Just an earth-bound misfit

Yuletide Letter

mizbean — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 10:50:23 GMT

Dear Yuletide writer,

Thank you so much for agreeing to write for me.

A few words about what I don't like: I'm not a fan of really dark fics: gore, torture, excessive violence. Bloodplay, in particular, is a big squick of mine. I also only enjoy fluff sparingly. That's not to say I don't like romance or happy endings. But I do prefer a more realistic look at romantic relationships. Please, no excessive character bashing (going above and beyond what's already described in canon).

What I do like: Dialog, banter, realism, character studies, wit, hopeful endings, workplace relationships, and friendship.
I'm open to all ratings. Don't feel you have to write something porny if it's out of your comfort level. However, if you should so desire, I like foreplay, light bondage, kissing, frottage, blowjobs and cunnilingus. Also, blushing is a big kink of mine, especially when the character is trying something new.

"Mad Men"

Betty Draper. I'm saddened on how villainized her character has become, and I'm really rooting for her to grow as a character. Maybe a fic as a character study, or an examination of her life prior to Don… her hopes and dreams, perhaps? Or a future fic?

Peggy Olsen is my hero. I loved watching the journey she's made from a secretary to a copywriter. I also find her relationship with Pete Campbell so absorbing. I do ship them, but a ship fic isn't necessary. I also adore Peggy and Don's working relationship. I don't necessarily ship them per se, but I love their friendship and bond, especially after watching this last season. Fics examining either of those two relationships would be lovely. I'm not picky about ratings. Neither need to be romantic either.

"Arrested Development"

I just started watching this crazy show. I love it. I'm sorry I don't have a specific prompt for you, but any fic written in the spirit of the show would be welcome.

"Game of Thrones"

I'd love a character study or a fic about Cersei Lannister. Keep in mind this is supposed to be Game of Thrones-centric. So no spoilers. I've also only read through the end of Storm of Swords.

Or maybe a fic about Sansa. I know some people find her selfish and immature, but she just seems like a typical kid to me. It's kinda why I'm rooting for her.

Or maybe more conversations between Tyrion and Jon on their journey north to the Wall.

Best, mizBean

Feel free to leave me an anon comment if you have any questions!

Thank you!!!

mizbean — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 15:37:39 GMT

A little bird told me that some of you left some nice comments about me on a Harry/Draco love meme. I'm really touched, guys. Thank you!!

♥ ♥ ♥

In other news, I finally watched Inception last night and promptly fell asleep about 30 minutes in. I don't know if it was the quality of the movie or the quality of my drink, but I was hella confused when I woke up and tried to watch the rest of the movie. I will say that Joseph Gordon-Levitt ~~is hot~~ has grown up quite nicely.

So, I have embarrassingly gotten myself addicted to playing my son's Lego Star Wars Wii game. I started off helping him solve some of the puzzles and now I'm playing it by myself after he goes to bed. Apparently, I'm an eight-year-old boy! Has anyone tried the Lego Harry Potter game?

Yuletide fic: A Winter's Night (Gaiman, Graveyard Book)

mizbean — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 19:13:55 GMT

I've been in a fannish malaise lately. I haven't been doing a lot of reading or writing or commenting *sorry about that*, but I did sign up for yuletide this year. I was lucky to get assigned The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman, a book I found so charming.

This is a short little gen fic centered on a snowy winter's night when Bod was about 10 years old. Written for ravenbell.

Title: A Winter's Night
Characters: Nobody "Bod" Owens, Silas, Lisa Hempstock
Summary: A snapshot of the old graveyard on a cold, snowy night.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Word Count: 1,500
Author's Notes: Written for yuletide 2010.

A Winter's Night

The witch, Liza Hempstock, rose in the gloaming of a cold winter's night. A storm was brewing. Snow swirling, the wind so fierce it might have sent a chill down to her bones if she were still indeed among the living. But the witch was dead and could no more feel the cold than taste sticky sweet honey on her tongue. To the dead, the weather Was What It Was. No more consequential than the snow drifting under Liza's feet.

Still, her mouth turned downward, for she hadn't seen this much snow fall upon the old graveyard in nigh a century. While that meant most of its residents would choose to stay tucked into their tombs and caskets (good riddance, she thought), it meant the Living Boy, Nobody Owens, was unlikely to come visiting.

Not that Liza cared a whit about the boy. She had been getting along quite all right on her own, thank you very much. But even she could admit the prospect of not seeing him was disappointing.

She Faded near where the apple tree grew. She was used to disappointment.

+++

Mistress Owens fussed. "You'll catch your death," she said. She rued they had no food stored in their crypt Just In Case.

"But I've got to eat," said the boy, quite reasonably. He looked up at his father.

"You'll listen to your mother," Mr. Owens said, for he came from a time before Gore-tex and Thinsulate, when merely a cold draft could confine someone to their sickbed.

But he was determined to go outside. Nobody Owens, or Bod as his friends called him, pointed to his hooded jacket. "It's waterproof," he said, as he laced up his boots. "I won't freeze." Bod may have been granted Freedom of the Graveyard, and with it some ghostly resistance to the elements, his caretaker, Silas, had brought him the heavy coat and insulated boots all the same. Perhaps, he had anticipated the Owens' reservations.

Mistress Owens looked skeptical as she eyed Bod's shiny new navy blue parka. She shook her head and said, "no."

"But, it's snowing!" Bod exclaimed, his normally grave expression breaking into a boyish grin.

Mistress Owens may be a ghost, but she had a heart. She began to waver. The Owens crypt was cozy and warm, as cozy and warm as a crypt could be, but she knew in a matter of minutes Bod would drive them all to distraction. He was a boy after all. A boy who needed to eat and breathe fresh air. A boy who needed to run and climb and live. "Owens?" she said, gazing sideways at her husband.

"You'll wear a hat. And you won't be long," said Mr. Owens.

+++

The entire graveyard was carpeted in white. Here and there, a tall headstone broke through the snow, frost-covered tree branches drooped and all was quiet.

By now the worst of the storm had past, and what Bod saw as he slowly navigated his way through the snow was less of a flurry than a soft shower of snowflakes fluttering aimlessly to the ground. For a moment, he stood pondering them as he watched them fall, and with a shiver he caught one on his tongue. His stomach growled in protest, and Bod knew he should be getting along. He had promised not to linger, so he journeyed onward, still marveling at the view, when he suddenly took a tumble.

He had tripped over a headstone, hidden in a snow drift, and landed on his hands and knees. Bod pulled off one his mittens and shook it loose of snow. His breath gusted white as he blew on his fingers.

"My dear boy. You are on my foot."

"Mr. Trot," said Bod, scrambling to his feet. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

Nehemiah Trot, the graveyard's resident poet (1741-1774, Swans Sing Before They Die), regarded him, his ghostly visage hardly visible against the swirling white. "You're the Living Boy. How are thee doing, this wintery night?"

"Very well, thank you," replied Bod.

"'Tis a beautiful sight," Trot mused. "I know! I shall write a sonnet. 'To a Winter's Night.'"

Bod thought it was a marvelous idea and told him so.

But the poet was too busy ruminating to hear him. "Oh, glorious sight, this winter's night. The snow…" He wandered away.

Bod continued on to the old chapel. Once inside, Bod stomped his feet, trying to shake the snow from his boots. He found Silas waiting for him in the shadows.

"Nasty weather," Silas said.

"If you say so," said Bod.

Silas was silent for a moment, which often was his way. "Of course," he said at last. "I have brought you something to eat." He handed Bod a paper sack.

Bod peered inside. He pushed aside the ham sandwich and pulled out a Styrofoam cup filled with something warm and pried off its lid. The steaming scent of something sweet and decadent filled the air. Bod hardly spared a glance at the cup's contents, a murky brown liquid with bits of smudgy white floating on top, and took a deep swallow, scalding his tongue

"Careful," said Silas, watching Bod sputter and wipe his mouth.

Bod nodded and took another tentative sip. He sighed. It tasted like nothing Bod had ever tried before. It even tasted better than the candy floss Silas brought him last summer, when a fair had happened nearby.

"It's called hot chocolate," offered Silas. "I never had occasion to try it myself but the woman who works at the cafe assured me it would be perfect on a night such as this."

"It is. It's wonderful," Bod agreed. "Silas?" Bod's expression turned serious.

"Yes?"

Bod wasn't sure how to express what he wanted to say. "I'm… ah…"

"It's my pleasure," said Silas.

Bod reddened. He had a moustache of chocolate on his upper lip. "Do you sometimes wish--"

"I was still human?"

Bod nodded.

"Always."

+++

The snow had finally stopped, leaving such a stillness that it wouldn't be too much of an exaggeration for Bod to think he were the very last person left alive. But he knew he was not truly alone, and ever the obedient child, Bod started making his way back toward the Owens tomb.

He made it as far as the Egyptian Walk when something cold and hard and wet smacked him on the back of his head.

Bod spun around. "Hey," he cried, ducking in the nick of time as another snowball sailed over his head.

Thackeray Porringer, young graveyard malcontent (1720-1734, son of the above), hooted with laughter. "Easy mark," he hollered.

Bod grabbed a fistful of snow.

+++

The branches of the apple tree at Potters Field sagged under the weight of the snow. Bod paused only briefly before springing into action. He had managed to roll a good-sized ball of snow when he heard a voice in his ear.

"What pray tell is this?"

Bod saw Liza watching him. She somehow managed an expression that was both curious and bored. Bod thought it was a look well suited to her.

"A snowman," said Bod, pleased.

"Why?"

"Why not?" said Bod. Liza walked behind him as he rolled a second ball of snow.

"It seems silly."

"Then why are you following me around for?"

Liza huffed at him. "I'm not." But she helped Bod push the final ball of snow for the snowman's head into place.

They paused then to stare at their creation. Above their heads, the clouds dispersed to reveal the white circle of the moon.

"It doesn’t look like a man at all," Liza said at long last breaking the silence. "Where's his arms? Where's his face?"

Bod didn't have a carrot stick or coal but he walked over to the apple tree and tore off two branches. He stuck them into each side of the snowman. "Better?" he asked.

Liza was silent. "Hat," she said after a moment's time. "He should wear a hat."

Bod pulled off his hat and placed it on top of the snowman's head. He glanced at Liza.

The corner of Liza's mouth tilted upward. "Better," she declared.

+++

It was very late when Bod had at last slipped back into the Owens' cozy tomb. He ignored his parent's admonishments as he peeled off his coat and heavy boots and slid into bed. He was bone tired, but satisfied.

It had been a good night.

+++

Dawn came to the village that surrounded the old graveyard on the hill. Plows scraped the snow from the streets as shovels attacked the walkways. A car started up, and then another as the Living World awoke and went about their business. Shopkeepers threw open their front doors, but the council would not come to unlock the cemetery gates today. No one in their right mind would want to wander the old graveyard after such a storm.

'Tis a pity, for they would find a snowman, dressed in a jaunty knit hat, standing guard over Potters Field. It would stay there until thaw.

It proved to be a very Gaiman yuletide for me as my gift was written in his Stardust verse. If you haven't had the chance, please read An Instant of Understanding by the loupe. A charming and romantic ficlet about Una of Stormhold and Dunstan Thorne's reconciliation.

Yuletide rec and Merry Christmas

mizbean — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 22:51:43 GMT

I truly hope to everyone who celebrates Christmas that it was all you wished for.

We're spending the holiday with my mom this year, which means it's a little quieter than usual, but you'll find no complaints about that from me. The roast is in the oven, my husband is hooking up the new Wii, my son is playing with a large, empty box, and my daughter is reading (♥).

I also got a wonderful gift this morning when my yuletide gift was posted. The fandom is Stardust by Neil Gaiman, and it's a romantic gem of a fic describing Una of Stormhold and Dunston Thorn's reconciliation. I know Stardust is all about Tristin and Yvaine, but I found Una and Dunston's story more interesting, maybe because I'm closer to their age. I'm a hopeless romantic and this just pushed all my buttons. And it's exactly what I asked for too.

An Instant of Understanding.
Dunstan had once hoped, although never truly expected, that he would see her again. He focused on Tristan instead, even though every day seemed to bring another reminder of Una. His laugh, his smile... Especially his smile. Truly, he was his mother's son. And yet...

Here they were, the both of them.

Una of Stormhold/Dunstan Thorn (1,045 words) Unrated but probably a G.

Yuletide Letter

mizbean — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 22:24:05 GMT

Dear Yuletide writer,

First of all, I apologize for not getting this letter up sooner. I've been suffering from a bad cold, and I'm still a bit feverish so bear with me if I don't totally make sense. Second of all, thank you so much for agreeing to write something for me.

A few words about what I don't like: I'm not a fan of really dark fics: gore, torture, excessive violence. Bloodplay, in particular, is a big squick of mine. I also only enjoy fluff sparingly. That's not to say I don't like romance or happy endings. But I do prefer a more realistic look at romantic relationships. Please, no excessive character bashing (going above and beyond what's already described in canon).

What I do like: Dialog, banter, realism, character studies, wit, hopeful endings, workplace relationships, and friendship.
I'm open to all ratings. Don't feel you have to write something porny if it's out of your comfort level. However, if you should so desire, I like foreplay, light bondage, kissing, frottage, blowjobs and cunnilingus. Also, blushing is a big kink of mine, especially when the character is trying something new.

"Mad Men"

I just started watching this series over the summer and I love it, so much so that I'd be ridiculously pleased with anything you should write.

Peggy Olsen is my hero. I loved watching the journey she's made from a secretary to a copywriter. I also find her relationship with Pete Campbell so absorbing. I do ship them, but a ship fic isn't necessary. I also adore Peggy and Don's working relationship. I don't necessarily ship them per se, but I love their friendship and bond, especially after watching this last season. (If you choose to ship Peggy and Don together in a fic, that's fine, but it's not necessary.) Fics examining either of those two relationships would be lovely. I'm not picky about ratings.

I've also become recently fascinated with Betty Draper's character. I've been saddened on how villain-ized her character has become in the last season, and I'm really rooting for her to grow as a character. Maybe a fic as a character study, or an examination of her life prior to Don… her hopes and dreams, perhaps? Or a future fic?

Also, feel free to incorporate other characters like Joan, Roger, Ken, etc.

"Stardust"

This is my daughter's favorite movie, and I've watched it many times. (I have not had chance to read the book yet.) What I find so appealing about this canon is the abashed romance and the keen sense of adventure. It's such a fun story.

I specified in my sign-up that I'd adore the story about Una and Dunstan, perhaps after they are reunited, but I would be pleased as punch with any fic in this fandom.

"Kafka on the Shore" by Haruki Murakami

I'm really interested in the character of Oshima, and I found myself shipping him with Kafka as I got farther into the book. I'd like to read a fic examining a future relationship between the two, shippy or otherwise.

A couple of alternatives.
- A fic examining Kafka and Sakura's relationship. Go as porny as you like. I kind of ship them even though I sense it may not be the healthiest relationship.
- Meeting Nakata was a life-changing event for Hoshino. What happens to him in the future (post-book).

Best, mizBean

Feel free to leave me an anon comment if you have any questions!

Harry/Draco LDWS Drabbles [R]

mizbean — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 18:08:43 GMT

I had the pleasure of participation in slythindor100's inaugural round of the Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing contest. The competition was fierce and I made through five rounds, but what I really enjoyed was writing again. Here is my collection of drabbles.

Title: Hate
Prompt: I hate that I want you. (I took first place on this round!)
Word Count: 292

Harry hates Malfoy. He hates him because he is cruel and cowardly, smug and sarcastic, defective and dangerous.

He hates Malfoy’s narrow gray eyes and his grasping, greedy hands. The way he grabs Harry by the collar and shoves him across the room, even though they are both WAY too old for this shit. The way they tumble over the furniture and land hard on the floor. The way Malfoy strips him bare. The way Harry never says no.

