Draco Malfoy Strikes Back

- Draco Malfoy Strikes Back -

It wasn't that Draco was obsessed, really. It was that Draco was Oppressed.

Potter was everywhere, giving Draco no peace. He couldn't even sleep, because the whole school was somehow infected with Potter's stink. It was unconscionable; something had to be done, and soon. Before Draco's sanity slunk under Crabbe's bed to cower permanently.

"Something has to be done," Draco proclaimed to no one at particular, that morning at breakfast. "Potter is not the master of the universe, is he? He can't even tie his shoes properly."

"Yes, Draco," Goyle said, and Pansy giggled. Draco's unforgiving gaze focused on her in time to notice she was blushing at a quickly rolled-up parchment. Something went sour in Draco's stomach.

"Don't tell me that's another owl from Smith, Parkinson," he said in his best steely tone.

Pansy giggled again. "He tells me all the news," she beamed. "He's such a darling. I think I might keep him." Draco's eyes narrowed. "At a respectable distance, I mean."

"Does the 'news' include what actually goes on in that den of depravity Potter keeps in the Room of Requirement?"

"Smith says he's allergic to rashes in awkward places. I don't have the slightest idea of what he means by that, but then, I haven't had a breakthrough yet."

"Hufflepuffs are good for nothing," Draco said with certainty. "So since they won't be part of the solution, they're part of the problem."

"Eh?"

"Parkinson! Haven't you been doing your reading for the Cause?! I've assigned you several important books to read so I don't have to! My time is precious, I thought you understood that! I don't have any to waste on coddling you and your woman troubles."

"If you want a personal bookworm, I suppose you could always ask that bushy Mudblood's help." Pansy smirked.

"And now you're just being insensitive," Draco pouted. "It's a Monday," he said piteously. "You know how I am on Mondays." Pansy wisely chose to say nothing. "Potter is a pig," Draco said, because that sort of thing was always relevant. His own stomach rebelled, watching that ogre pile spoonfuls of honey onto his bread. "Doesn't he know how sane people do -anything-?" he muttered. Thankfully, his minions knew when (and how) to listen selectively.

Potter dipped his spoon into the bowl of honey with an uncharacteristic look of almost manic glee, dripping it slowly onto his coarse, common loaf. He appeared to be dribbling the bloody liquid in some sort of pattern, though Draco couldn't be certain since he sat a distance away. It was rude! It was plebeian! It was -unsightly-! What's more-- it was Oppressive.

Draco stared with all the fierce loathing he could summon. Eventually, Potter would be trained: one day he would die from Draco's eyes on him alone. It could happen!

And then Potter stuffed the slowly (slowly) dripping bread in his mouth, smiling messily with a toddler's uncomplicated pleasure at a sweet.

It was awful. Seeing Potter happy even over the tiniest little thing got Draco (righteously) enraged. It wasn't right; no, it was an -abomination-. Potter didn't deserve to be happy, but if he -had- to be, it was common courtesy to do it out of Draco's line of sight. Some people just grew up wrong, obviously. Muggles did that to you, Draco heard.

Draco stabbed his spoon into the nice, neat bowl of porridge viciously. The porridge mocked him. Potter mocked him. Everyone mocked him!!

They must pay. They must all-- pay. Slowly. Painfully. And possibly also nakedly.

Not that Draco was indiscriminate, naturally; no. It was only that Potter -deserved- a more gruesome death, that was all. Draco made a list of Ways To Kill Potter whenever he was bored, and Death By Honey was number eight-hundred-thirty-two. The only problem was finding a vat large enough to dump all that boiling honey in, and poof! Draco's dream would literally become reality, because everyone knew the most cunningly diabolical ideas came to people in their sleep. So as soon as Draco had woken up, sheets damp and twisted, sticking to his body in a frenzy of (murderous) excitement, he knew he'd finally found the way to bring Potter down... so to speak.

It was perfectly natural that such a rush of almost palpable victory would leave Draco in a certain... excitable state. He was a very normal young man, with very normal needs-- no-- requirements.

It was a question of sheer necessity that Potter would have to wait a bit while the honey reached the correct temperature; Draco was a sensible boy-- man. He was a sensible man. He realized that Potter would have to be-- kept quiet, meanwhile, preferrably bound and gagged and otherwise readied in various ways. Draco kept a whip for precisely such an occasion, because a Malfoy could never be too prepared, and also because he wanted to (and that was reason enough!) It would be more convenient if Potter was naked, too. Fact was, the boiling honey would work faster that way.

If there was one thing Draco knew he couldn't be accused of, it was of not having his priorities straight. Oh yes, Draco knew precisely what he wanted, and how to get it. He was set. All he needed was a little luck, and maybe a vat of honey.

