Rating:
R
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Colin Creevey/Draco Malfoy
Characters:
Colin Creevey Draco Malfoy
Genres:
Romance Angst
Era:
Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
Stats:
Published: 07/01/2006
Updated: 07/01/2006
Words: 4,329
Chapters: 1
Hits: 355

Inexplicable

Tarowen

Story Summary:
When a magazine sends Colin Creevey to take pictures of war hero Draco Malfoy, Draco is not amused. Not only is Colin the most irritating person Draco has ever encountered, he seems to have quite a bit more in mind than taking pictures.

Chapter 01 - The Downside of Idolatry

Posted:
07/01/2006
Hits:
356


Inexplicable: Chapter One

The Downside of Idolatry

Draco Malfoy is in fashion, which if it doesn't actually please him, does not seem to surprise him. "With You-Know-Who gone," he quips, "the populace was bound to cast about for some other equally deluded idol to worship. And since Potter wasn't biting, it had to fall on someone else. Though it's hardly my fault if they confuse good taste with charisma." He shrugs as he crosses the lofty hall at Malfoy Manor, the heels of his high black boots echoing on the polished green aventurine, and the dark velvet skirts of his frock coat flaring ever so slightly above his knees.

Draco snorted. Pansy really had been reading up on how to write for these soppy rags. At least she'd quoted him correctly--that had been one of his conditions. He read on.

On the surface, Mr. Malfoy's lack of surprise would seem pure hubris. After all, it's ludicrous that the scion of the most vicious Death Eaters should become an object of worship following Harry Potter's harrowing triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But we all know Mr. Malfoy's own harrowing story by now; how the only son of Lucius Malfoy turned coat after his sixth year at Hogwarts, and spent the rest of the war in deadly peril, risking his life day after day to relay vital information to the famed Order of the Phoenix. Without that information, word has it, the war would have dragged on for several more years. Harry Potter himself--in one of of his all-too-rare public appearances--acknowledged that without Mr. Malfoy, the war might have had a different, and not so salubrious, ending.

Acknowledged through gritted teeth, as Draco recalled with a reminiscent twist of his lip. It had almost been worth it, just for that.

Being a bona-fide war hero is of course an excellent start to assuming the status of idol, particularly when the war's most famous hero--Harry Potter--has made such an adamant withdrawal from public life that no credible reports on his current location have surfaced in the past six months.

Draco snorted again. He was sure he wasn't the only one to find Potter's self-exile a consummation devoutly to be cheered. There was no denying it put rather a damper on any social occasion to have the boy-who-wallowed-in-existential-angst drooping in a corner like a wet Thursday.

It also doesn't hurt that Mr. Malfoy has both the medals and the scars to prove his heroism, particularly the famous white-line scar across his cheek which he has refused to explain. One can only imagine the horrors that keep him from reliving the incident; torture? Unforgiveables? Hexed blades? Poisoned talons? There's nothing like a little mystery to add to any idol's allure.

Instinctively Draco's fingers moved to the raised line of his scar, and a serpentine smile stole across his face. No, he'd never tell anyone how he'd gotten that particular scar. The only person who needed to know already did.

But for Draco Malfoy, heroism is merely the beginning. In fact, no other young wizard today seems so tailor-made for adoration. First, he is young--just twenty-two--and as elegant and icily-handsome as a fairytale snow-prince.

Draco rolled his eyes. Pansy had never forgiven him for turning down her offer to warm his bed.

Second, his parents' and other relatives' deaths left him wealthy beyond measure, with estates from Malfoy Manor in England to Temptation Rook in Bermuda, among many other closely-guarded assets.

Rather too closely-guarded in Pansy's opinion, Draco knew. Not that she hadn't tried to nose them out; she was still sure he had the fabled Parkinson poison rings somewhere amid his multifarious inheritances, since all pure-blooded families were linked somewhere back on the interbred family tree. Draco quirked his brow. If she'd been a bit more subtle about it, he might even have given them to her.

Third, he's one of the world's most powerful and talented wizards, with an affinity for potions far outstripping his former schoolmate, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy has in fact begun his own potions company, doing the research himself in several renovated rooms in Malfoy Manor. "It gives me an excuse to travel around the world and not look like a complete wastrel," he claims.

With a frown, Draco found himself wishing he hadn't said that. He never needed to apologize.

Fourth, he's athletic; a daring and ruthless Quidditch player, whom no seeker but Mr. Potter has ever beaten to the snitch.

And thanks for that lovely little reminder, Draco grimaced.