Harry hates the curl in Malfoy’s lip and the snarl in his voice and that Malfoy acts so desperate sometimes it hurts.

He hates the way Malfoy whimpers in his sleep.

Harry hates that Malfoy regards him like he is nothing more than a fool, a useless spec of dust, a body. But Harry knows better. (Harry hates that he knows this too.)

Harry hates that he can’t kick Malfoy out of bed, that he fries him breakfast in the morning, that Malfoy empties his cupboards of his sweets and jams. That his house feels so empty after he goes.

Harry hates the way Malfoy’s caustic words hurt more than they should, that he wishes the bruises that he finds dotting his body never fade, that he could forget.

But he thinks that he hates it most when Malfoy is agreeable, when the bed is warm and the flesh willing, and all Harry can think of is Draco, Draco, Draco. More, more, more. And please. And Draco says yes, yes, yes and Harry.

That’s when Harry thinks maybe, just maybe this might grow into something more. Maybe this could work.

But Harry knows better.

Harry hates Malfoy because it’s better than admitting the alternative -- that Malfoy is someone that he could love.

Title: Stay
Prompt: Fuck Me. Fix Me.
Word Count: 285

Draco couldn't move fast enough.

"Malfoy. Malfoy. Hey…"

Someone was screaming.

A sudden burst of light burned Draco's eyes just as a pair of arms reached around him and held him back, held him tight.

"Hey, hey. Calm down," a voice said into his ear.

Draco gasped, his chest pounding. “I can't. I need… to go. You don’t understand. He…" Draco stopped himself as he saw for the first time that he was lying atop a strange bed, sheets tangled around his bare legs. He caught his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, an electric lamp illuminating his terrified expression and the concerned face of the man holding him back.

Potter.

"Turn out the light," Draco snapped, flushing and turning away, remembering now that he had met Potter at The Leaky, both of them drinking more than they frankly should have and Potter coaxing him home. He never meant to sleep over. And now he had humiliated himself.

"You were dreaming," Potter said.

"Obviously." Draco wondered if he could still make a break for it, but faster than he could have imagined Potter had him turned around so they were now facing each other.

"Hey," Potter repeated, nudging Draco's chin up with his hand.

"Stop saying that." Draco wrenched his chin away. "And I said, turn out the fucking light. Wizards shouldn’t have electricity."

Potter smirked as he reached to turn off the lamp and scooted close again. For a panicked moment Draco thought he was going to be cuddled.

"You're shaking," Potter whispered. "I can fix that for you." His eyes gleamed in the dim light as he reached between Draco's legs. "Stay?"

Draco fell back against the sheets. "Stay," he agreed.

Title: Doomed
Prompt: You’re great in bed, but you’re still an arse.
Word Count: 200

They dress in silence. Harry pulls on his trousers and robes, buttoning them quickly, and makes one last ditch effort to smooth down his unruly hair before flying down the stairs. Draco takes longer but only just. Buckles are buckled, fasteners snapped. He pauses to adjust his collar and then he too is out the door. It slams behind him.

There are no endearments, no promises. Neither say goodbye.

Harry Floos to the Ministry and takes one look at his paperwork-strewn office and finally exhales. Seeking solace in his work, he sits down at his desk and picks up a quill. The memory of Draco, kneeling on his floor, bound and begging, accosts him immediately. His quill breaks. He remembers kissing Draco goodnight.

Draco returns to the Manor. He eats breakfast with his mother, buttering his toast while she chatters about marriage and duty. He sees the bruises on his wrists and his thoughts wander. How he fell asleep in Harry's arms.

He excuses himself.

He runs a hot bath, then a cold shower, and finally uncorks a bottle of Firewhisky and toasts to his doom…

For he knows, as surely as does Harry does, where he will be sleeping tonight.

Title: A Thin Line
Prompt: Enough with this.
Word Count: 250

They make a stunning pair. Dressed head to toe in black; his dark hair is clipped short and for once, neat. Her robes are the palest of blue, all the better to show off her creamy skin and red hair. They enter the ballroom to a chorus of flash bulbs. All eyes are on them.

::

Draco has Harry cornered in the garden. It's exactly the way Draco likes him, up against the wall, squirming and penitent. "You smell like her."

"Stop it. It's not what you think."

Like hell. "How short were her robes? Is she that desperate to keep you happy?"

That earns him a hard shove. "That's enough," Harry says. His robes are mussed and so is his hair. It's a small triumph, but it is something. "You know how it is."

Draco knows.

::

In a society where breeding is everything they make a very good match. Both thin and rich, no one can miss the diamond on her finger. There is a round of applause.

::

Harry wishes he were a better man. That he could keep his hands to himself and his mouth shut. "Do you love her?"

Draco's eyes are closed but that may have something to do with the hand pumping his cock. Harry presses closer. "I didn't hear you."

Now he has Draco's full attention. "Shut it, Potter."

"You give me shit, and you go and get yourself engaged."

"That's enough!" Draco's mouth is a thin line. "You know how it is."

Harry knows.

Title: A Way With Words
Prompt: Forgive me, heal me.
Word Count: 449

Harry thought it was appropriately melodramatic the way it was raining buckets on the day he stood on Draco's doorstep to ~~beg~~ ask his way back into Draco's life. A gust of wind turned Harry's umbrella inside out and his anti-rain charms proved just as useless. Harry was sure Draco put wards in place just to torment him. Draco never did anything by halves.

The door finally swung open. The house-elf took one long look at Harry and did not budge. Of course not.

Harry put on his game face. "Draco Malfoy. Please."

"Is Master Draco expecting you?"

They both knew the answer. Master Draco was not expecting him.

Harry was sure he would be in for a long, soggy wait when the house-elf stepped aside. Harry thought he heard the words be careful fall from his lips.

Harry found Draco in the drawing room. His legs primly crossed, he was sitting on an old-fashioned-looking settee, the fingers of his right hand drumming a fierce rhythm on the upholstered arm. Harry wanted to take that hand and…

"You're dripping all over my mother's prized Persian rug."

So he was. Harry looked regretfully down at the puddle under his feet before replying, "There's a reason why I'm here."

Draco looked grim. "It better be good."

"Yes," Harry said, and he paused. This was the first time he had seen the inside Draco's London home, such a visit certainly OFF LIMITS. As if Harry wasn't already on shaky ground. "I'm not good with words."

"I'm not good with waiting."

"Heh," Harry said, and before he could stop himself he was straddling Draco, holding him down.

Draco squirmed and bared his teeth. "So this is why you're here."

"No." There was a row of tiny buttons running down the front of Draco's robes, buttons that were surely there to taunt Harry. With shaking hands, he managed to open four, baring Draco's pale throat. He bent down, pressing his lips against the tender skin, suckling it in.

Draco arched beneath him. "Liar." But he was hard. Harry could feel Draco's erection pressing against his thigh.

Harry bit back a groan and forced himself to stop thrusting back. "Draco, I mean it." He sat up in an effort to create some distance. "That's not why I'm here." But how he wanted Draco. Right now. Stripped bare and open. He felt a little dizzy, words spilling from his mouth. "I can't live without you. I'm sorry. I --"

"Keep talking." But Draco's hand had started to do miraculous things inside Harry's trousers. Harry moaned.

"Potter, you came all over my mother's prized Victorian settee."

Harry swatted him on the head. "You talk too much."

Harry/Draco LDWS Round Four

mizbean — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 22:01:27 GMT

There's still a few hours left to vote in the latest round Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing contest. This week's prompt is Enough with this.... There's angst o'plenty, but I'm sure it's all part of the mod's evil plan to reward us with a happy ending down the road.

There are only six drabble to choose from. Vote here! Polls close at midnight G.M.T.

I have a new obsession. Mad Men!

I'm midway through season two. I can't stop watching. I've worked in advertising for many years, and my mother was a secretary at a large Manhattan ad firm between 1962-1965 (she quit after she got married). One of her room-mates was even a model. Now I want to sit her down and see if she has any good stories.

HD LDWS Round 3

mizbean — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 22:09:11 GMT

There's still time to vote in this week's round of Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing! Prompt is “You’re great in bed, but you’re still an arse.”

Go here to vote. Polls close in just under two hours (midnight G.M.T.).

Your rainbow is intensely shaded red, orange, and violet.

What is says about you: You are a creative person. You appreciate energetic people. You get bored easily and want friends who will keep up with you. Others are amazed at how you don't give up.

Find the colors of your rainbow at spacefem.com.

I have the attention span of a gnat, which is why I never seem to finish anything, but I'm pretty laid back regarding my friends. So I'm half-and-half about this result. I do like the color orange though.

Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing -- Round Two

mizbean — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 19:07:20 GMT

There's still time to vote for the second round of Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing. Ten writers are participating (including yours truly), and two will be eliminated, but I guess the tally is very close and they could use more votes.The drabbles are only between 200 - 299 words, so if you have a spare 10-15 minutes to read and vote, please do so. Voting ends at midnight tonight GMT. (For those of you in North America that will be 7:00 p.m. C.S.T.)

Go here. Prompt is Fuck Me. Fix Me.

H/D LDWS Round 1

mizbean — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 03:11:52 GMT

Eeee! I threw my hat into the ring for the inaugural Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing contest and I won the first round. I'm pretty psyched and surprised. It was a very close contest. All the drabbles submitted were impressive.

You can read my drabble and the other participating drabbles here.

Heh

mizbean — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 04:20:13 GMT

I usually don't post memes, but this result was too good to pass up.

I write like
J. K. Rowling

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Speaking of writing, I spent an hour and a half writing longhand over the weekend. I NEVER do that. In fact, whenever I tried to write longhand in the past I end up doing more doodling than writing. But I wasn't near a computer, and I was bored and inspired. (Since I didn't have a computer, I also wasn't distracted. Hmmm... That may have had a lot to do with it.) Anyway, the fic isn't finished, and I still have to transcribe what I have, but I was pretty proud of myself nonetheless. It's the first thing I've written since hd_holidays.

eta: I've plugged in a few more of my stories. So far it tells me my HP fics are written like JKR, my Bleach fics are written like Stephen King, and a cover letter I plugged in just for yuks said Dan Brown.

mizbean — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 16:08:01 GMT

Seeing this picture reminds me, even though the 90s are long gone, I still can't bring myself quit Bill. And Carlos Bocanegra? *yum*

Anyway, go USA!

mizbean — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 16:06:14 GMT

Sorry for the spam. Twitter's down...

I'm crying right now. I'm so happy. #USA.

mizbean — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 18:15:12 GMT

Guys, the USA vs. England game starts in 15 minutes. I AM SO EXCITE!!!

Um... Hi!

mizbean — Sun, 23 May 2010 17:46:20 GMT

I know, it's been since January since I posted. Sorry:-) I've been busy, then my computer died, and then, you know... fandom becomes a misty, watercolor memory.

But the last episode of Lost is on tonight, and that's something to celebrate.

Which brings me to my next thought. I just read this article about Kate Austin. While I agree with most of it, I never got the Kate hate that permeates Lost fandom. But I never fell in love with her either. Ultimately, her character was just a big disappointment for me. A wasted opportunity. What do you think?

View Poll: #1568470

I will say, I HATE the triangle. I never liked Sawyer with Kate. Never liked Jack with Kate. And if Sawyer doesn't find Juliet in the sideways universe and have that cup of coffee, THERE WILL BE BLOOD.

HP Fic: Mr. Brightside [Harry/Draco, NC-17]

mizbean — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 21:32:34 GMT

hd_holidays reveals were yesterday, so now I can properly own up to my rather silly contribution, and thank ghot for her amazing artwork, Red Wall.

Title: Mr. Brightside
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: In which Harry gets drunk and wanders into Knockturn Alley, and that's only the beginning.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Aside from a few dumb jokes, none really.
Epilogue compliant? Epilogue? pffft.
Word Count: 7,800
Beta: lusiology and silentauror Thanks, ladies. ♥ All other mistakes are mine.
Author's Notes: This fic was inspired by the 1980s Scorsese flick After Hours. Written for yumekutteikt for hd_holidays 2009.

The night started out so innocently.

Harry was going to grab a pint at the Leaky Cauldron after work. He had had one of those days. You know, the kind where you want to slit your throat, and it's not even nine in the morning. And even though Harry was an Auror with a considerable amount of responsibility and sense of public duty, he couldn't see the particular harm in it. Ron and Seamus regularly swilled down copious amounts of alcohol with impunity and yet still managed to keep some semblance of their dignity and regular employment; Harry was just going to have one, single, solitary, lonely beer.

And when he was finished with that beer, he was going to go home. Home to his empty and creepy house on Grimmauld Place where he lived alone, so very alone, except for a demented house-elf for company.

Therefore, it should surprise no one that Harry ordered another.

And another.

And then graduated on to a whisky or three.

By the time Harry was swaying on his barstool and trying rather unsuccessfully to stay focused on the pretty barmaid the Leaky Cauldron had hired to over serve its patrons, he had to admit, regrettably, that it was time to go home.

Apparating was out of the question, and normally he would use the Floo, but somewhere inside Harry's whisky-addled brain came the notion that fresh air and its sobering properties might do him a world of good, so he left on foot. Unfortunately, in his haste to do so, Harry blundered out the back door without his wallet.

Details. Harry felt himself fortunate that he had retained enough of his faculties to operate his wand properly. He used it to open the brick passageway to Diagon Alley and took several wobbly steps through to the other side.

A blast of cold air hit him like a slap in the face, making it immediately obvious that detouring through Diagon Alley was going to be very unpleasant. Besides, it was after hours, the shops all closed, and the handful of people who were out appeared to be in a hurry to be elsewhere. A woman dashed past, her eyes glued down to the pavement, and Harry forlornly watched her disappear through the passage he had just opened, the bricks knitting back together afterwards.

So with every intention of returning to the Leaky Cauldron to Floo home, Harry turned around in his tracks…

And walked in the opposite direction.

/////

Harry liked being an Auror. Really. Fighting Dark Wizards was something he was good at (He kind of wrote the book on it, actually). He got to learn some really cool spells when he was in Auror training and the uniforms were pretty spiffing too. Not to mention, he was trying to make the world a better place. What more could he ask for.

So, if the morning had started like it typically did: a cup of bitter coffee and a stale roll from the Ministry canteen, hastily swallowed, so be it. At least Harry wasn't late for that all-important morning staff meeting, because god knows Harry wanted to hear, yet again, the importance of filing his paperwork on time. And later when Hermione got huffy with him for not comprehending simple English ("You do know what the word 'procedure' means, Harry.") it was only because he was so damn tired of following the fucking rules, sorry, procedures that he exploded and made his best friend cry.

And if that all happened before eleven o'clock, well, that was just another day at the office, wasn’t it?

So really, who cared that the hours were shitty, and that Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he spent more time sitting behind his desk, attending to the scrolls of paperwork that multiplied hourly, than actually doing some good in the world. Being an Auror was his life's work. It made him happy.

Yeah, Harry was so fucking happy. He was ecstatic.

Maybe that was why Ginny moved out two months ago.

No matter. Harry was going to forget all about his job and his life and his uptight ex-girlfriend. He was going to have some fun tonight even if it killed him.

Hiccupping and listing dangerously to one side, Harry turned a corner and ventured down a narrow alleyway. He had no idea where he was going. Like he really cared.

/////

Harry didn’t have to walk very far to find some action.

Bright lights were beckoning from a building further down the alley. It appeared to be some kind of dance club. Harry could hear the thuda, thuda, thud of loud music coming out from its open doorway.

Harry wasn’t much of a dancer. His failed attempt at the lambada at the office Christmas party two years ago was already the stuff of urban legend, but the musical rhythms emanating from inside were as enticing a freshly opened bottle of gin.

Harry smiled at the big, scary-looking man standing guard by the door.

Thus, Harry learned the number one pitfall of being drunk; it tended to lead one to make unwise decisions. Disregarding the sign taped to the front door that read “Voldemort Lives” Harry stuck out his right hand.

