hackthis_archive | it's fucking cold in the deep end (first HP drabble)

rosenho listened to me freak out today about my inability to meet my CM’s writing capabilities. when I finally realized that maybe I just needed practice, she told me to write this.

me and my big fucking mouth.

edited at 5:54pm: ethrosdemon and i are collaborating on this - if we don't kill each other first. should be fun.

The First Key

He’s spent the last five minutes assaulting his mouth fervently, rubbing away the skin of his bottom lip with the back of his hand and acting like that was the worst experience of his life. It’s lie, but Draco’s used to lying. He’s used to hating without explanation and turning on a Sickle.

His entire life, Draco’s been told to hate Mudbloods simply because of who they are, what they are. The pollution in their veins and the marriages they’ve chosen that sully the wizarding bloodlines. It’s a natural dislike, inbred, something there’s never been any reason for him to consider. Second guessing and the like require further investigation, looking for reasons of hatred. But generalized hatred doesn’t depend on singling out one, it’s an all-encompassing dislike of a whole.

Granger is a Mudblood.

He hates her – at least he thinks he does. He knows he supposed to, but there’s a rather fine line between hatred, and something else, even if Draco refuses to think about the other side of this line. It was just a kiss, just something silly and stupid. A spell gone wrong, too many people in a hallway, and now there’s detention to serve and gossip which will surely reach the malevolent ears of his father.

There’s an owl flying over England somewhere with his name on it, there are quite possibly two or more. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if his father had Peeves on his payroll. Nothing would surprise Draco at this rate. If Harry Potter came dancing into the Slytherin dormitory and announced that he had joined the Dark Lord himself, Draco wouldn’t blink twice.

He’s already kissed Hermione Granger today; things can’t possibly become stranger than that. Draco’s life can’t possibly go further down the privy, he’d bet his next weekend as Hogsmeade on it.

Except there’s a voice - not coming from the portrait on the wall - that’s telling Draco that that would be a foolhardy bet. That no one should make a bet when they’re not certain they’re going to win, when they suspect that they’re going to lose.

Losing a bet of this calibre would cost Draco more than a few Galleons. It would cost him his name, his future, everything that he’s spent the last several years building for himself as a Slytherin.

And then he would have to deal with her friends.

Absolutely not.

No one is worth daily dealings with Potter and Weasley, and besides it was only a kiss. As long as he keeps telling himself that, he’ll be able to convince everyone else as well. Self-deception is the first key, and he’ll be expecting a Howler at dinner this evening.