintance with the sordid details thereof. I'm only telling you because you're my best friend and I'm going to kill you anyway. Think of it this way, at least you'll die with a smile on your face. And at my expense, no less. Malfoys are nothing if not generous.

It's foolish of him, really. If I had any stories this embarrassing about Harry, I wouldn't hesitate to use them to my advantage. I wouldn't, honestly, only I'm embarrassed to admit just how pathetically he manages to embarrass himself sometimes.

How pitiful I've become. I wonder if he knows that I know he knows about the sofa. I'm beginning to suspect he does.

Bugger.

So. I was cowering beneath the hippogriff, possibly whimpering, when Harry came over the fence after it. I knew it was Harry because I recognised his boots. Or rather, I recognised the gouge I'd put in one of them with a slicing hex near the end of sixth year. Now they were so filthy and battered it's a wonder I recognised the mark at all. A shame, really. I bought him a new pair, but he insists on wearing the old ones anyway. Says they're comfortable. You see what I have to deal with?

I'm sure you'll agree that despite our rivalry, which was really quite petty when you think about it, because while I had tried to kill him for Father on more than one occasion, it wasn't as though I could possibly have ever succeeded, even though I didn't know it at the time, I was within my rights to expect him to do something heroic. Like slay the horrid beast, or at least stick his head in its mouth to distract it whilst I escaped. So you can imagine my outrage upon realising that Famous Harry Potter was not, in fact, slaying the foul, slavering thing, but rather talking to it. Soothingly. As though the monster, and not myself, were the one in mortal danger.

This oversight could not be allowed to pass unremarked, though obviously in the circumstances a certain amount of discretion had to be exercised.

"Potter," I began, in a sort of strangled hiss that I hoped would strike the correct balance between 'hushed whisper' and 'howl of righteous indignation, "Do something!"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it's going to kill us," I elaborated, as slowly and patiently as I could manage given that we were about to be eaten alive by a terrifying creature of myth and legend. For all my statements to the contrary, I had never actually believed that Potter was a blithering moron, and thought there were any number of less perilous ways I'd have preferred to find out I'd been right all along.

"If he were going to kill us, he'd have done it already. Wouldn't you, sweetheart?"

The creature responded with a menacing snort. Much too close to my head for comfort, it extended its talons and dug them into the earth beside me with an ominous crunch.

"That's right, you would," he continued, to my growing horror. "Because you're a fearsome beast, aren't you, love? Yes, you are. How long's it been since you ate someone? Would you like to eat Malfoy? I bet you would. He looks tasty enough."

It was utterly surreal. He was crooning to the thing the same way Longbottom did to that disgusting toad of his. As though it were some kind of pet, and not an unnatural, ravening --

It was then that I heard a frightful crunching sound and felt something rain down on me from above. Dear Merlin, it's eating him, I thought. I've got to get out of here! Only I couldn't move a muscle. I was completely paralysed with abject terror.

I think that's when I pissed myself. Don't laugh. You wouldn't if you'd been there. I really thought it was the end. The beast had eaten Potter, and there was no one else to defeat the Dark Lord, so I'd have no choice but to take the Mark.

There's nothing quite like staring into the stark face of certain death -- even with one's eyes squeezed tightly shut -- to bring one's priorities sharply into focus. Really, you should try it sometime. I even know where you can lay hands on a hippogriff. Merlin knows I'd love to be rid of the bloody thing, but Harry won't hear of it. The mangy thing belonged to his godfather. Never mind his godfather was a deranged fugitive from Azkaban and Harry only knew him for two years and I was the one actually related to Black, he was family. Only Harry Potter would consider an escaped lunatic preferable to his real family.

Then again, he probably was. Would you believe those filthy Muggles kept him locked in a cupboard like some kind of animal? I tortured them to death, of course, but Harry mustn't know. Everyone assumed it was your lot. Did you know, the fatter someone is, the longer they can survive the Cruciatus? I thought that porcine cousin of his would never stop screaming. It wasn't what I expected. I don't know what you see in torture. It's hard work, and all you get for it is a lot of bloody caterwauling and bodies to dispose of after. I'll make the effort for you, but honestly I'd as soon sit home and wank.

If you're still reading, Shacklebolt, you'll never prove it. Besides, think what it would do to Harry if he knew. Neither of us wants to see him have another breakdown. He's never really recovered from the first one. Sometimes he stares at the wall for hours and doesn't seem to know I'm there at all. And he still has the nightmares, though he says they're better when I'm with him. (I think it might even be true.) Last Thursday one of the house-elves found him sitting in the downstairs broom closet. He still won't say what he was doing there.

Of course he's fine most days, but it's the principle of the thing. Voldemort was certainly a major threat, and we could go round all day over whether the end justified the means in this case. Either way, it won't make me hate Dumbledore and the Order any less for using Harry as a weapon. Thanks to my thrice-damned father, I understand something of what it's like to be a pawn, to be used or sacrificed at another's whim. Which is not to say I claim to understand Harry. I don't think anybody ever could. But I know if I see our erstwhile headmaster in the afterlife, I'll hex his balls into his throat and watch him choke on them for eternity. (Like that spell, Blaise? I designed it myself. Sorry I can't teach it to you.)

Anyway, in that moment of clarity, I had the requisite epiphany, which was that life was too precious to spend even a moment of it crawling on the floor kissing Voldemort's desiccated feet. I was on the ground next to Harry's feet right now, and I didn't like it one bit. Only an imbecile would intentionally become a Death Eater. (Honestly, Blaise, what were you thinking? It wasn't even expected of you, at least not the way it was of me. I need to understand. Promise you'll explain it to me before I kill you.) Obviously Father was a misbegotten fool, and he'd violated the Malfoy Code in probably more ways even than he'd violated Aunt Bella, not that the vile cow didn't deserve it. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. I would not grovel. It wasn't to be borne! I was a Malfoy, for god's sake, and Malfoys didn't grovel! Better, then, to be mauled to death by a hippogriff. At least there was some dignity to be found in that.

Realising that I'd actually rather be eaten alive than follow in my father's footsteps came, understandably, as something of a shock, but it seemed the wrong time to ponder the subject further.

Incredibly, Potter was still talking, but I could only make out snatches of it over my own deafening heartbeat. "Sorry ... not much ... like them," I heard. Where was the agonised screaming? The ululations of unimaginable pain as he was torn limb from limb, cracked open like a roast pheasant as the razor-sharp beak ripped into his chest and sucked out his entrails?

Apparently I could move again, because I instinctively flung my arms up to shield my face from the inevitable flood of gore. I'm not sure how long it took me to realise that there was, in fact, no gore. In fact, it felt more like coarse sand, or maybe crumbs.

Crumbs?

to be continued...