"Hi. I’m Harry Potter."

The last thing Harry saw before everything went bright white was the big, scary man's big, scary wand.

/////

Harry's eyes opened to the vision of an angel peering down at him.

Harry smiled. He must be in heaven. It would explain why everything appeared soft and blurry around the edges.

The angel peered closer, his face framed by a halo of feathery blond hair. "Potter?"

Harry's grin wavered. He was fairly sure that angels weren't supposed to sneer.

"Ho! It is you."

No.

"Wait until I tell Pansy about this."

No. No. It couldn't be.

But Harry discovered that it was. He fumbled around on the ground until he found his glasses and when he slipped them on the very unangelic Draco Malfoy swam into focus. He was standing a few feet away, looking like Christmas had come early.

He raised one of his eyebrows. "Had a little bit too much to drink, Potter?"

"You know, you were much prettier when you didn't have that stupid smirk on your face."

Drunken pitfall #2: Drinking tends to lead one to say unwise things.

"Ignore that," Harry whispered, stumbling to his feet and raising a finger to his lips. "That was a secret."

Malfoy chuckled. "Oh, you are drunk."

"No. No," Harry insisted. "I was hexed."

"By a whisky bottle," Malfoy deadpanned. "I can tell."

"No. Really. Malfoy, look." Harry pointed indignantly in the direction of the dance club. "See that man right over there? The big, scary one?"

Malfoy peered in the direction Harry was pointing, eyebrows furrowing.

"Okay, he-- he--" Harry dropped his hand. "Wait. Where'd he go?"

Not only had the big, scary man disappeared, but the dance club had vanished too. Only a dreary building stood in its place. There were no lights. No enticing rhythms. No beguiling scent of gin.

But Harry couldn't have imagined it all. He was so confused. And now the ground was tipping precipitously to the left.

Malfoy grasped hold of his arm, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away. "Hey-- Hey, Potter. Are you all right?"

"I think," Harry said, clutching his stomach. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Ugh, Potter," Malfoy shrieked, springing backwards. "Watch the shoes!"

/////

Okay, maybe it was a little amusing that Harry had vomited all over Draco Malfoy's poncy, shiny shoes (At least he knew Ron would think so), but mostly he was embarrassed. "Sorry," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Next time," Malfoy seethed between frantic scourgify spells, "I find you lying unconscious in a gutter I'm going to pass right by."

Harry bristled. "Why did you stop, Malfoy? It's not like you."

"Not like me?" Malfoy snorted. "How do you know what I'm like? You don't even know me."

"I know you well enough."

"For fuck's sakes, Potter," Malfoy shouted. "You were lying passed out in the middle of Knockturn Alley. How much of an idiot are you? Do you know how many enemies you have here? I damned near saved your life."

Harry blinked. Knockturn Alley. That would explain everything. He should have recognized the stench of Dark Magic.

Or maybe that was his vomit.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Wait, Malfoy."

But Malfoy was already several paces ahead, walking briskly away.

Harry hurried after him. "Have a drink with me."

Malfoy snorted. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Harry conceded his point. "Okay. Coffee… or… or tea. It's just that we haven't seen…"

Malfoy drew to a halt. "Potter, we're not friends. What would we possibly have to talk about?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. When you think about it we've been through a lot of weird shit together."

"No. Not together. At the same time. There's a difference."

"Fine. Whatever. I just thought since you saved my life I'd buy you a drink. You know, to say thanks." Harry began patting down the pockets of his robes. "Fuck. What happened to my wallet?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Potter. Take some advice. Go home. Go to bed. I'm sure you have a nice happy life somewhere else. Leave me out of it."

"Right," Harry said, watching Malfoy walk away. "What was I thinking?"

/////

Harry was thinking that he was lost.

He hadn't realized Knockturn Alley was so long and confusing. It circled around and doubled back until Harry wasn't sure which way was which. Not that he would have known any better. Knockturn Alley may be a known hotbed for Dark Hooliganism, but as an Auror it didn't fall into his jurisdiction, and as Harry already knew the Department of Magical Law Enforcement lived and died by its own stupid, arcane, petty rules.

Whatever. Harry just wanted to go home. He was freezing his arse off, and the streetlamp above his head kept flickering on and off, casting long shadows that were frankly giving him the creeps. Yeah, Harry had outdueled Voldemort and faced down a Basilisk at age twelve, but he would posit that anyone would get unnerved standing in front of shop called Trolls R Us. The blood-curdling screams coming from inside weren't helping.

Perhaps he should have asked Malfoy for directions when he had the chance, but then Malfoy probably would have just yelled at him some more.

Of all the people to run into… He hadn't thought of Malfoy in years, and now he couldn't get him out of his head.

What was Malfoy doing in Knockturn Alley in the first place? Harry wasn't one to jump to conclusions (okay, maybe a little), but he thought it couldn't have been for anything good. Malfoy may have led a quiet life after the war (so quiet that Harry had to strain to remember the last time he had read his name in the paper), but that didn't mean it wasn't a cover-up for something more nefarious.

More importantly, Harry had to find his way home, so he pushed all thoughts of Draco Malfoy out of his mind. There was a row of shops up ahead, lights blazing in their windows. Deciding to heed Malfoy's warning about enemies lurking nearby, he took out his wand and trudged toward them.

But it was only a row of sex shops. He stopped for a moment to gaze at a display in one of the windows. It was of a giant dildo, purple and sparkly, and made Harry immediately think of Gilderoy Lockhart (in the very worst way).

"Do you like what you see?"

Harry jumped as he tried to dash those images of Lockhart out his head. "No. It's a little big and…" He giggled. "Erm… sparkly."

The boy (or was she a girl?) addressing him looked barely of legal age. He… She had long sleek black hair that reminded Harry of Cho, but had a body that was lean and muscular, and Harry's eyes dropped down to the inseam of his trousers.

A flush crept across Harry's cheeks. Definitely a boy. Wow. Harry had to remind himself he wasn't in Diagon Alley anymore.

Harry glanced up in time to see the boy raise his eyebrow.

"We have smaller ones inside," said the boy. "I could show you."

"I'm sure you do, but I'm not in the market for anything like that … Not that I… would know what to do… I mean I do know what to do… It's just…" Harry paused to adjust his glasses. "Look, I just need to get back to Diagon Alley. Do you know the way?" Harry swallowed and adjusted his glasses again. "Please. "

The boy stepped into Harry's personal space. He was close enough that Harry could see down the collar of his shirt and the snake tattoo that twined down from his collarbone all the way to his navel. "Why would you want to go there?"

Harry swallowed again. Snakes. They were his weakness. It was something Ginny never understood. "Look, I just want to go home." Harry coughed. "Please."

"So polite." The boy pouted as he touched his hand to Harry's cheek, letting it linger there for a moment before pointing it down the dark road. "In that case, second corner, turn left."

/////

Second corner, turn left brought Harry to an abandoned cauldron factory, its windows broken and something ghoulish and green glowing from deep inside, which Harry declined to investigate further.

/////

"Sorry," said the boy, still standing in front of the purple, sparkly dildo. He smiled. "Did I say second corner? I meant third."

/////

Harry's feet thumped against the pavement as he raced down the alleyway, a pack of hell hounds on his heels.

"It wasn't the third left," Harry gasped, out of breath, his robes torn and a bloody gash on his knee. He was back at the sex shop again. "Look, I just need to get back to the Leaky Cauldron. It's been a really long night, and I just want to go home. Could you just tell me the way?"

The boy nodded in a way that gave Harry a very bad feeling. "Did you try going to the right?"

/////

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name." Harry said, returning again and soaking wet. It had started to rain, and it wasn't the normal kind of rain either, but the giant stinging kind that hurt as it soaked through to the skin.

"Oh," said the boy. He grinned. "Richard Lestrange. But you can call me Dickie. Everyone does."

"Lestrange. Of course."

"So," said the boy brightly. "Are you enjoying your stay in Knockturn Alley?"

Harry nodded. "Immensely."

/////

Maybe he should just Apparate. Splinching himself couldn't put him in a worse state than he was now, and let's face it, being laid up in St. Mungos without an arm or a toe would be a preferable alternative to what he was doing now: huddling under an awning and peeping into the window of Bedbugs, Beetles and Beyond. Dark Wizards sure had the oddest taste in pets.

Then the obvious solution to his predicament came to him. Reflected in the shop window was a billboard advertisement for the Knight Bus. Just raise your right arm, and we'll be there in a jiff, it cheerfully read. It even had Stan Shunpike's smiling face along with the copy Official Transportation of Knockturn Alley -- Dark or Light: We Don't Discriminate.

Harry took out his wand and stepped to the curb. Just raise your right arm. Surely, Harry could handle that.

/////

My wand.

Harry watched in slow-motion horror as his wand fell out of his outstretched hand. It clattered to the ground and began to roll down the cobblestone street.

He fell to his knees. The curb was wet. He had lost his footing and tumbled off.

No.

No. No. Please. No. Nooooooo!

Harry crawled on his hand and knees after it. But it was too late.

Kerplunk.

Splash.

"Fuck me," Harry said.

/////

So, Harry Potter -- Wizarding hero, seasoned Auror, handsome bloke (if soaking wet) -- had just seen his wand fall down a storm drain. He was sure it happened all the time.

Right.

"Fuck me," he muttered again.

/////

The sign was painted in blood red.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here, it read, next to a giant arrow pointing toward an arched doorway.

Well, if that didn't wasn't a sound invitation, Harry didn't know what was. He went through the doorway. It wasn't as if his night could get any worse.

/////

The door had led Harry inside a pub. It reeked of alcohol and cheap sex, and Harry had to stop for a moment to inhale because it was kind of scent you could lose yourself in. It was that wonderful.

"You look like you could use a drink."

"Malfoy?"

For the second time that night Harry found himself looking into the eyes of his angel. He was standing behind the bar, drying a glass with a white rag. "You don't look very surprised," said Malfoy.

Harry sat down on one of the barstools as Malfoy slid something fragrant and alcoholic across the bar. Harry took a sip. It tasted fantastic. "Actually, after the night I've just had I wouldn't be surprised to see Severus Snape walk through that door."

"Wouldn't that be interesting."

"No. It wouldn't," retorted Harry.

Malfoy smirked and poured Harry another drink from one of the cauldrons bubbling behind the bar. The pub was nearly empty. A couple sat in the back, foundling each other while a woman cleaned up and stacked chairs.

"Closing soon?" said Harry.

"Don't worry about it," said Malfoy, drying another glass. "You can stay as long as you want."

"How kind of you."

"Don't get used to it."

Harry smiled and drained the rest of his drink.

/////

Malfoy had dried the entire stock of glassware twice over when Harry signaled him to come back over.

"So," he said, one eye peering into his empty glass, "I have to ask."

"If my tending bar is a part of a shrewd cover-up for the next Death Eater revolution?"

Harry blinked, setting the glass down. "Well, yeah. That was actually going to be my second question."

"Yes. And Zabini owns a bakery round the corner."

"Malfoy, seriously. You should be torturing house-elves or something. Attending parties. Lording over the rest of us."

"I thought that was your job now.''

Harry ignored the gibe. "This just seems beneath you," he said quietly, gesturing around the pub, at the row of cauldrons, the couple practically fornicating in the corner.

"Really? Owning my own business and making an honest living is beneath me. Noted."

"But you could do almost anything. With your kind of money--"

"Can I? I don’t know where you've been for the last five years, but even if I wanted one I couldn't get a job cleaning the toilets at the Ministry. Not that I ever would." He wrinkled his nose "Ew."

"But why work at all?" Harry persisted.

"Stuff it, Potter. Do you know how many Galleons it cost my father to keep us out of Azkaban?"

"Your family was given a formal pardon by the Minister himself," Harry retorted. "There was no money exchanged."

"Please. You insult yourself."

Harry stared down at the empty glass in his hands. The Minister's justification of Lucius' pardon never sat well with him and now he knew why.

"Some of that money went to rebuilding Hogwarts, so I guess it was win-win for everyone. Besides," Malfoy went on, and Harry thought he heard a tinge of bitterness in his voice, "haven't we all just moved on with our lives?"

"I suppose," Harry said, and he wondered if it wasn't high time for him to go home. The night had been a disaster, just one bad experience after another, and Malfoy had only darkened his mood further.

"Anyway, my mother supports the family now," Malfoy said.

Harry looked up, interested. He could hear the pride in Malfoy's voice. "Really? Doing what?"

"Writing books." When Harry stared at him he replied, looking smug. "Her penname is N.M. Black."

Harry goggled his eyes. "Wait, your mother writes the Dawn series?"

Malfoy nodded.

"Ginny loves those books. That's… fantastic."

"I know." Malfoy laughed.

"I only read the first book," Harry had to admit. "I'm not really into vampires."

"Me either. But you should keep reading. There's veelas." Malfoy's eyes sparkled. "And a love triangle and everything."

"Veelas." Harry smiled. "Okay."

Malfoy turned to tend to one of the cauldrons. It belched pink smoke as he stirred. "So, why didn't you go home like I told you to?"

"Tried to. Didn't work. I got lost…" He mumbled the rest into the crook of his elbow. "And… I misplacedmywand."

"Misplaced your wand? Seriously." Malfoy laughed again.

Harry nodded. "In the sewer."

Malfoy snickered. "I'm not even going to ask. Aren't you supposed to be some big shot Auror now?"

"So they say."

"Nice to know we're in good hands." Malfoy was holding a ladle of potion. "Another drink?"

"Please," said Harry.

/////

A pleasant buzz had settled over Harry. Oddly, he didn't feel drunk anymore, only happy. And amorous. Perhaps Harry should be shocked that he was fostering feelings of lust toward Draco Malfoy, of all people, but Harry was too busy fixating on the shape of his mouth.

"You know," Harry said, grinning sloppily. "You really are pretty."

It was true! And Harry wasn't going to take it back this time either, especially after seeing the blush rise on Malfoy's cheeks.

"Potter, go home."

But Harry was just getting started. Malfoy was trying not to smile. Harry was sure of it. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Fuck off. You wouldn't say it if you weren't drunk either."

"Maybe. But you're the one mixing my drinks."

A flash of panic flitted across Malfoy's face, which Harry immediately `ignored, so taken was he staring into Malfoy's shining silvery orbs.

Harry blinked. Did he just refer to Malfoy's eyes as shining silvery orbs? "Um… Malfoy?"

Malfoy winced. "Potter, I think we have a problem."

/////

"A love potion?" Harry wasn't sure if he should be enraged or turned on. The latter won over and Harry, having jumped over the bar with hitherto unknown speed, was now licking Malfoy's earlobe.

"Not-- Stop doing that." Malfoy batted Harry away. "It was an accident."

But Malfoy had the most adorable ears. Why hadn't he noticed them before? He really had to taste them. Harry lunged again, this time successful in getting his tongue all the way inside Malfoy's ear.

Malfoy let out a startled gasp. "Potter, ah--"

Harry couldn't remember when he had ever wanted someone with such urgency. Maybe when he first started seeing Ginny, when he was still young and flush with his victory over Voldemort, but even then their lovemaking had been tentative, more quiet than passionate. Not so now, need growing inside him, Harry had maneuvered them both so that Malfoy was pressed back against the bar. He had his hands on Malfoy's shoulders, his tongue licking a fevered trail down his neck.

Malfoy squirmed underneath him. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't even like me."

"Yes, I do. Very much."

"Potter, trust me, you don't. You're going to hate yourself for doing this."

But Harry would not be persuaded. "I want to kiss you," he said with utmost certainty. "Right now."

"Potter, no."

Harry paused to scrutinize Malfoy's face. "Why, is the idea of kissing me so awful?"