Fifth, he has proved himself an audacious and original leader of fashion, discarding traditional robes for exquisitely tailored--but never black--frock coats, brocaded vests, and high leather boots. Countless young wizards are now aping his fashion sense, much to their parents' despair.

And to Draco's. It was just plain embarrassing to have horrendously dressed imitators. In Draco's eyes, if they couldn't do it right, there was no point in even trying. At least Potter and the Weasel had known that much.

And to all that he yet adds more; a sardonically biting tongue, an arrogant disdain for others' opinions, and a glint in his silver eyes that leaves one unsettled. Here, one instantly senses, is a man with whom it would not be wise to trifle. Is it then any wonder that...

With a curl of his lip, Draco tossed aside the scroll. Merlin, Pansy should have just licked his damned boots and gotten it over with. Why the hell had he ever let her talk him into an interview she could sell to some simperingly saccharine glossy? He glanced at the bold, red script on the note that had accompanied the scroll:

Draco: As requested, here's the draft of my article. Utter tripe, of course, as I warned you, even with the polysyllabic words the editors drool over. I don't know why they suffer from this delusion that long words will somehow elevate gossip to serious journalism. I suppose I shouldn't expect anything more from a magazine calling itself 'Venefica,' as if 'witch' in Latin were somehow more sophisticated rather than just pretentious. But anyway, this is what people apparently want. I'd thank you for it, but really, I'm the one doing the favor; if this is my big break, I'll be able to stop sponging off you. So you see, we both win. I thought the symmetry would appeal to you. -Pansy

Bloody waste of his time was what it was, Draco thought; all that ridiculous yammering. And now she was sending a photographer to make him look even more of a ponce. Doubtless they'd want to pose him looking soulfully up at the blank wall where his father's portrait had been. Too bad he'd had all the portraits in the gallery burned and replaced with scenes of nude oil wrestlers.

Accioing a bottle of Arctic Ichor vodka and a glass, Draco downed a shot and sprawled against the white-and-gold brocaded couch. The skirts of his coat settled in elegant swathes against the cushions, as they always did. Crossing his booted ankles, he rolled the crystal shot glass in his fingers and surveyed the cavernous drawing room, from the mother-of-pearl inlaid walls to the shimmering gold drapes framing a glum April sky. Elegance and serenity, Draco thought; an impeccable stillness barely ruffled by the fire's crackling flames.

An impeccable stillness...

Staring into the marble fireplace, listening to the restrained pop and hiss of the wood, Draco wondered if he'd still need fires in August.

He reached for the vodka.

Before he could pour himself another shot, a knock sounded on the ten-foot-tall door. When Draco called, "Come in!" a house-elf in a damasked linen napkin pushed the door open.

"Master Draco, sir, there's someone to see you, sir."

Well, since the wards hadn't warned Draco and the visitor had not apparently been eaten by the shrubbery, it must be Pansy's photographer, the only visitor scheduled for the day. Setting aside the shot glass, Draco pushed up from the couch and straightened his coat.

"Oh, sir, pardon me, sir..." The house-elf darted over, removed a minuscule scrap of lint from the forest-green velvet, then cast a swift eye over the rest of Draco's clothes.

"Well, Minty?"

"Perfect, sir."

"Of course. Bring in the photographer. And all of you keep an eye on the valuables."

"Yes sir, of course, sir." Bowing backwards, the elf scuttled away.

As Draco went to lean picturesquely against the gold-shot fireplace columns, he heard voices approaching. Minty's voice was followed by a voice only slightly lower, punctuated by the little metallic clicks of the camera lens. Draco made a mental note to go through every last frame of film before letting the photographer leave; there were too many things in the Manor he had no desire to share with the rest of the world.

The voices got louder as they neared the drawing room, until Draco could make out the words. The photographer's voice sounded vaguely familiar...

"...I say, brilliant painting, there. Is that an Offenclump?" Click. "I've always admired how he can make faces appear in the rainclouds, if you look long enough. Do the cloud-people ever go and visit the other portraits? Or would the other portraits rather they not, since they'd get everything wet? Would they make the paint run? Though perhaps they would lose their shape if they left their own background," the voice mused. "I guess that would make it difficult to go visiting. Unless they're somewhat akin to ghosts? Can wizarding paint recreate ghosts?"

"Well, sir, I--"

"I say, what a spendid urn. Malachite?" Click. "I've heard that malachite makes an excellent spellstone, because of the banding. Do you suppose--"

As Minty tried to get a word in edgewise, Draco frowned, trying to connect the photographer's voice with a face. Or rather, make a connection that made actual sense. Because it couldn't possibly be...