I will get you yet, Scarboy, he thought, resisting the urge to cackle as he watched Potter tuck in the rest of the meal. Let's see how much you like honey when I'm through with you!

That was just one of the many possibilities, though. Draco was nothing if not creative. And also flexible, while retaining that essence of pure vision. The wizarding world should really give him some sort of compensation for his genius, but first things first.

In order to defeat the Oppressor, Draco must eat. His mummy always told him that.

+ + +

After breakfast, of course, Potter was scowling again as per usual. Potter was always scowling, walking around looking like a thundercloud on legs. He didn't swish his robes like Professor Snape did and he didn't look remotely intimidating, but he tried. Oh, he tried.

"Out of my way," he boomed in that deep voice he'd acquired at some point. "I have important business."

Draco smirked and blocked Potter's way more obviously, reassured by Crabbe and Goyle's warm presence behind him. "With who, Potty? Your poor hair-dresser, perhaps?" Crabbe sniggered loyally, and Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You can never be early enough for a trim for that overgrown skull of yours."

Potter was now frowning as well as scowling, and his head dipped in the manner of a bull scenting his prey. "Let. Me. Pass," he growled. "Move if you know what's good for you, Malfoy."

Something in Draco's stomach jiggled nervously, but he stood his ground. "Fat chance, Pothead. You have to say the magic words." He paused, considering. "And you may address me as 'Prefect' or maybe 'Mr. Prefect' if you're so inclined."

Potter's eyes glittered with what he probably would have thought was the dangerous light of justice. "Are you trying to annoy me, Malfoy? Because I should just let you know right now that it's not working."

A random strand of hair was tickling Draco's nose for some reason, but he utterly refused to sneeze. He stood his ground like one of the wizarding guardians of old. He stood straighter and straighter, until he was like a kind of needle of truth and vengeful fire that pointed at heaven. "I will not let you pass without the magic words," he said smoothly. "Not for a million galleons more than you can possibly imagine having."

"Oh, I know a few magic words if you're dying to hear them," Potter smirked. He probably thought he looked sexy like that. Draco shivered delicately; in disgust, of course. "But I don't feel like getting another detention, so I'm just asking you. Nicely."

"I don't care how -nice- you think you are, Potter!" Draco felt he was entitled to lose his patience just a bit by this point. "The magic words, or your arse is warming Snape's bench for the next five weeks! Don't think I can't, because I can, and I will! I, unlike you, am a -Prefect-, in case you've forgotten."

Potter rolled his eyes and tried to walk around him, but Draco jumped in front of Potter with gazelle-like grace. He hopped and skipped in front of Potter, resisting the awful, utterly incomprehensible urge to giggle. He hadn't played this game for a while. Not that he missed it or anything. "Not so nimble, are you now? Tsk!" He was now jumping very fast, but the slightly breathless words tumbled from his mouth unchecked. "Ha! Ha! I've got you, Potter! I've got you! Got you!"

The half-blind spectacled git stopped dead at the most inopportune time, and Draco tripped over his foot entirely through no fault of his own. He stumbled, falling all over Potter like some bloody swooning maiden with an undignified squeak.

It took Draco a few seconds to process that Potter's arms were around him, hard and entrapping like steel bands. "Wrong again," Potter said with what he probably thought was some plebeian sense of ironic timing. "-I've- got -you-."

Draco tried to pull away, held so awkwardly (not to mention mortifyingly) in the middle of a corridor, with Crabbe and Goyle watching like stone-silent watchdogs who were too dumb to bite. Worthless wankers. He didn't need them, anyway. He had his razor-sharp wit and his impeccable sense of cunning to save him. "You've made your so-called point, Potter. Now let me go."

"What are the magic words?" Potter said with infuriating calm.

"I don't bloody know what the sodding words are, loser, just let me go!" Draco started to struggle in earnest, but Potter held on. He was like some freakish monkey from the Amazon. Draco had read about them. They were rabid, and once they bit you, they didn't let go. "Or I'll scream! I swear I will, I'll scream!"

Potter chuckled, the stupid oaf. "Oh, I think you know what the words are, Malfoy. And you'll be free with just a tiny little whisper, too. Worked like a charm with me at least, wouldn't you say?"

Draco felt weak. He was going to die like this, he knew. He was going to die of embarrassment (not to mention asphyxiation due to stress), and Potter would get the last laugh. And who would take care of Crabbe and Goyle in their old age? They probably couldn't make their way to the Great Hall to eat their bloody muffins without him! Draco had to live for their sake.

He had to do something. He had to say something. He should probably at least pull away. Or look away. One of those, definitely. Potter was a lot like a cobra, really. Once you looked into its deadly beastly little eyes, you were done for....