"No! I mean--" Malfoy let out a cry of exasperation. "Fine, One kis--"

Harry didn't need a written invitation. He had never kissed a man before and even though a part of his brain was screaming don't do it! A larger, more insistent part had steamrolled over his objections. He wanted Malfoy so, so very much, but that wasn't even the most unsettling part. It wasn't that he was kissing Draco Malfoy. It was that it felt so right.

And once reality hit when Malfoy broke the kiss, Harry felt more than just confusion. He felt anger and betrayal and yes, disappointment.

"What's going on?" Harry wished he had his wand. He stumbled backward, wanting a wider berth in case the urge to molest Malfoy came over him again. "Having a laugh at my expense?"

"It was an accident. I got the cauldrons confused. I meant to serve you something else."

"So you meant to poison me?" Enraged, Harry began making his way toward the front door. His emotions were already riding high, and he knew he could no longer trust himself not to tackle Malfoy and do something he knew they would both regret. He wanted to touch Malfoy in the worst possible way.

"No," shouted Malfoy. "It's not like that."

"Seriously, Malfoy. Do you know who I am?

"Yes, I know who you are. You're Harry fucking Potter. Why do you think I told you that you'd hate yourself for touching me?"

"That--" Harry made a noise of frustration. "That's not the issue. I can have you thrown into Azkaban so fast it'd make your head spin. Don't think I'm not going to either."

Malfoy ran after him. "Wait, Potter. It's not what you think. Just listen to me."

Malfoy had the look of a man who thought he might lose everything. Harry's emotions were at war. He didn't know what to believe. What if Malfoy was telling the truth? He couldn’t think straight, he needed some distance and fresh air, and what he really needed was to go home. He thrust out his hand. "Don't come any closer," he warned.

Malfoy heeded his warning, halting in his tracks. "Potter, don't--"

Harry flew out the door before Malfoy could finish.

Harry made it only a few steps when he heard someone call out his name. He turned around.

"Harry? It is you."

Harry peered into the gloom and saw a figure charging toward him, his red hair and freckles unmistakable as he neared. "Charlie?"

Harry grinned with the relief that the world had gone right again. A familiar face, and he hadn't seen Charlie in ages. He clapped him on the shoulder. "I didn't know you were in England."

"I just got back." Charlie gave him a big hug. "Don't tell my mum. I'm here on business."

"Oh," said Harry, gazing at Charlie, confused. Charlie was wearing a pair of sleeveless leather robes and tight trousers and had a black collar around his neck. Harry couldn't fathom what sort of business he might be doing in Knockturn Alley, especially dressed like that. It was rather late, and he couldn't remember seeing any dragon shops in his travels through the alley.

"So what were you doing at Malfoy's?" asked Charlie.

"Malfoy's?" Harry frowned. "You know of it?"

"Been there a few times. He's known for mixing a mean cocktail. The pub's a little on the gloomy side, but isn't that part of the Knockturn Alley's charm?" Charlie laughed.

"Yes, because when I think of charm, I think of Knockturn Alley," Harry retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Don't worry. I won't say anything," Charlie winked, nudging Harry in the elbow. "I heard how you two were in school."

"Wait. What?" Harry's eyes widened.

"Oh, yeah. I was sorry to hear about you and Ginny. Sad business: breakups, but look at it this way, better she find out now that you're the sort of bloke who spends his nights trolling pubs in Knockturn Alley then later on after you two've been married."

"I don't troll pubs in Knockturn Alley," said Harry, voice rising. "I got lost and wandered into Malfoy's by accident."

"As I said. Better to face facts now than to keep deluding yourself."

"Just what are you are trying to say?"

"Hey," Charlie interrupted. "You want to go dancing?"

/////

Yes, because going dancing was exactly what Harry wanted to do. He was exhausted and already in the first throes of a killer hangover, not to mention a very sick part of his brain was actively trying to lobby for him to go back to Malfoy so he could do unmentionably vile things to him.

The blond Slytherin twerp. Harry really wanted to ~~kiss~~ kick his arse.

On the other hand, if he stuck by Charlie it might reduce the risk of him getting lost again and having to interact with the locals. Security in numbers so to speak. Gryffindor solidarity. The night had been hellish enough already. Harry didn't think he could take another strange encounter. Besides, the club probably had a public Floo. He could be home in no time and asleep in his soft (and lonely) bed. He could worry about his wand later. After he had a good night's rest.

"Here we are," said Charlie as they rounded the corner, Harry taking the time to note that Charlie seemed awfully familiar with Knockturn Alley's twists and turns.

"Wait a minute, said Harry, stopping. In front of them stood the same dance club he had encountered earlier. The same bright flashing lights. The same big, scary man standing guard.

Harry instinctively stepped behind Charlie. Not that he was being a coward or anthing. Charlie had a wand and Harry didn't. It was all about taking cover and assessing risk. Auror Defensive Skills 101. Besides, Harry wasn't looking forward to getting hexed a second time in one evening.

"What's wrong?" said Charlie, glancing at Harry.

"That man. He hexed me earlier."

"Harvey?"

"Harvey? I don't suppose you know him too," said Harry, sourly. He wondered if he really wanted to know.

Charlie shrugged. "Slept with him once. Bit of a size--"

"Nope. I was right. Don't want to know," Harry cut in.

But Charlie seemed determined to overshare. "It ended badly," he went on, looking rueful.

"I can't imagine why."

/////

According to Charlie, Harry had likely been hexed because he had the misfortune of arriving earlier when the club was hosting its popular Death Eaters Ball. Apparently, it was the rage these days to don masks and fake tattoos and act all edgy and dark. (Harry had to take a moment remind himself why he thought the Wizarding world was worth saving.)

"He probably didn't get the humor of your situation," Charlie explained, as they were whisked past Harvey, who was still swinging his wand around. (It apparently paid to know someone who slept with the doorman.)

"I wasn't trying to be funny. I was just saying hello."

"I'm sure he just got into the spirit of the moment. I wouldn't take it personally. I think you'll find a much friendlier crowd now," said Charlie.

Harry didn't know what Charlie meant until he peered into the dark club and saw two familiar faces huddled around a small table covered with enough of empty bottles to topple Hagrid. "Ron? Seamus?"

His friends waved Harry over, looking hardly worse for wear. "Don't tell Hermione," said Ron, yelling over the loud music.

"Don't you have to work in the morning?" Harry shouted back.

Seamus pointed to his wristwatch "It's only four o'clock. Plenty of time."

But that wasn't the only familiar face.

"Potter."

"Malfoy?" Harry narrowed his eyes and jumped right into his lap.

"Potter, we have to stop running into each other like this," Malfoy said in a strangled voice as Harry went to work molesting his ear and neck and…shoulder and… Oh god. He had no idea Malfoy had such soft, delectable skin. Harry's hand slid down the front of Malfoy's shirt.

"Harry."

Like a man drowning under water Harry had to strain to hear his best friend call out his name. He supposed the loud music thumping in the background wasn't helping either.

"Harry, why are you humping Malfoy?"

Ron. Oh shit. Harry surfaced to a pair of strong arms pulling him backward and leaving Malfoy sprawled out on the floor, looking wide-eyed and rumbled, his shirt unbuttoned to his navel,

"Sorry," Harry gasped, running a shaking hand through his hair. "I don't know what came over me."

Ron had the same look on his face as when he had first seen Aragog. "I think I may be sick," he whimpered.

"Yeah," muttered Harry, "Malfoy has that effect on people."

Meanwhile, Malfoy had sprung to his feet and was furiously buttoning his shirt. "Get a hold of yourself. We're in public."

"I didn't see you put up much of a fight," Harry snapped back, trying not to cry out in protest as he watched Malfoy's milky skin disappear under his silk shirt.

Malfoy straightened his collar and fixed a sneer onto his face. It wasn't wholly convincing. "It felt good." He paused to smooth back his hair. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Stop me?"

"Harry," Ron squeaked. "What's going on?"

"I think what you just saw was Harry getting his groove on," said Charlie.

"Yep," added Seamus, raising his glass, "with style. Shine on, you crazy diamond. Shine on."

"No!" Harry scowled at them both. "Malfoy fed me a love potion."

"It was an accident."

"I don't believe you."

"Why would I ever want you to touch me?" Malfoy snapped.

"You just said it felt good," retorted Harry.

Oh god. Harry sank down into a vacated chair. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation in front of Ron and Charlie. What if Ginny found out? Not that she would probably care. She wasn't returning his firecalls. Still, Harry had harbored hopes that they would reconcile.

Ron flopped down in the chair beside him. "I suppose it makes sense in a really perverted and sick way," he muttered. He picked up a glass of whisky and downed it in one gulp. "Not that I approve. What am I saying? It's your life. Do what ever the hell you want. I need another drink."

Harry gaped at Ron. "It's not what you think. I don't even like Malfoy. All I want to do is suck on his neck and fondle him a little. Oh god," he whimpered into his hands

Ron made a gurgling sound. "Too much information."

"Sorry."

"Look, Harry. If you don't mind me saying, you're obviously miserable. Everyone can see it, and I know Ginny would feel better if you moved on. And that's another thing, mate, you've got to stop calling her. It's getting a little creepy. She's back with Dean now. Be happy for her." Ron got to his feet and picked up his empty glass. "So if you want to… you know…" He gestured with his hand. "…with Malfoy just don't tell me the gory details. Please, I don't want to know. Okay, now I really need that drink." Ron looked a little green as he staggered away.

/////

Of course, now that Harry wanted to find Malfoy he was nowhere to be found.

Harry pushed his way through the crowded club and out to the street. He saw Harvey standing by the curb, looking menacing and unapproachable, his wand stuck in his back pocket.

Harry gave Harvey a wide berth before thinking better of it and walking over. "Pardon, sir? I--"

Harvey turned and glared. "You--"

"Yes, it's me. Harry Potter. You hexed me earlier. I'm willing to let that go if--"

"Charlie says you're a good bloke," retorted Harvey gruffly as he turned his attention back to a pair of young women cavorting in Death Eater masks.

"Thank you, I--"

"I read about you in the papers. You come off as a prat if you ask me, but what do I know."

"I can assure I am not a prat."

Harvey looked skeptical.

"Fine." Harry forced himself not to raise his voice. "Look, I just want to find Draco Malfoy."

"Malfoy?"

"Yes. Draco Malfoy. Tall. Blond hair. Has a really gorgeous neck." Harry winced. "Did you happen to see where he went?"

Harvey crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No."

"No?" You really didn't see him leave even though you're standing right by the front door. Honestly?" Harry was certain he was being lied to.

Harvey pulled out his wand.

"I know where he lives."

Harry turned around. "Dickie?" he said, recognizing the tattooed boy from the sex shop.

Dickie smiled. "Turn right, then go left, walk three streets and turn right." He hesitated. "Wait. Turn right, then go left, walk two streets and turn right." His brow furrowed. "Or is it left?"

"You have no idea, do you?"

"No, not really. I just like messing with you."

/////

A wise man once told Harry that it was your choices that made you who you are. So given the option of going back and letting his friends take him home, Harry made the obvious one. He ditched them to search out a man he wasn't sure he even liked.

Now that he had set his mind to actually do something he found the twists and turns of Knockturn Alley surprisingly easy to navigate. Maybe he had finally opened his eyes.

Malfoy let out a gasp of surprise when Harry walked back into his pub, crossed the distance between them and pushed him up against the bar.

Harry had no idea what time it was. It might have been dawn, and in another life he would have just risen from bed to dash into the shower before another frenzied day at work. He was exhausted and yet, so very awake, his hands shaking as he unbuttoned the collar of Malfoy's shirt. Malfoy's clothes were the same he had on the night before. Harry wondered he ever slept.

"You do know," said Malfoy, as conversationally as if they were discussing the finer points of the London weather, "that the love potion you drank earlier should have worn off at least an hour ago."

Harry hesitated, his mouth hovering over a smooth expanse of pale skin, Malfoy's shirt pushed nearly off his shoulders. He traced a fingertip across Malfoy's collarbone and drew him closer. He knew in his heart that what Malfoy said was true. He didn't care. "Yeah? So what."

Malfoy made a tsking sound. "Then why are you doing this?"

Harry raised his head and looked Malfoy in the eyes. "I want to."

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"Tell me to stop."

Malfoy slipped his hand behind Harry's neck and grabbed a tuft of his hair, pulling his head back. It didn't hurt so much as remind Harry that Malfoy was still an unknown quantity. For all the tribulations they had shared in school (and they had shared plenty despite what Malfoy had said earlier) they were strangers now. Harry realized he had even made the blanket assumption that Malfoy was attracted to men. But hadn't he said earlier that Harry's potion-induced affections felt good?

"Second thoughts?" interrupted Malfoy, smirking.

"No," Harry said levelly. "I just realized how little we know each other."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his fingertips moving to stroke the crook of Harry's neck, Harry relaxing into his touch. "I think we know each other just fine. Let's not make this into something bigger than it is."

"All right." Harry sighed and began to pull away.

Malfoy's hand grabbed hold of his hair again, this time pulling hard.

Harry reacted instantly, crying out. "What the--"

"I didn't mean for you to go away. Don't be such a coward," Malfoy sneered.

"Oh, fuck you," Harry retorted, shoving Malfoy back against the bar. So it was back to being two boys scuffling on the Quidditch pitch, common ground. Trouble was Malfoy still had his hand clutched in his hair and Harry tumbled against him. He gasped as his thigh pressed against the hard bulge in Malfoy's trousers.

"You like that, Potter?" Malfoy's other hand slipped down Harry's back, crushing their bodies together.

"I think you do, Malfoy. Ease up on my hair, will you? I'm a trained Auror. I know how to hurt someone without a wand."

Malfoy dropped his hand and smirked. "Duly noted."

"Don't you go away either," growled Harry, grabbing hold of Malfoy's hips and wiggling against them. He was flying blind now. He, who had a grand total of two lovers in his lifetime: Ginny and a one-off with Luna back before he and Ginny were serious. Both had been women, both with considerably less baggage than Draco Malfoy. But what was the fun in that? Yes, Harry may be flying blind, but when was the last time he felt this fervent about anything?

"I want you," he muttered against Malfoy's mouth, and Malfoy snickered in return, the git.

And perhaps, on top of it all, he was a glutton for punishment. Harry moved to cup his hand around the bulge in Malfoy's trousers, earning him a startled moan when he squeezed. "You do like that."

"Course I do."

Harry laughed softly and did it again. Moving on adrenaline and with a few sharp commands, he managed to maneuver Malfoy so that he was sitting atop the bar. He spread Malfoy's legs and tore open the fastenings of his trousers and eased them down to his knees.

Malfoy's erect cock presented itself, pink and glistening. Harry licked his lips and gave it a tentative touch, circling his fingers around the shaft. Malfoy let out a soft sigh in response as he bent his head down to watch, his eyes hidden under a veil of blond hair, which was probably for the best, Harry thought. He wasn't sure he had the nerve to look Malfoy in the face, and without another moment's hesitation, he bent down and sucked Malfoy's cock all the way down to its root.

"Fuck," Malfoy cried out.

But it was too much. Harry nearly gagged, and he quickly eased off. How on earth had Ginny made sucking cock look so easy? Was this what it was really like? He felt a stab of panic, which he forced down just as Malfoy's hand fell down to his shoulder and then around to the back of his head, firm but not controlling, and it eventually gave Harry some resolve. He could do this. He wanted to do this. He just needed to take his time.

He tried again, this time only sucking Malfoy's cock halfway into his mouth, using his fist to cover the rest. Malfoy cried out again, causing Harry's own arousal to spike in response. His cock strained against the fabric of the navy trousers Harry had worn to work the day before, and he used his free hand to unbutton his fly and grabbed hold of his cock.

He let out a muffled cry of his own. God, he was shameless, working his own cock as he sucked another into his mouth. Was this what he had become? Giving into debauchery after one sleepless night out. But he liked it, and he wondered how he must appear. The image that came forth in his mind's eye of him bent over, trousers pooled at his ankles, Malfoy fucking his mouth -- made him shiver with excitement. There was no way he was going to last.