"Oh! Look at that statue! What an amazing pose!" Click. Pause. "...I didn't know statues could do that. Rather rude, isn't it?"

Sweet Merlin, Draco thought. Could it really be--

"It doesn't like being looked at, sir," Minty explained, pushing open the massive door and preceeding the photographer into the room. "Here we are, sir. Master Malfoy, sir, this is--"

"Colin bloody Creevey," Draco pre-empted the elf, pushing away from the fireplace and narrowing his eyes. It was. It really effing was. Colin bloody Gryffindor Creevey. Draco couldn't believe it. Last he'd heard, Colin was...indisposed, and likely to remain so. Obviously someone had finally found a way to reverse the situation.

The question was, why had anyone bothered?

Eyes still crannied, Draco scanned Colin up and down, from the plain blue robes (shrubbery-nibbled around the hem) to the floppy chestnut hair, from the irritatingly cheerful grin to the profusion of cameras apparently vying for the privilege of strangling him (Draco could sympathize). Colin looked like an overenthusiastic muggle tourist, and all of about sixteen years old. Though considering his situation for the past three years, the latter wasn't too surprising. "Who finally figured out how to bring you back, then?" Draco demanded.

"Hermione." Colin grinned, snapping a picture of Draco with a flash that made Draco see stars. "About a month ago. You didn't hear?"

"Granger and I aren't exactly boon companions," Draco said. "So." He pushed away from the fireplace. "How did you enjoy being a teakettle, then?"

"Don't remember a thing about it." Colin shrugged, snapping another picture and glancing about with obvious interest. "Last thing I remember was that first battle with the Death Eaters at Hogwarts, and the hex hitting my camera. Lucky I'd put those protections on it. Though I didn't quite expect it to rebound on me like that," he added thoughtfully, changing cameras and unscrewing the lens cap.

"But I guess it was a good thing it did," he added as he focused back in on Draco. "Hermione told me I was their best undercover agent of the whole war. Except for you, of course," he added as the flash went off again.

"How kind of you to say so," Draco said, rubbing his eyes. "So nice to know that my charming encounters with slavering cerberean hounds and sadistic feral werewolves rate slightly above the efforts of a copper teakettle scene-recording device. At least I know my scars were not in vain."

"They're wonderful scars," Colin agreed, zooming in for a close-up of the one across Draco's cheek. "At least, the ones I can see. And speaking of, I'm sure our readers would like to see more," he added hopefully, lowering his camera. "It'd send circulation through the roof. Perhaps if you could just take off--"

"No," Draco growled. His eyes slitted, watching Colin's trying to see through the layers of velvet and brocade. He made another mental note to check the cameras for pervideo charms. "I can't believe that Pansy sent you to take the photos for the article," he said.

"Oh, she didn't." Colin dragged his covetous gaze away from Draco's well-covered chest. "She had somebody else lined up, but I'm big news too, you see. And since Venefica just stole me away from Witch Weekly, they figured that an article about you illustrated with my photos would give them a double scoop. Smile!"

Colin snapped another picture, and Draco glared. "That bloody rag would hire a bloody Gryffindor teakettle," he muttered. He thought for a brief moment about what tea brewed in kettle-Colin might have tasted like, and shuddered. "Is this going to take long?" he demanded.

"Why, do you have someplace to be?" Colin framed a long shot of the drawing room. "Or do you have guests coming over? Are you hosting a ball? Do you have a staff photographer? I could clear my schedule, if you'd like. And I'd give you a discount, you being a fellow war hero and all." He flipped a card out of his sleeve. Instantly two marble gargoyles launched themselves off their pedestals and swooped stonily down upon him. Seizing the card, they shredded it into confetti, which exploded in a shower of orange sparks.

Draco, feeling a smile at the back of his throat, prepared to offer an insincere apology. When he looked at Colin, though, Draco found him clicking away at the gargoyles as they returned to their perches. "Brilliant," Colin breathed. "Was that your own spell? Or did they come pre-enchanted? My mother," he confided, "has a stuffed goldfish that's enchanted to sing 'Even Merlin Wore an Ulster When He Went Flying in the Rain' whenever anyone said the word 'marmot,' because when she was little everyone at her school called her marmot and she just hated it."

The fact that Draco had absolutely no response to this didn't matter in the least, because Colin didn't pause long enough for comment. "You see," he went on, pausing to change cameras and focus in on the braided frogging of Draco's coat, "they made up a song about her that went sort of like, 'Charlotte the marmot poos in her pants,' which was based on an unfortunate incident with some invisible chocolate pudding that became visible when it touched cloth, and it somehow got on her chair one day, and then there was the song, and now whenever anyone says 'marmot' she can't stop remembering it, so she charmed the fish."