"Mmmph-- damminngh Putt'rr!-- yehve hnyonyer nippsss," Draco mumbled against Potter's chest. He needed a minute, that was all.

+ + +

Draco was too self-possessed to be obsessed. He tied his Slytherin tie very carefully every morning; he combed his hair with frightening precision. He ate in tasteful, well-proportioned bites, and he kissed Pansy without any tongue because one never knew what someone else's breath might taste like, and Draco would rather not find out.

He was a man with a mission: Harry Potter's ultimate downfall was all but assured. No one expected Draco to be the one to win in the end, and that was precisely why he would do so. Draco thrived on being unexpected; stealthy, even. Draco was a man of poise and mystery, not to mention impeccable good taste.

"What?" Potter said suspiciously, squinting at Draco like some deranged, bloated bat.

"You have honey on your lips," Draco said primly.

Potter burst out laughing. "Y-you don't-- say--" he gasped. After a moment, during which Draco's piercing gaze pinned him in place like a helpless butterfly, Potter licked his lips. His tongue was dreadfully red, though not exactly forked. Dangerously deceptive, just like a Gryffindor, Draco thought, thinking he could see the tip of Potter's tongue even when it slid back into Potter's mouth. If he watched closely, it would probably turn forked at some point. He believed! "Better?"

"Not nearly good enough," Draco said with professional certainty.

The tip of Potter's tongue traced the curve of his upper lip slowly, though naturally Draco didn't follow. At all. "Am I getting warmer?" Potter said softly.

"Let me loose!" Draco choked. "I can't breathe, you beast!"

"So what are the magic words, Malfoy?"

Draco gasped for air and quickly ran through his options. Escape was of uppermost importance, he decided. "You got me."

"I know -that-, you prat," Potter rolled his eyes. "But what did you want me to say?"

"Gryffindors are so painfully dense. It's a wonder any of you manage to bend enough to sit."

"I'm waiting here, you know."

"Oh for the love of--" Draco twisted away violently, stumbling several steps back. "You got me, all right? You win. And some variations on that theme, you braindead loser."

"Hmm," Potter said. "Too bad you'll never win, then. Good luck on getting me some other way, though."

He walked away, chuckling, while Draco stewed. "Crabbe! Goyle!" he barked. "What in bloody hell were you two goons -doing- this time?! Counting the rocks on the wall?!"

"You two are so-- cute," Goyle said. "We like to watch."

"There is no justice!!" Draco screamed, cheeks flaming. "GOD! I HATE EVERYONE!! INCOMPETENT FREAKS, THE LOT OF YOU!"

He would make Potter his personal slave yet. They might all laugh now, but who would be laughing when Draco was on top? No one, that was who. No one!

To soothe his nerves, Draco entertained Way To Kill Potter number one-thousand-forty-two: Confession Carnage. Draco started to grin: this one was one of his favorites.

The plan was so simple it was beautifully poetic: he would tell Potter the truth, and since Potter was a complete ninny who couldn't handle The Truth if it sucked him off, he would fall over. Dead. Easy as that. Draco liked to believe his father would be proud.

It would go something like this:

"You're-- you're n-nutters," Potter would stutter, eyes wide and falsely innocent. He was in denial, so naturally he wouldn't admit it. Draco wouldn't have said it for Potter's benefit, anyway; it was all part of The Plan. Then came Plan B: actually kill Potter if (after) Plan A failed to get the desired results.

"Malfoys never lie!" Draco would state calmly. "Besides, I hate you!" he'd snarl (in a fierce, manly growl). "Haven't you got the memo yet, you insufferable twat?! My hate makes me brutally honest. The truth is my greatest weapon! You want me! You know you want me!"

"Er--"

"And it's not like you couldn't do better at Potions if you weren't staring at me all the time! Kill two birds with one stone, why don't you? How do you think you'll ever destroy the bloody Dark Lord if you can't even concentrate, Potter??!"

"You're so sweet," Potter would admit. "And to think I never knew you actually cared about my welfare."

"You're so blind!" Draco would say, quite reasonably. "Of course I don't care squat for your bloody welfare. I just want to see you boil! And scream! And... and all those other things." Draco would have thought of those things by the time it would be useful, of course.

"This is kinda fun, Malfoy." Potter would have a sad puppy look on his face, because Draco was such good company, and also dashing and sexy. "Maybe we could do this again, except next time I would be naked and begging for mercy I shall never receive."

Draco would ponder this, and then turn away, a look of well-satisfied disgust on his face. "I don't think so, Potter. You shall die a miserable, naked virgin with boils on your privates from all the heated honey I hadn't licked off fast enough!!"

And then Potter would cry.

He wasn't in denial: he would tell you himself. Draco Malfoy was merely (very) Oppressed.

+ + +