Neither was Malfoy, judging from the urgency of his moans and the tightening grip of his fingers around the back of Harry's head as his movements became more and more erratic.

Harry opened his mouth as wide as he could, taking it all, wanting it, as he thrust wildly into his own fist. He was close, his eyes beginning to flutter, and with a jerk he came into his hand, thick strands of semen coating his fingers. Malfoy let out another cry of "ohgodohfuck" and came too, coating Harry's mouth with the bitter taste of come. He swallowed some of it down, letting the rest dribble down his chin.

Malfoy threw him a towel off the bar, and Harry used it to cover his face, taking longer than necessary to clean it off. His mind was reeling. What did he just do?

Malfoy snickered. "Don't worry I'm not going to tell anyone what a good cocksucker you are."

Harry uncovered one eye and glared. "What about Pansy? You were so eager to tell her before."

Malfoy finished fastening his trousers and jumped off the bar. "Nah. She wouldn't believe me." He grinned wickedly. "Weasley might though."

Harry threw the towel at him. "Don't you dare."

Malfoy laughed and used his wand to light fires under the cauldrons set up behind the bar. "You should go now," he said, plucking a bottle off a shelf and uncorking its contents into one of the cauldrons. "I've got work to do. Didn't get much done last night." He winked before turning his back again to rummage through a cupboard under the bar.

"Of course," said Harry, watching him, jealous of the ease and familiarity with which he moved around his pub. Harry realized he was in no hurry to go.

But he must. He had a life out there.

He glanced up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Staring back was a man who look like he'd traveled from hell and back, his robes torn and bloodied, his glasses askew. Harry straightened up and grinned back at his reflection. It had been some bizarre, wild, wonderful night.

He turned and strode toward the door. "See you around, Malfoy," he called, before walking out into daylight.

/////

A regal-looking owl waited for him atop his desk.

"A message," his assistant called after him as he walked past. "Don't forget, staff meeting in five-- What on earth happened to you--"

Harry shut the door on her.

The owl cocked her head and squawked impatiently. She had already shredded what looked like a half a day's worth of paperwork with her talons.

"Fine. I'll read your bloody message," said Harry, snatching the scroll from her outstretched leg. He opened it up and grinned.

Still want to buy me a drink?
~DM

Harry smirked. Oh, did he ever…

WTF LJ

mizbean — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 16:08:40 GMT

My dystopia scheme (side menu bar) has disappeared!! It's been replaced by an ugly Christmas-themed top menu panel.

Has this happened to anyone else? Am I the only still using dystopia? And how do I change it back? It changed when I logged in this morning.

I put in a help request with LJ, but I would prefer to fix this on my own. Anyone? Bueller?

ETA: Fixed.

Drabbles for Haitian Relief

mizbean — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 04:23:25 GMT

Of course, we've all heard about the horrible earthquake that rocked Haiti yesterday. Scores are dead. Many are displaced. I heard a report on NPR this afternoon about doctors having to fashion splints out of magazines to set broken bones. It's almost too horrible to contemplate. However, this is the time when those of us who are able to should step up and do what we can to help out.

help_haiti is a fandom-wide effort to raise money for Haitian relief. As a way to participate I've decided to offer my drabble-writing services in the lightning round.

For a $5 recession-friendly minimum bid I will write a 100-500 word ficlet in the following fandoms: Harry Potter, Bleach or Fullmetal Alchemist. Ficlets will be posted by Friday, January 22. I'm offering five, but if my schedule opens up next week, and there is interest, I will offer more.

Comment here to bid

Here is a short and by no mean exhaustive list of where you can send donations. Apologies for the list being so U.S.-centric. I cobbled it together in a hurry:-)

~ American Red Cross Haiti Relief

~ American Jewish World Service

~ Doctors Without Borders

~ http://www.care.org

~ Gawker: Where to send your money (more relevant organizations listed in comments)

More hd_holidays goodness.

mizbean — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 18:40:39 GMT

OMG!! You guys, someone wrote comment porn for my hd_holidays present. I don't know what I've done to deserve such wonderful presents, but I feel very blessed indeed.

Go read!!! GUH. You won't be disappointed.

My winter holidays tour of the Midwest continues, and I'm about ready to jump in the car and drive another four hours to see more family. Happy New Year!

ETA:

Art Rec!

mizbean — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 05:38:49 GMT

Guys, I just got gifted with fanart from hd_holidays, and it's AMAZING and HOT and there's PARTIALLYCLOTHED!WALLSEX, and I'm horrible at writing proper reviews, so just go look:DDD

Red Wall. PG-13 [NWS]

I can't stop staring.

So this is Christmas

mizbean — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:00:42 GMT

Well, almost.

I was hoping I'd have the time to write a longer post, but the car is packed, and the spouse is getting impatient. I'll be gone for a week, enjoying the hospitality of my in-laws *heh* Since this will probably be my only opportunity to log on to LJ until I get back, I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

Merry! Merry!

It's Raining Snowflakes

mizbean — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 23:35:07 GMT

Thank you for the virtual snowflake giftees: dragonfly_lily, celandineb, the_gubette and sesheta_66. What a wonderful surprise to see them pop up into my inbox this afternoon as I was plugging away on my hd_hols fic:-)) eta: Thank you drusillas_rain, furiosity, effervescent, fourth_rose, midnitemaraud_r and lovely anonymous person. ♥

It also reminds me that I have to dig out my Christmas icons.

Unrelated: Apparently, my daughter's 8-year-old friend is a Twilight fan. She spent the night last night, and it was Bella this, Jacob that... Edward... Edward... Edward all night long. Okay, fine. They're kids. Whatever. My daughter is nine, and I remember getting obsessed with that trashy V.C. Andrews Flowers in the Attic series when I was 10. Hardly a bastion of intelligent literature that, and I made it safely into adulthood. But when her mother picked her up this morning she was trying to push Twilight on me. I think she may be a Twilight mom. Anyway, I'm getting the DVD loaned to me tomorrow. I can't wait D:

It's also not helping that our cat is named Bella after Bellatrix (or as my daughter likes to call her Bella-trixie). Try explaining that to Twilight fans.

The Wishbox [Draco-centric, PG-13] Part i

mizbean — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:11:45 GMT

Title: The Wishbox
Author: mizbean
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Draco/Pansy, Draco/Blaise, and shades of future of Harry/Draco because I'm a shipper, but mostly Draco-centric.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 11,000
Summary: If you could have anything in world, what would you wish for?
Author's Notes: My ownficfest submission. Written for catsintheattic. Thank you to kennahijja for giving me the opportunity to write this story.

I also have to thank my son who gave me the original idea for this story. One day after school he was telling me about a book he had heard at school about a boy who could have anything he wished for. It immediately started the wheels turning, and I wondered what would happen if someone like Draco, a boy who has almost everything, would be given the chance to wish for anything in the world. Of course, he would wish for more toys, but we know his story takes a darker turn as he grows older. What would he wish for then?

The Wishbox

Madame Malfoy,

It has come to my regrettable attention that a list of instructions was omitted when we packaged your wishbox for sale. It is imperative that you study each and every one of them carefully as your wishbox may not otherwise operate to its fullest potential.

As always, your wish is our command,
Monsieur Petit

~ * ~

"What is it?"

"Can't see."

"Stop pushing."

"You stop."

"No, you stop."

"Mum, Crabbe kicked me."

"Did not."

"Did too. Mum."

Pansy Parkinson's wail was lost in the din of shouting children crowding around Draco Malfoy. Today was his fifth birthday, and the South Lawn of the Manor was festooned with balloons and fairy lights. Later there would be pony rides and acrobats to marvel over, and, of course, a large chocolate cake to devour, but for now all eyes were on the small blond boy as he sat cross-legged on the grass, dwarfed beneath a teetering pile of birthday presents.

As Draco tore open the colorfully-wrapped boxes (immediately discarding their contents onto the lawn behind him without so much as a backward glance), the children pressed closer, some pushing and shoving their way to the front, for it was a well-known fact that Draco always got the best presents, the fastest and shiniest toys, and when he grew bored he sometimes shared. But no present garnered more interest from the gathered children (and their respective parents) than the one Draco currently held in his hands.

The box, wrapped in his favorite color of Slytherin green, was small, much too small to contain a Junior Nimbus 500, the toy racing broom Draco so desperately coveted, and for that reason he wore distinctly perturbed expression.

"I heard it only arrived this morning," Mrs. Parkinson whispered to Mrs. Nott, from where they both stood a few steps beyond the scrum of shouting children.

"Express owled from Paris. Can you imagine?" Mrs. Nott tutted in return, even as she craned her neck so she could see.

"Cissy spoils that child rotten," another parent chimed in, and there was a chorus of agreement.

And then, on cue, an impeccably dressed, flaxen-haired woman stepped forward. Head held high, Narcissa Malfoy was already the object of both admiration and jealousy among the other mothers in Wizarding society. Not only did she have a beautiful home and an even more beautiful husband, she had the most darling son (even if he was all kinds of a brat), but even more to the point: she was richer than God. Surely, any gift she had hand-selected to give her son would soon become the most coveted toy in England. Perhaps there would still be time to get an order in before the Christmas rush!

A hush fell as Narcissa beamed down at her son. "Go on, dear. Open it."

It didn't appear that Draco needed to be told twice. He tore open the wrappings, and once again he was lost amidst the surging crowd of chattering children.

"Well, what is it?" someone finally yelled, the crowd of onlookers growing impatient.

There was no response, only the soft titter of a child's laughter, and then…

"It's just--" a child's voice was heard as the laughter grew louder, "an ugly old box."

[ ONE SHOULD NEVER TAKE THEIR WISHBOX FOR GRANTED. ]

"What is it?" a little girl demanded breathlessly into Draco's ear. She was crouched down next to him, watching, as he lifted a square wooden box out from its green foil wrapping.

His frown deepened. He had no idea. It looked like it might be a music box, albeit one that looked like it had spent the last century cared for by trolls. Scorch marks marred the outside and part of a corner was nicked off, and it smelled unpleasantly of mildew and damp. But when Draco opened the hinged top, no music played, nor was there anything hidden inside. He poked at the velvet lining a few times just to make sure, and when he closed the lid again, tears of disappointment were prickling his eyes. The runes carved into the top of the box would offer Draco no clues to its purpose either. At age five Draco had only just started to learn his letters. He wouldn't learn to read runes until he was much older.

By now Draco was certain that he was the butt of a very cruel joke. The growing laughter -- from guests invited to his birthday party! -- only proved it.

Eyes stinging and feeling very betrayed, Draco glared at the other children. "Shut up," he snapped as the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "You too, Zabini. Who cares what you think?" he snarled, focusing his ire on the haughty-looking boy laughing the loudest. Blaise Zabini didn't even have a father. Draco thought he had a lot of nerve!

"You shut up," Zabini retorted.

Infuriated, Draco picked up the box with every intention of throwing it at Zabini's head when his mother grabbed him by the arm.

"Draco," she warned, and at the sound of her voice all the fight and energy drained out of him. Draco adored his mother, and at this moment all he wanted was to curl up into her arms. His birthday party was ruined. He doubted even a full-blown tantrum could save it.

"There, there, darling. It's all right," she said, brushing the tears from of his eyes. She was sitting on a pillow she had summoned from inside the Manor, her elegant robes fanned out around her legs.

Draco sniffled, burying his head in her lap. However, it wasn't long before his attention drifted back to the box left forgotten on the grass. Draco lifted his head and found his mother smiling down at him. It was a sly sort of smile that spoke of magic and secrets, and Draco felt a tingle of excitement curl around inside him.

"Do you know what this is?" his mother asked, picking the box up again and touching the top almost reverentially with her fingertips.

"No," he admitted, barely able to contain himself. Nor, it seemed, could the other boys and girls clustered around them, for all of them leaned forward at once, not wanting to miss a single word.

"Well, it is very rare," Narcissa said, smirking, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Really?" Draco said, beaming. Rare was good. Rare meant no one else had one.

"Really," Narcissa confirmed. "This rare artifact is…" she paused just long enough for the children listening in to move closer, "a wishbox."

Someone let out an audible gasp, and then everyone began talking at once.

Draco grinned.

He didn't know what a wishbox was, but he thought he had a good idea.

His mother smiled. "If you could have anything in the world, Draco. What would you wish for?"

"Anything in the world?" Draco repeated.

Well, there were great many things a young boy like Draco might like to wish for, but there was only one thing he really wanted. "A Junior Nimbus 500 racing room," he blurted out to the appreciative murmur of the other children.

And he watched, fidgeting with excitement, as his mother wrote out the words Junior Nimbus 500 in careful, neat letters on a square of parchment. She folded it once and placed it inside the box. "Ready?" she asked, that sly smile returning.

Draco nodded.

With her hand on top of the box, Narcissa closed her eyes and began to recite:

"I have a wish I wish to make.
A wish I wish will come true.
With all my heart and all my soul
I wish that you will grant me my wish
and make my dreams come true."

Draco watched as the runes carved into box began to glow, and with it came a heady twist of magic. It swirled around him, and Draco found the sensation both exciting and unnerving. Much how he imagined flying would be like. Oh, how he wished he had a broom…

"Ow!" Draco cried out as something hard smacked him across the forehead.

It was a toy broom. It lay on the grass at Draco's feet, its polished wooden handle gleaming in the sunlight and not a straw out of place. It was a thing of beauty. A perfect replica of the broom Fergus Stump rode when he lead his team to victory in the last Champions Cup, only sized down to fit one small boy.

The Junior Nimbus 500 was everything Draco could ever wish for. And he didn't have to share.

[ YOU CAN'T NEVER WISH FOR TOO MANY TOYS. ]

Two hours later, sated and faces smeared with chocolate, children were once again surrounding Draco. Only this time the adults had gone elsewhere, gossiping and drinking their tea at tidy white tables set across the lawn. The Junior Nimbus 500 lay where he left it an hour ago, for there were other toys to play with, new ones "wished" from his wishbox: a model train magicked to run under its own power, Demons of the Dark Arts action figures, exploding wands. But they too lay scattered across the lawn, the children's eyes trained instead on the motley-looking box sitting in Draco's lap.

Draco wondered what else he should wish for.

"A model dragon," a child shouted.

"Screaming yo-yo," said another.

"Chocolate Frogs." That was Goyle.

"A Baby Betsy doll," someone else yelled, a girl dressed head to toe in pink. Draco scowled. As if he would wish for a doll.

"Blood lollies."

"Dungbombs."

"Ice mice."

"Chocolate Frogs."

"You said that already."

"So."

The shouting went on. Zabini rolled his eyes and claimed he was bored, and Draco vowed to never again invite Zabini to one of his parties. And then Draco smiled, inspiration striking. He knew exactly what he wanted to wish for.

"How do you spell 'go'?" asked Draco, turning to Zabini, a square of parchment and quill in hand.

Zabini frowned. "Go? G-O. Why?"

"No reason." Draco scrawled the word down on the piece of parchment and slipped it inside the box. He shut his eyes and began reciting the spell.

A light breezed whispered across the grass, and when Draco re-opened his eyes he saw he was alone, the children gone.

He grinned. Now he had all the toys to himself.

[ YOU CAN NEVER WISH FOR TOO MANY FRIENDS. ]

Draco footsteps echoed as he raced across the marble floor, his Junior Nimbus 500 dragging behind him. Of course, he wasn't supposed to run in the house, and indeed as he turned the corner into the music room, chock full of elegant and priceless treasures, he collided with a small table, sending a vase teetering over its edge. It crashed to the floor, shards of porcelain scattering in every direction. Draco paid it no heed, already running on to the next room, and besides, a house-elf appeared almost instantly to clean the mess up.