Draco put a hand to his head.

"Lovely!" Colin approved, shooting away. "The hero recalling his trials."

"No 'recall' about it," Draco muttered, but Colin was gazing back at the room.

"This is a very impressive room," he said, peering more closely at the inlaid walls. "Were these done by magic, or the muggle way? I hear that the muggle way is coming back in fashion, since it takes so much longer," he added, photographing an iridescent swirl of shell. "Though I have heard that some people are training house-elves in master crafts, so they don't have to pretend to be muggles themselves if they have in muggle workmen. Are you training your house-elves to inlay shell?"

"Didn't you say you had to be somewhere soon?" Draco suggested, feeling his headache grow. Merlin, he was going to kill Pansy. And all the editors at Venefica. That should get them a scoop.

"No, I reserved the whole day just for you." Colin grinned, pushing a thick lock of hair out of his eyes. "Since this is such a rare opportunity, Venefica is sparing no expense."

"How thoughtful of them."

Colin indicated the sweep of the room. "So, is this your own design, or your mother's? I hear that you made extensive changes when you inherited, but this seems--"

"Do you ever shut up?" Draco broke in, feeling a vein throbbing in his temple.

Colin considered, using an imp-meter to check the light level from the windows ("Gloomy as the lice in my mother's toes," declared the imp.). Colin changed his flash. "Well, I suppose I can," he said, somewhat doubtfully, "but I find it relaxes my subjects to hear some friendly chatter. I get more natural poses that way. Could you just lean against that column, there?"

"By 'natural' I assume you mean 'intensely annoyed,'" Draco said, leaning against the marble without his usual grace.

"Oh, I never pay any attention to that," Colin said with a laugh. "Life's too short and all that. Can we go get a shot of you in your lab, now?"

Draco frowned. "Pansy never said she wanted pictures in the lab."

"It's not up to her what pictures I take," Colin said with a shrug. "She's just the writer. Venefica said to get as many as I could. I told you they were sparing no expense. People want to know about you, after all," he added with a cheerful smile, "and this is the first time you've agreed to a photo shoot at the Manor."

And the last, Draco thought grimly, striding towards the door. Blast Pansy, anyway. She'd better make enough off this to stop sponging off him, because as of now, she was cut off. And those poison rings could just stay in the vault along with the Goyle diamond-slug collection.

He had the feeling that this would be a very long day.

* * *

Draco's fears were well-founded. Going into raptures over the lab (and failing to get Draco out of his coat for a "working candid"), Colin then wanted to see the conservatory and the new greenhouses. Unfazed by a Venus shutterflytrap nearly eating his largest camera and a python vine trying unobtrusively to coil about his legs ("Try harder next time," Draco murmured to it as they passed, and it ruffled its leaves at him), he tried to get Draco to take off his coat and do a little replanting. Failing again, Colin noticed that the new Quidditch pitch was visible from the greenhouses, so of course then he wanted a shot of Draco with his collection of vintage brooms (chattering nonstop about his favorite team, the Teaselside Trebuchets, famous for the black-pepper shortbread they sold to finanace the club, along with t-shirts featuring a snitch being sneezed out of a trebuchet). He then wanted a shot of Draco flying dangerously between the goal hoops, which would of course have entailed an entire change of clothes.

Luckily for Colin, rain started falling before Draco could hex him to Madagascar, and they returned to the house for a tour of the dauntingly-impressive state rooms. As they traversed the dining room, the morning room, the music room, the study, the game room, the second drawing room, the ladies' drawing room, the ballroom, the library, and the collection room (among others), Colin snapped blissfully away and chattered to all the portraits about his mother's favorite Thomas Kinkade reproduction, done in wizarding paint so it continuously radiated pink and purple light to such an extent that they never had to use candles or lamps in that room at all. In fact, they had to throw a cover over the painting at night or no one would be able to sleep for the kaleidoscopic whirl of light and the buzzing of the fairies.

The portrait subjects stared at Draco as he passed by after Colin, and he just rolled his eyes back at them. He could feel the rooms' pre-set hexes and charms rustling in the back of his mind, restrained only by his presence, and manfully resisted the temptation to set a few of them loose. His fingers fairly itched for his wand, but the only time he actually drew it was when Colin stepped on the one aventurine square in the central hall that instantly flipped up and would have sent the photographer down a chute into the dungeons had Draco not caught him with magic and set him back on his feet.

