The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

Prelude...

He didn't choose the whimsical, witty, charming, cruel, decisive, devilish Potter to be his cast. It just happened. It happened all in one day and Draco had decided it on a whim. Everything seemed to happen out on the Quidditch field nowadays; or the locker, or against the lockers, or in the showers, or against the shower walls, or in the broom closet, or against the--well, you get it. Draco didn't know who Potter was anymore: for the moment he was the star actor, and Draco was the playwright, and whatever deserted place they were in was the setting, and their lines--their lines when something like this:

DRACO: [advancing on HARRY, pulling on his tie, as if not knowing whether to tighten it or pull it off.] I'll have you, Potter.
HARRY: [smirking, cocking his head.] Go a-fucking-head.

And he would. Go afuckinghead, he means.

----

ACT ONE,
SCENE TWO:
Draco Malfoy Writes his Life Tragedy In...
The Quidditch Pitch, the Showers, the Broom Closets,
the Locker Rooms, and his Fantasies,
or,
The Muse and the UST
SETTING: Everywhere you don’t want to be
CHARACTERS: DRACO the playwright, HARRY POTTER the muse, DP!Weasley the dirt poor kid, The Bush Granger, PANSY the....friend

After the great and beautiful yet sonofabastard-y Potter became Draco’s muse–no, he means to say cast–, Draco found that he was able to concoct his plays in a number of various places, which included but was not limited to the Quidditch pitch, the Quidditch locker rooms, against the Quidditch locker rooms, the showers, against the shower walls, any broom closet of choice, and against the wall of said broom closets. The scenes he came up with were quite naughty, but all in all were satisfying to the Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles, and he would go to sleep dreaming about the scene that day, and he would wake up–well, you know.

Draco admitted that Harry Potter had Quidditch assets and was certainly all that jazz. But honestly, he didn’t know how their whole torrid affair started. He was just strolling along, reviewing the latest scenes of his life tragedy, tuning out the usual bickering of Pansy and Nott, making Crabbe carry his books, etc, etc–and then there had come Potter, in all his muse glory. The following is terribly embarrassing, Draco knows, but it’s true, and it’s here for a record:

-

POTTER: [walking with the Idiot Dirt Poor Weasley and The Bush] Oh, there’s Malfoy. How’s your tragedy coming?
DRACO: [scowling] Perfectly fine, thank you.
POTTER: [nodding] Alright. [slight pause] So...did you include the bit about my ‘Quidditch assets’?
DP!Weasley: [startled] What!?
The Bush: [eyebrows raised] Quidditch assets?!
PANSY: [mouth open] Assets?!
DRACO: [surprised, but smirking] Well of course I didn’t, Potter, you’re not part of my honorable and desirable life.
DP!Weasley: Desirable my arse, Malfoy, I wouldn’t want to have people lick my feet.
The Bush: Ron–
POTTER: [cutting them off] Oh–that’s too bad, then. It just seemed like something you would put down for, you know, the record.

[POTTER walks on with DP!Weasley and the Bush, who are both obviously shaken. DRACO watches POTTER go for a few moments, then turns around, frowning, while PANSY follows, trying to ask him about said assets.]

-

They had been flirting. Oh God. You weren’t supposed to flirt with your muse; it was too unorthodox for words, like flirting with your boss, or your enemy, or your Potions teacher.
But that’s what they’d done, wasn’t it? Flirted. Openly. And Potter had even mentioned the Quidditch assets thing, he remembered. It was all strangely asinine and yet very interesting, and that wasn’t even everything. There were–other things–that merited stares and shocked glances and thoug

hts of ‘Holy shit, what the fuck is going on!?’.Draco wasn’t stupid; he knew he was bisexual and liked guys just as much as he liked girls, but–Potter? O Great Wizard Merlin, who would have thought? Harry Potter was a person you could easily become engrossed with, Draco knew, but he didn’t think he had lost that much...pride. To be smitten. With Harry Potter, the Muse who Lived, Worst Enemy, Keeper of Quidditch Assets, Naked Nymph–

–damn!

This was the dawning of some new chapter, and as soon as Draco realized it, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it get away.

He managed secret stares at suggestive glances across the room in Transfiguration over McGonnagal’s voice, and Potter always knew where to find them and give them back. He saw Potter taking his time in the supplies closet in Potions because Draco sat near there, and boy did Potter do a good job of reaching up to the highest shelf–er, well. They didn’t have a relationship and yet they did have one, and it was confusing and strange but they both liked it. Well, Draco did, anyway. It was his story, and he liked having all these natural twists to it, and all that jazz.

They unknowingly met on the Quidditch field once, just like their first encounter, and their lines were inconspicuous and incognito; disarrayed and voluptuous. Picture this: two hormonal seventeen-year-old boys who were enemies, but weren’t, standing together, too close, trying to make a memorable scene for themselves. Trying and not trying. It was dizzying.

-

DRACO: What are you doing here, Potter?
POTTER: I wasn’t waiting for you, if that’s what it looked like.
DRACO: No? Really? Not trying to get noticed, like in Potions? Not trying to get me to stare back? Not pointedly arching your neck–
POTTER: Hey, you were the one that did all those things first.
DRACO: Except for the Potions one; you snarky little....
POTTER: Well, you gave off the vibes!
DRACO: [irritated] You made yourself noticed!
POTTER: [weary-sounding] When have I not been noticed?
DRACO: You–you know what I mean.
POTTER: Well, I didn’t think–didn’t know–
DRACO: You knew. You knew about me.
POTTER: I honestly didn’t know anything.