There was also mud on the floor, tracked in through the front door. It was still summer, the air heavy from an early morning rain shower, and Draco had spent the last hour alone, leaping over puddles in the garden on his toy broom. He had quickly grown tired of that and was now searching for something better to do.

His father was in the library, the door closed; in other words: DO NOT DISTURB (especially energetic little boys with muddy shoes), and when he finally came upon his mother in the salon she was busy conferring with her head elf, Mimsy. But her face lit up when he ran to her side, and Draco knew that at last he had found someone to play with.

However, his hopes were soon dashed. After a quick peck on the forehead and a scourgify from Mimsy for his muddy shoes, Narcissa shooed him on his way.

Draco stuck out his lower lip.

"Oh, darling. What now?" Narcissa's face wore a fine imitation of his petulant expression.

"Bored," Draco replied, his feet rooted to the spot and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Bored?" Narcissa laughed indulgently. She knelt down in front of him, the gold bracelets on her wrist jangling as she reached to brush the fringe out of his eyes. "You must have something to play with."

Draco shrugged.

"Well, I just know just the thing," said his mother, touching the tip of his nose.

"Really?" Draco's heart leapt. Of course she did. His mother made everything better.

"I do." She rose to her feet and paused to smooth the wrinkles out of her robes. "Dobby," she said with certainty. "I'm sure Dobby would love to play with you."

[ WISHES MAY COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES. ]

Draco hated Dobby.

"I hate you," said Draco to the miserable-looking house-elf that had appeared in his bedroom doorway, and he took no consolation when Dobby picked up a lamp off a nearby table and began using it to hit himself on the head.

Well, Draco found some consolation, for Dobby was now crying, fat tears running down his ugly face. Draco found a stack of wooden blocks on the floor and tormented him further, throwing them one by one at his head as he cowered on the floor. One bounced off the top of Dobby's eyelid, leaving a gash.

A trickle of blood ran down the side of Dobby's face, and Draco wasn't about to feel sorry. He hated Dobby.

But the spectacle of watching a blubbering house-elf bleed all over his carpeted floor could only cheer Draco for so long. He wanted someone to play with. Someone fun.

It had started to rain again, the dim light outside his windows coloring his bedroom a gloomy shade of gray. Draco slumped down on top his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. He began to cry, and it was through tear-stained eyes that he saw the wishbox sitting on his bedside table.

He wondered if he could wish for something more than just a toy broom or chocolate frogs.

"Dobby," he barked, sitting up.

He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if it was going to work. He opened one of his drawers and pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.

Dobby lifted his tear-stained face out of his hands. "Yes, Master Draco?"

"How do you spell 'friend'?"

Moments later a little girl stepped out of Draco's fireplace. She was dressed in frills and had pink ribbons in her hair. Her face wore a petulant expression very much like Draco's.

Draco reacted to her appearance like any little boy would, springing off his bed in shock. He was expecting someone like Crabbe or Goyle. He might have even tolerated Zabini.

But what he wasn't expecting was a girl. "Wait!" he cried as he watched in horror as the little girl walked over to his toy chest and pulled out a stuffed bear. She turned it upside down and made a face, the toy bear expressing its displeasure with an irritated growl.

"Who are you?" he demanded, balling his fists.

The little girl turned and gave him look like he had just grown a set of tentacles. "I'm Pansy Parkinson, stupid." She tossed the bear behind her. It landed headfirst on the floor with an oof.

There was something about her ill-tempered demeanor that sparked a memory. "You were at my birthday party, " he said.

"Duh." She rolled her eyes and plopped down on top his bed. Really, the nerve.

"Duh. I don't talk to girls," snapped Draco, pushing her back off.

She landed on floor in a puddle of pink, and with one evil-looking grin she kicked him hard in the shin.

"Ow!" Draco jumped on one foot, rubbing his leg. "That hurt!" he roared.

Pansy glared at him from the floor, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Maybe you should talk to girls."

She seemed awfully bossy, and he wondered if he should make Dobby get rid of her, but Dobby seemed to have taken the girl's sudden arrival as an excuse to disappear.

Draco narrowed his eyes, still hopping on one leg. "Why did you come here?"

Pansy shrugged. "Dunno. I just felt like it, I guess." She narrowed her eyes back at him. "Why?"

"Nothing," he said, looking at his wishbox. He wondered if it might be broken, and then he shrugged. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. "You want to play a game?"

She grinned at him. "Sure."

[ USE YOUR WISHBOX EARLY AND OFTEN. ]

Pansy and Draco became fast friends. Still, he kept a healthy distance should some of the frippery and pink rub off. They spend the summer racing around the gardens, Draco on his toy broom and Pansy chasing behind. But by the time autumn came and went, the toy Nimbus 500 was left abandoned next to the reflecting pool, exposed to the elements until a house-elf appeared one afternoon and carried it away.

But there were so many other toys to play with. Soon there were so many crowding Draco's bedroom that he could barely walk a path across the floor until one day, bored and annoyed with the mess, Draco wished them all away. They disappeared in an instant, and Draco smiled to himself, satisfied until the lull of boredom overcame him once again, and he picked the wishbox and wished for something else.

The wishbox quickly became Draco's favorite thing ever. He even slept with it, placing it on a pillow next to his head, and he would lie awake, imagining what other magical things he could wish for: perhaps a tray of sticky pudding for breakfast or a never-ending jar of strawberry jam. Of course, if he had a taste for chicken he could just make a wish and find a whole roasted chicken steaming on a platter waiting for him at the dinner table, or if he was lonely he could wish for company and find Crabbe or Goyle tumbling out of the fireplace in his room. One time, annoyed that he wouldn't stop sniveling, Draco even wished Dobby away, and in a whisper the elf was gone (resurfacing moments later in a duck pond, shivering and gasping for breath).

But then on his sixth birthday, Draco got an even better present: a baby dragon of his very own. One couldn't really play with a dragon; they were impractical for children, breathing fire and being a generally fearsome creature, but Draco's mother had insisted it was very rare, and his friends looked very jealous besides. A child-sized castle with it very own working dungeon was Draco's seventh birthday present, and then on his eighth birthday arrived a flying carpet, procured with some careful bribery from his father.

The wishbox, no longer even in Draco's top twenty of favorite things ever, sat high on a shelf above his bed.

[ ADULT SUPERVISION IS STRONGLY ADVISED FOR ALL CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF 12. ]

"Up."

The broomstick quivered at Draco's feet.

"Up." His voice had more urgency now, and Draco hoped, more determination. He shut his eyes, his hand stretched out in front of him, willing the broomstick to rise. Outside, rain was pelting against his bedroom window, the noise a momentary distraction until he concentrated harder and focused his mind. "Up," he repeated, eyes clenched tight. Still, nothing happened and then, a held breath later, something hard smacked him in the palm.

Eyes flying open, Draco's heart leapt at the sight. Yesterday was his eleventh birthday and here was his present, a Comet 260, hovering at his fingertips. He was willing to bet he was the youngest Wizard in England to own such a fine broom, but even better: He had made it fly -- all by himself.

Grinning, he hopped on.

The broomstick dipped under his weight, and for a wild, panicked moment he was hurled sideways across his bedroom, one hand holding onto the broom handle for dear life, other flailing behind.

But it was no use. The broomstick had a will of its own, or more precisely: Draco had no idea what he was doing. It was one thing for a boy to leap over mud puddles in the garden on a toy broom. Quite another to fly indoors on a broom designed to go high speeds. Still, miraculously, Draco had managed to hold on as the broomstick careened even higher, aiming straight for his bedroom wall.

"Nooo!" He flinched, which had the affect of making the broomstick bank left at the last moment, missing the wall, his elbow making painful contact with his bookcase instead. A shower of books fell down to the floor, but he paid no attention, for he was now speeding in the other direction. Teeth gritted, Draco finally managed to pull himself upright, and he banked just in time to avoid crashing into his wardrobe. He made another arc around his bedroom, starting to get the hang of it.

Flying wasn't so hard after all, he decided, and he leaned his body forward just as a Seeker would if he were reaching for the Snitch.

The broom reacted instantly, speeding up, and again Draco was thrown sideways. However, this time there were no miracles. The broom was now careening out of control!

"Help! Stop!" Draco cried, panicking. He tried to pull up on the broom handle, hoping to slow the broom's forward momentum but that only sent him flipping over backwards, and now he was flying upside down and aiming straight for his bedroom window. It was locked tight to keep out the rain.

"Help me," he whimpered, shutting his eyes and certain of eminent death.

Then it occurred to him. He could just let go, so he did.

Draco landed in a crumpled heap, his desk chair upended over him. The broomstick kept flying, crashing through his window. Broken glass rained down on Draco's head.

This had to be the worst day of Draco's life.

His elbow was starting to throb, and Draco didn't even have to look at it to know that it was broken. Leaning on his other arm, he gingerly sat up, and then winced, not from the pain but at the sight of his bedroom. It looked as if a cyclone had hit it, chairs upended, curtains torn of their hangers, books and toys littering the floor. He doubted even his mother's noted benevolence towards her son's behavior would only go so far, and he thanked Merlin that she wasn't home but in London, shopping in Diagon Alley.

"Dobby," he shrieked, touching his forehead and finding blood. "DOOOOBBBBBYYYY."

Almost instantly Dobby appeared, bowing. "Master Draco," he panted. He stood up and gave Draco one, wide-eyed look before crying out, "Dobby is getting Master Lucius."

"No." Draco grabbed Dobby by the arm. "Don't you dare." He shuddered to think what his father would say. And then with a groan, Draco slumped back against the wall, whimpering.

"But Master Draco is hurt," Dobby insisted. "Dobby must."

"Just fix it," Draco hissed, tears gathering in his eyes. "NOW."

Dobby's ears drooped, but he carefully reached for Draco's elbow with his outstretched hand. He touched it gently, his fingertips brushing lightly over the bruised skin, and at once the pain began to subside as the elbow mended together. Draco knew enough about magic to know that house-elves were especially powerful. Dobby didn't even have a wand. Still, it didn't mean Draco ought to be grateful, and the elbow healed, Draco snatched it away, glaring.

But Dobby would not be deterred. Indeed this was his duty: to care for young Draco, his fingers reaching to touch his charge's forehead. Draco flinched, expecting Dobby's fingers to be cold, but they were surprisingly warm, soothing almost, and it occurred to Draco -- as the gash above his left eyebrow magically knitted together -- that Dobby was tending to him like his mother would.

Draco frowned. Dobby was a house-elf. An inferior species.

"Master Draco?"

Dobby had a curious expression on his face. Draco thought he looked almost sorry.

As if Draco Malfoy would need a house-elf's pity.

"Go away," he snarled.

"But Master Draco," Dobby stammered.

"I said, go away," Draco screamed, kicking Dobby away with his feet.

Dobby gave Draco one last sorrowful look before disappearing with a soft pop.

Left alone, Draco dropped his head in his hands and began to cry in earnest. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was fly his new broom.

Raindrops continued to blow through the broken window, and finally, miserable and sniffling, Draco pulled himself to his feet, his body still aching from his fall. One look through his window told Draco what had happened to his broom. It was impaled to a tree, but Draco couldn't be bothered to care. Dobby would fetch it later (after he cleaned up the mess in Draco's room).

Draco carefully picked his way across his bedroom floor, careful to avoid broken glass when he saw something in his path.

It was a wooden box, ancient and covered with runes. It was now missing a hinge, likely from its fall when Draco collided with his bookshelf.

Draco clutched it to his chest. He wondered if it still worked.

Tucking it under one arm, he crawled on top of his bed, sweeping aside his wizards chess set. (He was meaning to challenge Dobby to a rematch later.) He laid the box down on the bed in front of him and considered it for a moment.

He could wish the day to start over, but he wasn't sure if that would actually work. Then he pondered wishing something horrible to befall Dobby, but he knew that would only get him into trouble like it did the last time. And then the answer came to him so quickly, that he wondered why he didn't think of it in the first place.

He fished a scrap of parchment out his bedside table and wrote his wish down and tucked it inside the box.

There was an explosion of ash inside Draco's fireplace and when the dust had cleared, Pansy Parkinson was standing in his bedroom, smirking.

"Took you long enough," said Draco.

[ JEALOUSY IS NEVER AN EXCUSE TO WISH POORLY ON OTHERS. ]

"Rough day?" said Pansy, stepping over a broken lamp.

Draco moved over to make a space for her on the bed. "Don’t want to talk about it."

"Sorry." It was a rare admission, and she looked it as she crawled onto the bed beside him. "I brought something to cheer you up." Pansy pulled something out of her pocket.

Draco perked up. "Really?" he asked. "What?"

"This." It was a copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet. She laid it on top of his lap.

Draco picked it up and scanned at the front page.

BOY-WHO-LIVED TO ATTEND HOGWARTS.

"Ministry sources confirm Harry Potter has received his Hogwarts letter and will be attending the Wizarding school this September…

Draco looked up at Pansy and shrugged. "So?"

"So?" Pansy sounded incredulous. "It's Harry Potter. Don't you want to meet him?"

"I suppose, but the Potters were blood traitors. My father said so."

"He's famous. Draco, just think of it. He probably has loads of money. I bet he lives in a bigger house than yours."

Draco's face darkened. He hadn't considered that anyone might live in a bigger house than his. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to Hogwarts anyway."

"What?" Pansy looked at him wide-eyed. "Since when?"

Draco grinned, pleased to have Pansy's full attention again. He puffed out his chest. "I'm going to Durmstrang," he announced.

Pansy scoffed, "No, you're not."

"I am too. My father said."

Pansy still looked incredulous. "Your mother won't let you go to Durmstrang."

"It's not up to my mother, know-it-all." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Okay. Your mother won't let your father send you to Durmstrang," Pansy amended.

Draco deflated. He knew she was right, and he sighed at the unfairness of it all. He didn't want to go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts taught useless subjects like Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Why anyone would want to defend against the Dark Arts was a mystery to Draco, especially when the Dark Arts were so fascinating.

Feeling defeated once again, he fell silent as Pansy picked the crumpled newspaper off the floor. She seemed taken by a picture on the front page, and had smoothed the crinkles out the paper to stare at it.

Draco looked over her shoulder.

"I think he looks dreamy," she murmured.

Draco scowled. Pansy was staring at a drawing of Potter (because, according to the caption, there was no known photograph available of the boy). It was obvious whoever had made the picture had taken some creative license portraying the boy hero. He looked more like a character from one of Crabbe's comic books than an eleven-year-old young boy. He was tall with broad shoulders and a long mane of black hair, and he had a wide, ready smile and bright, green eyes that winked whenever he caught Draco's attention.

Draco's scowl deepened, his cheeks blushing scarlet. "He looks like a wanker."

[ ALWAYS REMEMBER TO PACK YOUR WISHBOX. ]

"Like I said, a wanker." Draco was scowling again, in what was to become permanent affliction whenever he was around Potter. Still stung from their meeting onboard the train, Draco was already plotting ways to get even, and he glumly looked on as Potter, looking less the hero than an eager stray dog, scrambled off the steps to the train and ran toward the grouping of boats that would ferry them all across the lake.

Crabbe and Goyle grunted in agreement, Goyle still nursing his finger from his confrontation with Weasley's rat. Pansy had already forgotten her infatuation with the Boy Wonder ("He's so short.") and was more concerned about the Sorting.

"I'd die if I get sorted in Gryffindor," she said, eyeing the boats with concern. She gingerly stepped onboard.

"Brave? You?" Goyle snickered as Pansy cried out in alarm, the boat tipping precariously under his added weight.

"C- could happen," Pansy stammered, looking a bit green as she clung to the side of the boat. The lights of Hogwarts were mirrored across the water's surface as the boat began to move, and Pansy relaxed her grip and let out a shaky laugh. "At least nobody's going to sort me into Hufflepuff. I don't think it's possible for me to be nice," she called. She appeared to be enjoying herself at last.