"I keep forgetting about that tile," Draco said. "It's been there since the Manor was built, so I walk around it without thinking about it." He didn't apologize.

"Crude, but effective," Colin said with a nod, taking yet more photos. He glanced up at Draco. "Upstairs, now? Bedrooms?"

"If you would like to be hexed to Madagascar," Draco said, gritting his teeth as his headache, which had been growing all afternoon, twisted its blade a little deeper. He'd have to take a potion as soon as he sent Colin off.

"Picture gallery?" Colin substituted hopefully. "I understand you've removed most of the family paintings, but a photo of you with the blank walls would be--"

"Insipid, exploitative, maudlin--"

"Profitable." Colin smiled. "Look, we both know this is all rot, but I'd've thought you'd get a perverse kick out of it. I mean, it is rather funny, isn't it?"

Draco shot him a look. "If you know it's rot, why the hell do you bother?" he challenged. "You being a 'war hero' and all that, you should be able to take whatever photos you want, not sell your soul for this sort of journalistic sugar quills."

Fiddling with his camera, Colin didn't look at Draco. "War heros still have to pay the bills," he said lightly. "And besides, I consider it a challenge; making an art out of journalistic sugar quills. Besides, when else would I ever get to see the inside of Malfoy Manor?" he added, brown eyes once more laughing as he looked back at Draco.

"Never," Draco said. "Fine. It's your soul after all." He turned towards the sweeping linen-granite stairs. "Gallery. But I warn you, you won't get any photos worth printing."

"I do enjoy a challenge." Colin grinned, trailing behind. "Did I tell you about the time--"

"Yes," Draco cut him off. "And about the time when, and the time before that, and the time after that."

"I suppose I do need some new stories," Colin agreed, pausing to admire the carvings on the granite balusters. A granite lizard flicked its tongue at him. "Being a teakettle for three years, though, kind of puts a damper on the adventures. Or at least remembering them."

"How sad." Draco pushed away memories of his own wartime 'adventures.' His head throbbed in time with the hexes bound into the tapestries.

At length they reached the vast picture gallery, stretching nearly the full length of the Manor. Grey rainlight softened the air, muting the brilliant colors of the semi-precious stones used as floor tiles and making all the oil-wrestlers in the photos sleepy. They roused themselves on hearing footsteps, though, and Draco felt his headache slip slightly looser as they grinned and waved, tangling themselves into impossibly lewd positions and flexing their gleaming muscles.

Draco found himself smiling back at them. Without glancing at Colin, he said, "Well? What do you think of my improvements, then?"

For once, Colin said not a word, and Draco heard no click of the lens. By Merlin's beard. It had taken nude male oil wrestlers, but he had finally shut Colin Creevey up. Aftor savoring the silence a moment, he turned, and found Colin staring at the life-size paintings. The nearest wrestlers laughed and waggled their brows at him. "Wish you could join in, pretty boy?" one of them said, tightening his grip on his partner's thigh. The sleek muscles flexed beneath his fingers.

"You really should try it," agreed the partner, sliding a hand behind the first figure and doing something that made the figure jump. With gleefully bared teeth, the first figure wrestled his partner to the floor in a lascivious puzzle of limbs.

"So, you think Venefica's readers would appreciate a shot of this?" Draco smirked, folding his arms over his frock coat.

Colin pressed a hand to his red cheek. "I..." Wrenching his eyes from the photo, he turned to Draco. "So...you really are..."

And all at once, Draco understood.

Understood Colin's seeming obsession with his scars, with getting him to take anything off, with keeping Draco talking about nothing for hours on end and taking endless photos of Draco's velvet and rings.

Without thinking, Draco whipped out his wand and locked Colin into a full-body bind. A silencio took care of his tongue, and Draco found himself wishing he'd done that hours ago. "Minty!" he bellowed, and the house-elf apparated into the gallery with a hasty bow.

"Master Draco needs something?"

"Mr. Creevey is leaving," Draco told her. "Go with him, and do not let his cameras or film out of your sight until everything has been developed and brought back to me. Check the cameras for charms, especially pervideo. Report anything you find. Reset the wards."

"Yes, Master Draco," Minty said.

Draco cast one narrowing glance at Colin. "If he objects to anything, obliviate him."

Colin's eyes were wide and frozen.

Draco addressed him. "You're lucky this is all I'm doing. For now. You should know better than to try to take advantage of someone who's been through a real war, Creevey."

And with that, he disapparated, leaving Colin alone with the house-elf, the oil-wrestlers, and the hexes wrought into the gilded picture frames.