[there is a pause.]

POTTER: Are you going to leave?
DRACO: Potter, I am a seventeen year old bisexual male with raging hormones. You have been flirting with me for the past two weeks. We are standing together in the middle of a Quidditch field and– [he touches his hair with his hand.] –my hair is getting messed up. This is absurd. I am trying to write a play, and this is a crucial moment. [narrowing his eyes] No, I am not going to leave.
POTTER: Oh. Well, in that case, then. [taking a Snitch from his pocket] Want a round?
DRACO: [blinking] ‘Scuse?
POTTER: Come on, Drama Queen. If you’re not going to leave we might as well practice a little, especially since I managed to get this. [indicating the Snitch, which is flitting around] So? How about it?
DRACO: [blinking again, then grimacing] What the hell is your problem, Potter?
POTTER: Shut up, Malfoy. I may have a whole book of them, but you’ve got an entire encyclopedia. [throwing the Snitch in the air] Come on, let me see you flaunt your Quidditch assets.
DRACO: Potter, I do believe you just stole my line.
POTTER: There wasn’t a fucking copyright on it. [mounting his broom and kicking off] Don’t be such a prick, Malfoy.
DRACO: [scowling for a moment, then angrily mounting his broom] Fine, fine–but you’re not going to catch that damned Snitch, you hear me, Potter?

[DRACO kicks off into the air and zooms after the Snitch; while POTTER follows him...]

-

"Idiot, why don’t you just use your wand?”), he started talking, and Draco stood there, smelling like cold air and sweat, wondering what sort of drama this was going to turn into.

“So Malfoy, are you satisfied? You caught the Snitch five out of eleven times. Not bad, I guess,” Potter mused (mused!), taking out a fluffy white towel, “considering you, and all.”

Draco felt a surge of anger that was unlike a surge of heat; he didn’t understand it, he was already hot. “Don’t be so confident, Potter. Considering your standards–“ Well, what were Potter’s standards, anyway? Even if Draco did manage to grab the Snitch five times, Potter had gotten it six, and he had done it in ways that threw Draco off completely so that he was left dumbfounded. There was no denying the fact that Potter was a fucking Quidditch godsend, and Draco wasn’t. He cut himself off and looked away, busying himself with his own locker. “Nevermind.”

“Aw, sorry Draco, the truth hurts.” Draco’s head snapped around as Potter stood there smirking at him. And here’s the climax, his subconscious said, the part where everything gets all icky and nasty. Women start crying around this part, you know. And gasping, and everything. Buying out the Kleenex company, things like that... “I didn’t think it would take seven years for you to get it through your thick head that I’ll always be the better Quidditch player, though. I thought maybe four was enough–even five. But you still modeled yourself as the star player even last year. Shame...”

It wasn’t the words that jilted Draco to slam Potter up against the cold tiled wall–no, the words went past him and died in mid-air. He didn’t know what it was but it made him want to strangle Potter; and not just strangle, strangle and kiss at the same time, and not just strangle and kiss, strangle and tangle and turn and toss and violate. There’s a word for this, Draco thought as his grey eyes searched the face in front of him, unresolved sexual whatsit. Oh Merlin, this is why I hate drama sometimes. It gets the better of you.

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Potter spat, looking at Draco straight in the eyes.

“I don’t know,” Draco muttered fiercely, before lunging forward and kissing him the exact same way.

It was true, he really didn’t know. He didn’t know what it was that made him turn the innocent enough locker room into a steamy atmosphere of unresolved sexual tension. He didn’t know what it was that made him act the way he had acted; or yearn for the things he yearned for: like the taste of tangy maltese orange and hot mint–Potter’s mouth– or the wide green eyes that were smoky and hushed; like a secret–a mirror of Draco’s own grey ones. It was uncanny and irresistible and it was fission and ooh. It was certainly all that jazz.

Page after page; scene after scene; and dialogue after dialogue filled Draco’s angst chronicles. The settings were varied (The Quidditch Pitch, the Showers, the Broom Closets, the Locker Rooms, his Fantasies), but the actions were the same (there was the splendid attack of the lips; then the tie came off and the neck was the center spot; everything downwards was optional and made everything so much more bad). Even as the act came to an end, Draco still didn’t know what exactly ‘it’ was, and neither did Harry. And you know what? Neither of them cared very much. It was all a siren-silk spun web, and both of them were caught in it for free.

Yet one night, at two in the morning, when Draco was finally dipping into sleep, he realized what 'it' was: angst. He didn't know what was channeling it so much; or who, for that matter--he just knew it was angst that was driving him crazy up the wall, and yes: he liked it.

--

Interlude...

Draco hated sappy romance plays like the ones his mother and her friends would occasionally attend, because everyone practically DIED and CRIED and SOBBED and the plot was coated in a mixture of SEX and

DRAMA and ANGST. Angst. Draco liked that word. It had the kind of ring to it that made lights sparkle, and violin music start playing, and it made women cry, and it made the horror music start on cue. Angst was big and he didn't want to look at it but he had to. He could see those damn headlines now--Draco Malfoy, Startling New Playwright of the Mind--Spurred by the Revelation of Angst!!!

That's when the title of Drama Queen instantaneously shifted to Angst Whore.

--

ACT ONE; SCENE TWO: -FIN-