The mood was contagious.

"Or Ravenclaw," said Draco, snickering.

Pansy kicked him but not terribly hard. "Shut up. I'm smart."

They laughed, and then the four of them fell silent as Hogwarts drew closer. Draco found it hard not to be excited, and like the others, he scrambled off the boat when it had reached the shore. The castle beckoned, and he crowded through the front door.

[ ONE MUSTN'T USE THEIR WISHBOX TO PERSUADE IMPLACABLE POTIONS MASTERS. ]

"It's not fair," Draco cried, following Professor Snape down the dungeon corridor. "How come Potter gets to be Seeker--"

Snape opened the door to his office and gave Draco one withering glare before going in. "Mister Malfoy. Do you really mean to lecture me on what is fair?"

Draco darted inside before Snape could have the chance to close the door on him. He wasn't about to give up so easily. Potter was practically a Muggle. It was simply unfair that he got to play Quidditch when Draco had been flying brooms since he was five years old. "Yes," he said hastily. Snape's gaze darkened. "I mean, no." He tried another tack.

Bribery. "My father is a very wealthy man--"

Draco found himself being forcibly ejected from Snape's office. "Wait," he cried. He was not too proud to grovel. "I'll do anything. Just let me play. "

Draco landed in the middle of the corridor floor just as a trio of giggling Hufflepuff girls was walking by. Draco thought he had never been more humiliated.

Snape was still glowering from his office doorway. "Need I remind you that it was your stunt that got Potter onto the Gryffindor team in the first place?" He cocked an eyebrow before slamming the door in Draco's face.

Logic was never really Draco's strong suit. Especially when it was so much easier to lay the blame on someone else. The answer was quite simple: Potter was going to pay.

USING ONE'S WISHBOX TO WIN THE HOUSE CUP IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

Professor McGonagall had him by the ear.

"But," Draco cried, "you don't understand. Potter's got a dragon."

"Detention," she bellowed. "Twenty points from Slytherin." She dragged him down the corridor. "You will be serving your detention in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. No complaints."

~ * ~

Red eyes haunted Draco's dreams.

Draco took to sleeping with a lighted candle. He kept his bedroom windows locked tight even though it was now summer.

Ever since he saw that thing with Potter, drinking unicorn blood like it was vampire, Draco had nightmares. He saw it in his dreams: a figure, cloaked in black, swooping toward him, eyes scarlet…

Draco's heart pounding in his chest, he stared up at his bedroom ceiling, his bed sheets twisted around his ankles.

"Dobby," he shouted into the dark. He wanted something warm to drink, to take the edge of the night, and yes, he may have wanted the company.

But no house-elf appeared.

"Dobby," he tried again, the fright from his dream diminishing, replaced with confusion. Dobby always came when called. It wasn't only his duty as a house-elf; it was just what he did.

Draco slid off the bed and took his candle with him as he padded out of his room. He thought about waking his mother, and indeed the lure of crawling into her bed was a strong one, but Draco reminded himself that he was twelve now. He had already grown considerably taller over the last year; he didn't need to act like a baby.

That settled, he passed her room and walked down the stairs. As he expected, a light was shining from under the library door, and he pushed the door open.

The chair behind his father's desk was empty, and the sound of a snore drew Draco's attention to the sofa across the room where he found his father fast asleep. Draco figured there was probably a proper explanation: the hour was late, his father too weary to climb the stairs, and he already knew, abstractly, that his father rarely slept in his mother's room. Still, Draco found something unnerving about the sight of someone as powerful as his father sound asleep in his robes and socks. But Draco remembered his father had been rather distracted lately, and he wondered if it had anything to do with Dobby's disappearance.

Draco wasn't about wake his father and ask. A proper Slytherin, Draco had a keen sense of self-preservation.

He was going to go back to bed, and he turned to leave the library when something caught his eye.

It was a book, ordinary looking and covered in worn leather, sitting on the center of his father's desk, but even from a distance Draco could tell there was nothing ordinary about it. It was just a feeling he had, a tingle in his spine. As he drew closer, he could see that it was a diary, which only heightened his curiosity.

He reached out his hand, compelled to see what was inside.

"Don't-- Touch it."

Draco froze. Even in the semi-darkness he could read his father's expression from across the room. Draco suddenly felt afraid.

"I -- apologize," he stammered, backing away from the desk. "I couldn't sleep. I--"

It was at that moment that Dobby finally made his return, Apparating into the center of the library. "Master Lucius," he bowed, out of breath. "Master Draco." He tugged on Draco's hand. "You must come. Dobby is taking you to bed."

Dobby seemed insistent, and Draco couldn't let go of the feeling that there was something he was missing. What if his father had got himself into trouble? He could help.

"Fath—" he started, but he was cut off.

"Good night, Draco," came his father's voice, his face still shrouded in shadow. His tone was final, and Draco knew there would be no further discussion.

Draco let Dobby lead him out of the room, and the library door locked behind them with a click. Draco wondered why his father wouldn't trust him. It wasn't like he was a child.

Frustrated, Draco wheeled around and faced Dobby. "Where were you?" he hissed.

Dobby looked very sorry indeed, his ears drooping, his bulbous eyes starting to water. He made a move to grab an umbrella out of the nearby stand, no doubt intending to harm himself, but Draco stopped him, grabbing his arm. "O-out," was Dobby's stammering answer, as he shrunk under Draco's gaze. "Must not tell where Dobby went. Must not--"

Draco's contempt for Dobby had returned, and it didn't take more than a hard shove to send the house-elf careening backwards into the opposite wall, where he landed, limbs in all directions, blubbering Draco's name.

His face in a sneer, Draco glared down at him. He had no idea what was going on, so he settled for what came easy: petulance. "Next time you come when I call you," he snarled. He gave Dobby a swift kick for his troubles and stormed back up the stairs to his bedroom.

It was there that he took his wishbox off his shelf. He wanted a good night's sleep, one that didn't dwell on red-eyed monsters and questions about his father's odd behavior. Ridding the world of Dobby was purely optional.

I wish to sleep, he wrote down and slipped the parchment square into the box.

And he did.

[ WISHING HARM UPON ONE'S RIVALS CAN LEAD TO UNEXPECTED RESULTS. ]

I wish to scare Potter.

Draco looked down at the parchment square with a satisfied smirk before tucking it into the wishbox.

~ * ~

"I said disarm only," Professor Lockhart shouted from across the Great Hall. He bounded toward Potter.

"My apologies," Draco replied, smirking as Lockhart's finite incatatum ended Draco's cast Tarantallegra and Potter's wildly dancing feet finally came to a rest. Professor Snape was watching from the sidelines, wearing a twisted smile of his own.

He walked over to Draco. "Remember that spell I taught you?"

Draco nodded and tried not to grin. It would be perfect.

"Wands at the ready," cried Lockhart as Snape stepped back.

Draco saw the look of panic on Potter's face. He raised his wand. "Scared, Potter?"

Potter smirked back. "You wish."

continue on to part ii

The Wishbox [Draco-centric, PG-13] Part ii

mizbean — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:09:52 GMT

Title: The Wishbox
Author: mizbean
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Draco/Pansy, Draco/Blaise, and shades of future of Harry/Draco because I'm a shipper, but mostly Draco-centric.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 11,000
Summary: If you could have anything in world, what would you wish for?
Author's Notes: My ownficfest submission. Written for catsintheattic. Thank you to kennahijja for giving me the opportunity to write this story.

Part i

[ YOUR WISHBOX WON'T HELP YOU IF YOU THINK YOU'RE GAY. ]

"God, Quidditch is dull." Zabini rolled his eyes as they exited the Malfoy family box. Ireland's victory over Bulgaria had turned the crowd of World Cup revelers into a sea of green. A drunken sea of green.

Draco moved quickly to sidestep a puddle of vomit. "Then why are you here?" he snapped, irritated less from the present company than Bulgaria's surprising loss. Zabini had somehow ceased to be irritating earlier in the summer, right around the time he had shown up on the Malfoy family doorstep in search of a distraction from his latest stepfather's passing. Now Draco just found him bewildering.

Zabini shrugged, looking sideways at Draco, his gaze sending color to Draco's cheeks.

Draco thought it might be Zabini's height, but he just seemed older. And more experienced. Draco changed the subject. "I wonder where my dad went off to."

His father had disappeared before the game ended, taking along Goyle senior. Others had gone too, and Draco felt put out that he didn't get asked along.

"Who cares," replied Zabini, halting. He was eyeing the revelers with obvious distaste. The mood of the campsite had turned rowdier. Firecrackers were shooting off from all directions, many were singing, and Draco thought he heard someone scream.

"Let's go somewhere," Zabini said, tugging on the sleeve of Draco's robes. "Yeah?" He had moved closer, his hand brushing Draco's shoulder.

That relatively simple request took a hell of a long time for Draco to compute, and he realized he was standing slack-jawed when he heard Zabini start to laugh. Draco's ears were burning when he muttered, "What?" -- even though he heard it quite right the first time.

Zabini merely laughed again, which in itself was a rare thing, but Draco thought his teeth looked unusually bright under the night's sky. That Pansy had chosen that moment to burst onto the scene caused Draco no shortage of relief.

Draco wrapped his fingers around Pansy's elbow, leading her away. "Funny. Absolutely hilarious," he muttered, so very pleased that no one could see the color of his cheeks.

~ * ~

Pansy's lips tasted wet and vaguely like sticky pudding. It was after dinner -- after he had spent his meal squeezed next to Viktor Krum and barely eating -- that he had accosted her just down the stairs from the Great Hall.

She didn't look at all displeased with Draco's sudden change in interest in her, a blond curl twirled around her finger. "So we'll be going to Hogsmeade, then?"

Draco blinked. "Sure." But haven't they always gone to Hogsmeade together?

Draco didn't grasp what Pansy had meant until she grabbed him by the hand. He stared at it as she led him toward the common room door. "First you have to take me to The Three Broomsticks, and then Honeydukes…"

~ * ~

Pansy twirled around, her pink dress robes fluttering in her wake. "Well, what do you think?"

She was wearing lipstick a shade too red to be flattering, her blond curls piled and lacquered high atop her head. Draco was all too aware that Zabini was standing behind him, watching them both when he replied, "You look nice."

Pansy's eyebrows twitched, and Draco tried desperately to recall the types of compliments his father always paid to his mother. "Lovely. You look lovely."

"Really?" Pansy's face split into a wide smile.

~ * ~

The Great Hall was transformed into a wonderland of ice and snow. Couples were swaying to the music, breaking apart whenever McGonagall and Snape's watchful eyes turned in their direction, and outside, Draco found himself pressed against a cold castle wall.

"What're you doing?" he managed to gasp, holding his hands up too late to stop Zabini's forward trajectory.

"Took you long enough," was Zabini's gruff reply.

Somewhere inside Pansy was still waiting near the punch bowl while her boyfriend was being kissed like the world might end tomorrow. If that may seem like an exaggeration, it was only because Draco was woefully inexperienced in that regard, a few hasty kisses with Pansy aside. Finally, they broke apart, Draco still clutching the wool collar of Zabini's coat. "What—" he gasped, heart thudding in his chest, "was that for?"

Zabini smirked, still a half a head taller. "Had a hunch."

Draco's mouth went dry, his hands dropping to his sides. "What that supposed to be a joke?"

Zabini grinned, fingering the collar of Draco's shirt. "What do you think?"

Draco thought that he hated it when someone answered a question with another question. It was so very Slytherin. He leaned forward, wanting to kiss Zabini some more when Zabini abruptly backed away.

Draco soon saw why. Pansy was standing a few steps away. He wondered how much she had seen.

"Where have you been?" she cried, fists balled at her sides as Zabini muttered an apology and made a hasty retreat.

Draco was caught between chasing after Zabini and trying to placate Pansy. He decided to do neither. "Nowhere," he retorted harshly, walking off in the other direction, ignoring Pansy's tears.

Besides, Draco felt rather like crying himself.

[ YOUR WISHBOX WILL NOT DO YOUR HOMEWORK. ]

"Mister Malfoy."

Draco looked up and shrank under the weight of Snape's glare. "Yes, Professor?"

"You do know what a three-foot-long essay looks like?" Snape held up a roll of parchment, Draco's homework, for the entire class to see.

There was a titter of laughter from the Gryffindor side of the classroom. Draco scowled darkly before replying, "Yes."

"Then can you explain to me why even Weasley managed to write more about the medicinal properties of bubotubor spores than you?"

Draco shifted in his seat, the Inquisitor Squad badge pinned to his robes catching in the light. "No."

"I expect better of you," Snape said, low as he walked past.

[ YOU SHOULD NOT USE YOUR WISHBOX TO WOE YOUR GIRLFRIEND. ]

"You're hurt."

Draco was letting Pansy attend to his wounds, her handkerchief carefully blotting the blood on his face. He attempted a smile, which hurt like hell. "You should see the other guy."

"Really?" Pansy's eyes lit up.

Merlin, she was so easy. Draco sometimes felt guilty.

Millicent Bulstrode burst into the common room. Like Draco she was still dressed in her Slytherin Quidditch uniform. "Potter's suspended. Umbridge did the deed in McGonagall's office five minutes ago."

"See?" Draco said to Pansy.

She looked like she might combust with glee. "Oh, Draco."

Alone, in the opposite corner, Zabini rolled his eyes.

[ YOU MUST NOT USE YOUR WISHBOX FOR REVENGE. ]

"You're dead, Potter."

It wasn't just that Draco was angry. He felt like his whole world was crashing down around him. He had spent the last two days in a daze, and he had begged his mother via Floo to let him come home, but she had refused.

It was just by luck that he had found Potter alone in the Entrance Hall, unprotected.

"You're going to pay," Draco warned, his voice low. "I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to my father."

"Well, I'm terrified now," Potter replied, sarcastic.

Draco thought he ought to be.

~*~

The wishbox was back where it belonged, on Draco's bedside table. Draco sat on the edge of his bed, a gentle breeze blowing in through his open window, ruffling his hair.

It was after midnight, the sprawling Manor empty except for his mother locked behind her bedroom door. Draco never hated being alone more.

He picked up a square of parchment and contemplated it, unsure how to articulate what he wanted into simple words.

He wanted to make things right again, so his mother would stop crying. He wanted to be a man just like his father. But most of all, he was sick of feeling so powerless and so very young.

But grown men don't play with toys, a voice chided inside his head as he slipped his wish into the box. He recited the spell and lay down atop his bed to wait.

He didn't have to wait for long. The light in his room was dim -- there were only a few candles burning -- but his presence was as unmistakable as the two red eyes glowing at the foot of Draco's bed.

Draco scrambled off the bed and knelt down, one knee touching the ground. "My Lord."

A hand, dry and cold, touched Draco's cheek where it lingered, brushing away the tears that were falling from Draco's eyes.

"You wish to serve?"

Draco nodded, and realizing he should speak, he blurted, "I'll do anything. Anything to get my father back."

"Of course."

Draco looked up at the Dark Lord's face, relief flooding though him. It was more than he could have possibly have wished for. "You will help me get my father out of Azkaban?"

"Of course, he is of great value to me." Voldemort's hand lifted Draco's chin. "As are you, Draco. You are my future."

"I'm—I'm honored." Draco would have thought he'd be terrified, but he wasn't. He wanted this more than anything.

Draco pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and held out his arm. He didn't flinch when Voldemort pressed his wand to it.

~*~

Draco's mother wasn't so calm. "No. I won't let this happen." Frantic, she grabbed Draco by the shoulders, pulling him to her, the fabric of his robes bunched in her fists. "Your father did not want this."

His mother was a tall woman in her own right; nevertheless Draco was now taller, and he easily pushed her away. She let out a wail and crumpled to the floor in a heap, her long hair hanging like a curtain around her face. "You're wrong. Father believed in me," he told her.

