Of Vitriol and Quicksilver

If you think of it, there’s only one thing that tells the Slytherins from the Gryffindors: the attitude. To Draco, Gryffindors are overall messy, and a murder in Gryffindor fashion is a gory affair. Too many explosions, guts and brains all over the place, stains that not even the best aimed Scorgify manages to clean and all kinds of fluids forever ruining suede shoes. Fire and blood. Gryffindor colours.

If Draco thinks of it, there’s only one reason why the Sorting Hat made him a Slytherin: he likes it clean. Poisons are clean, a lethal weapon that arrives unseen and slowly insinuates itself on the victim, leaving only neatness and order in its wake. Of course, the victim may throw up and ruin the murderer’s suede shoes, but one can always be creative, and why not put some arsenic on the pages of the most amusing book in a library? Clean and controlled, just as Draco likes it. Vitriol and quicksilver.

So, Draco was not the least pleased when Blaise decided, for Merlin knows what reason, to pay the Malfoys a visit during their summer break. He was even less pleased when Narcissa decided that Blaise should spend a few weeks in the Malfoy Estate, because poor Draco! He has been so depressed since his father was wrongly sent to Azkaban! That was not in his plans, and his cobweb of order was thorn.

Currently Draco thinks that his mother is probably the depressed one, because she forgot to cast an anti-rusting charm on the gates. And since Blaise is fucking him hard against one of those gates, Draco’s linen shirt is no longer starch-white, but orange-spotted. And Blaise comes and clutches the shirt, and linen can’t possibly survive that, but then Draco comes, too, and forgets the fabric the shirt is made of.

‘My, my! Darling Narcissa is having her morning tea all by herself,’ Blaise says into Draco’s nape, making him shiver despite the heat. ‘We can’t have that, now, can we?’

Draco opens his eyes and sees his mother sitting at a small wrought iron table, in the terrace beneath them, under the cool shadow of a willow. He notices that Blaise disappeared, but then he sees him arriving at her side with a smile. He takes a rose from behind his back and kisses her hand. Narcissa places her other hand on her chest and pats the seat beside her. Foolish woman! So easily charmed that doesn’t notice that the rose is one of hers, and that her award-winning, perfectly trimmed rosebush is currently minus one.

For one flitting moment in time Draco considers telling his mother that, before she notices the hole in the bush and blames the garden elf. But then he sees that the violets at his feet, whose purple colour is exactly one shade lighter than black and took Narcissa exactly seventeen generations to achieve, are now blotched with white, and decides that the world will not miss one lousy elf.

~~~~~~~~~

‘What am I doing to you, Draco?’ Blaise mocks, when he arrives at the drawing room that same afternoon. ‘You’re getting gender-confused!’

Draco raises his eyes from the teacup and looks at him.

‘Come again?’

‘That ring,’ Blaise says, pointing at the bulgy ring Draco is wearing, ‘is utterly feminine.’

‘Did you know that the Blacks have Italian blood, too?’

‘Oh?’ Blaise sits down facing the blond. ‘Well, Nigellus is a Latin name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Draco pours the other boy a cup of tea. ‘They’re related to the Borgias.’

Blaise nods in recognition, while blowing his tea cool.

‘And this…feminine ring, as you said, belonged to Lucretia Borgia. I reckon you’ve heard of her.’

The other boy’s cup stops mid-air before touching his lips, and he puts it down.

‘Awfully hot for tea, don’t you think?’ Blaise leans back casually and smiles.

‘Indeed.’

~~~~~~~~~~

At dinner, Draco amuses himself watching Blaise trying to avoid the game stock, the imported spring-water and the Chianti Narcissa had the elves bring from the basement, in honour of their doubtful guest, without breaking every single etiquette rule known to men. And failing miserably.

~~~~~~~~~~

The following night Blaise stomps inside Draco’s room, his eyes blood-shot and his lips chapped.

‘Malfoy!’ His voice is barely above a hiss, and should sound like a snake, but edges on despair.

Draco pours the other boy some pumpkin juice from his nightstand, but Blaise just glares at him. The blonde rolls his eyes.

‘If you had paid attention, you’d see that there’s rust around the ring’s hinge. It hasn’t been opened since Lucretia last did it.’

Blaise still doesn’t take the glass.

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Zabini!’ Draco drinks some juice first and then hands Blaise the glass, who finally drinks it all. And chokes.

‘Careful, Zabini, you don’t want to ruin that 14^th century muslin praying-rug, do you?’

‘What are you playing at, Malfoy?’ Blaise snaps, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

‘What am I playing at? Why, my dear guest, I thought it was quite obvious.’

‘Well, obviously no, it’s not. So, please, do enlighten me, oh subtle one.’

Draco walks over to the other boy, stopping right in front of him.

‘When in my house, we play by my rules, because,’ he raises the hand with the ring between their eyes, ‘the cyanide inside this ring may be centuries old, but I assure you it’s just as active as it was the last time Lucretia used it to kill one of her lovers. Do you understand, my dear?’

Blaise doesn’t reply, but Draco knows everything is back in order, as the other boy kneels before him, opens his trousers and takes him deep in his mouth, because that is his Slytherin-way to say that, yes, he understands. Perfectly.