"Cissy, you're embarrassing yourself," said Bellatrix, watching. She looked darkly amused by her sister's breakdown. "You knew this day would come."

It might have been the sanest thing Bellatrix ever said, and her words appeared to give Narcissa some resolve. She looked up at her son. "What is he making you do?"

Draco adjusted the sleeve of his shirt, the skin of his forearm still tender and raw. "Nothing I can't handle."

[ SOMETIMES A WISHBOX CAN WORK IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS. ]

He was handling it.

"You're not suiting up?"

The disappointment in Pansy's voice was obvious. The Slytherin team was short one player already. He already got an earful from Theodore Nott. It's not like he needed to hear it from her too.

"I'm not feeling well," he snapped back. He was sitting on top his bed, staring at the opposite wall. The dormitory was otherwise empty, the game due to start in a half hour.

"Really?" It was apparent that she didn't believe him.

"Really," he retorted icily. He rolled his eyes, and that was when he noticed for the first time Pansy had an old Potter Stinks badge pinned to her Slytherin scarf. For some reason, he found that darkly amusing.

"What?" said Pansy when he began to laugh.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He got to his feet, and laying both hands on her shoulders, he urged her around so that she was facing the dormitory door. "Pansy, go to the game."

"But – If you let me help—"

"I'm fine," said Draco, cutting her off.

~*~

He was handling it.

"Where are you going?" Zabini's voice was low. The corridor was empty, but it still was after curfew.

Draco ignored him and kept walking.

Zabini finally caught up to him on the landing between the fifth and six floors, accosting him next to a painting of a young woman. She shrieked and covered her eyes.

For a blissful moment Draco allowed himself to be ravaged, Zabini's hand roaming freely down the front of his robes, but reality insisted. Draco had a task. He could not afford to waste time.

He steeled himself and sent Zabini stumbling backwards. "Don't touch me," he snarled.

Zabini recovered his footing easily. "Give it up. Everyone knows you're a poof."

Draco thought that was hardly the point. He turned toward the stairs, going up, but Zabini stopped him again, this time grabbing him by the arm.

Draco glared down at him. "If you don't get your fucking hand off me, I'll hex your dick off." Draco meant it and Zabini wisely dropped his hand.

"Pansy finally figured out how to spread her legs, huh?"

Draco knew Zabini was only trying to get a rise out of him, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. "Just leave her out of it." He turned to go again.

"Right," Zabini called after him. "You look like shit. You know that?"

Draco snorted, stopping halfway up the stairs. "I'm touched you care."

"Pansy's at her wit's end."

"And I told you to leave her out of it."

"Fine," snapped Zabini, looking anything but. Draco knew Zabini avoided violent contact as a rule, but he looked very much like he wanted to slug Draco, his fists clenched at his sides.

Draco was at once grateful for the space that was between them. "Go back to bed," he called.

"You're an idiot," Zabini retorted.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Like I said. I'm touched you care."

Zabini said nothing more. They were both Slytherins. There was no need to get maudlin. And besides, Draco knew Zabini wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't get in the way.

"Go away. I can handle it," Draco said.

~*~

The bathroom door burst open, hitting the wall with a bang, and inside Draco sank down onto the cold tile floor.

He wasn't handling it.

The sobs came easier now. It might have been after he nearly killed Weasley that Draco stopped feeling ashamed of his tears, but Draco tried not to dwell on that for very long.

A soft sound above him told Draco he was not alone, and for once he was grateful for the intrusion.

"Don't," he heard someone say, and he looked up to see a ghost floating down beside him. She stared at him through a pair of thick glass lenses. "Don't cry."

Draco snorted. "Who're you?"

"Myrtle."

Myrtle was ugly, had the sort of drab hair that would have given Pansy fits and wore thick, Potter-esque glasses. She looked like no one he'd ever associate with in real life. Her voice grated. She was a ghost.

But he told her everything: his impossible task, the anguish he caused his mother, the isolation he felt from his friends, his feelings of failure. The words spilled from his mouth, and when he had finally finished the ghostly girl sniffled, her own eyes brimming with tears.

"Will you come visit me again?"

Draco knew he had no business making promises to anyone.

"Okay," he said.

[ A WISHBOX CAN SOMETIMES MALFUNCTION. THE MANUFACTURER BEARS NO RESPONSIBILITY SHOULD THIS OCCUR, AS THIS CAN SIMPLY BE CONSTRUED AS BAD LUCK. OUR APOLOGIES. ]

Red eyes haunted his dreams.

Terrified, Draco slipped out of his dormitory and padded through the sleeping castle.

"Why am I doing wrong?"

It was a simple question, plainly asked, but the vanishing cabinet provided no answers. It merely stood there, broken and dusty, in the Great Room of Hidden Things.

"FUCK!" Draco screamed, and after taking several gulping breaths of air, he tried again, quieter, "Why am I doing wrong? Why won't you work? Why? Why? I've tried everything--"

He was shouting again. Draco wiped the tears from his eyes and began to laugh. All else had failed; he supposed trying to reason with a bloody piece of furniture was the best he could do.

~*~

He was being watched.

Potter was about as stealthy as an overgrown sheepdog. Draco had known Potter had been trailing him for weeks now.

What puzzled Draco was why he didn't actually mind.

"Would you save me, Potter?" Draco asked during one of his madder moments, delirious from lack of sleep, the Dark Mark on his arm turned red and raw. "Like you save everyone else. Would you?"

Once again, the vanishing cabinet didn't answer.

~*~

Draco's whole body was shaking. "I can't do it. ... I can't. ... It won't work… and unless I do it soon ... he says he'll kill me."

He looked up and saw his tear-streaked face in the cracked mirror. And then another face appeared behind him, colored white with shock.

Draco spun around.

~*~

Draco barely remembered being carried into the infirmary, Snape's frantic instructions to Madam Pomphrey were but a whisper in Draco's ears, but the hate Draco saw in Potter's eyes he could recall vividly, and days later when he was well enough to go back to his dormitory, Draco took a detour instead.

He stood before the vanishing cabinet newly resolute. "This time you're going to work."

[ A WISHBOX MAY NOT GRANT THE IMPOSSIBLE. ]

Draco couldn't stop shaking.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," Dumbledore said to him even as his body was slumping lower against the ramparts of the tower.

Then, bizarrely, the old man began to smile.

"Draco, you are not a killer."

"How do you know?" Draco cried.

[ A WISHBOX MAY CARRY YOU HOME. ]

Draco was being crushed into his mother's chest. He couldn't breathe.

"Well? Did he do it?" It was Bellatrix, sounding frantic.

"Hush, Bella." If possible, Narcissa's grip on Draco tightened. "Severus?"

Sounding out of breath, Draco heard Snape respond, "It is done."

Narcissa's relief was palpable, and she finally loosened her hold. "Thank you, Severus." She drew back, both hands clutching the sides of Draco face, and looked him over.

He could see how worried she must have been, her eyes red rimmed, her forehead lined. Guilt weighted on Draco's shoulders. "I--I'm sorry."

"No." Narcissa shook her head. "You're safe. You're home safe."

[ A WISHBOX WILL NOT TURN YOU INTO SOMETHING YOU ARE NOT. ]

Draco could barely see the outline of the old man in the gloom of the dungeon room. "Get up," he barked. He pointed his wand.

The man, Draco remembered meeting under happier circumstances as a boy shopping for his wand, shifted where he was lying on the floor, but did not rise. "Young man –" Ollivander started to say.

"Shut up," Draco shouted back, his wand shaking. "Get off the floor."

"But surely you understand that I'm too weak to stand." The man's voice was reasonable, which sounded all the more maddening to Draco's ears.

Draco wiped the sweat from his forehead, starting to feel ill. "Don't make me hurt you," he warned.

"But you mean to hurt me. That's why you're here."

He, of course, was right. Draco's mouth filled with the taste of his own vomit. He had no stomach for this sort of thing, and he knew all too well what happened to spineless Death Eaters who couldn't do their duty.

"Do you remember when you came into my shop to buy your wand?" Ollivander asked, after waiting patiently for Draco to compose himself and clean the sick off his shoes.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Attuned to the dark now, Draco could make out the features of Ollivander's face, the old man's silvery eyes glassy as they stared back at Draco.

"I remember as well. Hawthorn and unicorn hair." The wandmaker turned his head to face the opposite wall. "I thought then that you might have taken another path."

"What?" rasped Draco. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ollivander didn't answer, and Draco steadied the grip on his wand.

"It doesn't matter. I have no choice." Clenching his eyes shut, he aimed his wand. "Crucio."

~*~

"Are you all right?"

"What?" Draco said, staring into Looney Lovegood's wide saucer eyes. He had a tray of food in his hands, dinner for Malfoy Manor's newest prisoner. He shoved it into her hands. "I'm fine."

"If you mean to torture me, it's all right. I'll try not to cry."

Draco blanched. "I'm not-- I mean I don't--" He stopped himself before he could say anything more.

Lovegood was still wearing her Ravenclaw uniform from when she was snatched off the train, the skirt torn at the hem. "But it would be better if you let me go."

"I can't do that," Draco snapped back.

"No. I didn't expect you to."

He had to ask, "What about Potter? Is he going to save you now?"

"No. I expect he has more important things to do." Lovegood didn't appear to be overly bothered by this, however. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. Mr. Ollivander has been lovely company." She indicated the frail man pitifully moaning on the floor behind her.

Draco frowned. "I'm not worried."

[ ALL SALES ARE FINAL. MANAGEMENT REGRETS ANY INCONVENIENCE THAT MIGHT CAUSE. ]

"And ze problem ees?" asked Monsieur Petit in heavily accented English. He looked perplexed as Draco set the wishbox down on the counter of Petit's shop.

"Ze problem is that the wishbox is broken," Draco snapped back. "Fix it."

The shopkeeper made a face and picked the wishbox off the counter to give it closer inspection, Draco watching impatiently. It had taken a considerable amount of effort and risk for him to travel to Paris, but he was desperate. International Floo travel was expensive, not that he didn't have funds, but there was also the matter of buying the border agents' silence and arranging for Crabbe and Goyle to cover for him back at school. He didn't wish to think what would happen if word got back to Headmaster Snape or the Dark Lord that he had left the country. He would lucky to live to see the end of the day.

"And why do you think ze box ess broken?" Monsieur Petit asked, still inspecting the box. He poked at it with his wand and frowned.

Draco's hand balled into a fist. "It doesn’t work anymore. Everything's gone wrong. No matter what I wish for everything just gets worse!"

The shopkeeper sighed, setting the wishbox back on the counter. "Perhaps eet ess because you are not wishing hard enough."

"I am wishing hard enough," Draco shouted back, his fist pounding on the counter.

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Zee, a wishbox ees a mysterious thing. Eet works een mysterious ways. I told your mother zo when she purchased it. One can never know." He pushed the wishbox toward Draco. "Ze wishbox ees not broken. Non."

[ A WISHBOX CANNOT CHANGE THE PAST. ]

Draco stormed back into his dormitory room, drew the wishbox out of his robe pocket and threw it into the bottom of his trunk. The much-abused box splintered in half, rendering it useless, which Draco thought was just perfect. He kicked the trunk once and collapsed on top of his bed, his head in his hands.

"How was your trip?"

Draco dropped his hands from his eyes and looked across the dormitory. Zabini was sprawled atop his bed, paging through a magazine. "What trip?" Draco asked.

Zabini turned another page. "You need to pay Crabbe and Goyle more," he said without looking up.

Draco blanched.

"Don't worry. I covered for you," and he added, teasing, "You're an idiot but a fetching one."

Zabini's magazine had dropped a fraction, and Draco could see from his expression that he was smiling. Draco knew better than to get his hopes up, but couldn't help asking, "Does this mean we're--" Zabini had all but ignored him since their confrontation sixth year.

"No." Zabini put down his magazine. "I told you. Death Eaters are bad for my health and well being."

"I can't help that now," Draco cried, exasperated. "It's too late."

"I know." Zabini picked up his magazine again. "Too bad."

[ YOU MAY WISH FOR A HERO. ]

The Dark Lord was angry. The Mark on Draco's arm burned. He was sure his father felt it too. Draco caught him tugging on the sleeve of his robes.

"It will be over soon," Lucius assured him. They were sitting side by side in the drawing room, a large fire roaring in the hearth in front of them. Still, Draco felt a chill deep in his bones that no fire or being under his parents' roof could take away.

Lucius lowered his voice. "We will find a way to get back in the Dark Lord's favor. We will reclaim our rightful place by his side."

"How? How will we reclaim our place?" demanded Draco, flinching from another stab of pain.

"Trust me," said Lucius, wincing.

Draco looked away. He no longer wanted to be by the Dark Lord's side.

There was a commotion in the hallway.

"Draco," he heard his mother call. "Come here. Do you know this boy?"

And that's how Draco came face to face with the one person he hadn't dared to wish for.

[ OF COURSE, YOU MAY ALWAYS WISH FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE. ]

"Why didn't you identify me?" asked Potter, looking genuinely curious as he added more sugar to his coffee. "I was so sure you would."

Draco's eyes dropped down to his own coffee cup. He had run into Potter in the Ministry lobby. It had been years. He could have just said his polite regards and gone on his way, but on a lark he had decided to invite Potter to get a cup of coffee. The Ministry canteen was just down the stairs. He really didn't expect Potter to accept.

Draco reached for a sugar and fumbled with it as he tore open the paper wrapper. "I was … happy to see you." His spoon was stirring a cyclone inside his cup.

Potter laughed. "You didn't look very happy."

A smile threatened on Draco's face. "No, I wasn't." He took a sip of coffee and nearly spit it back into his cup. He had added way too much sugar. "I know it doesn't make sense…" He trailed off, embarrassed. He actually thought very little about the war. It made getting on with his life a whole hell of a lot easier. "That's all over with, anyway." He picked up another packet of sugar and dumped it into his cup.

Potter looked thoughtful. "Good thing."

Draco nodded, still stirring his coffee.

"Why did you invite me to coffee?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why so many questions, Potter?"

"It's my job."

Right. Potter was some big shot Auror now. He knew this was a mistake. Potter probably thought Draco was trying to curry favor or pay a bribe. "I suppose you should be running along. You know how people talk."

"Oi. I'm not done with my coffee yet." Potter looked offended, and then a predatory-looking grin spread across his face. Draco figured it was some sort of Auror intimidation trick to get Draco to spill his dark secrets. "Did you know Blaise Zabini works in my office?" Potter asked, leaning across the table.

Draco smirked. "Yes, I did know that." Zabini still wouldn’t sleep with him, but they had kept in touch.

"If you get him drunk he'll spill all his secrets."

Draco took a moment to parse the idea of Potter and Zabini drinking together. "Really?"

Potter gestured toward him with his coffee cup. "He has stories about you."

The blood started to drain from Draco's face, and then he gaped. "Wait. Did you just wink at me?"

"Do you always put so much sugar in your coffee?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

Potter grinned at him. "This is fun. We should do this again."

Bleach: The Spicy Hot Interlude [Ichigo/Renji/Rukia, PG-13]

mizbean — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 07:06:41 GMT

Title: The Spicy Hot Interlude
Rating: PG-13/T
Wordcount: 307 *sorry*
Pairings/Characters: Ichigo/Renji/Rukia
Spoilers: None
Notes: Submitted to bleach_contest Week #71; Prompt: Dream; 300 word maximum.
Summary: Ichigo knew he was in for it when Rukia put down her cup and climbed right into his lap. Consider this an outtake from an earlier fic: A Night in Rukongai.

Ichigo knew he was in for it -- not when Renji bought that third pitcher of sake, not when Rukia kicked him (hard) in the shin for making fun of Byakuya's bankai, not even when the serving girl from the last bar winked at him as she wiped down their table. No, it was later, after yet another round of drinks in another bar, when Rukia set down her cup, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and climbed right onto Ichigo's lap.

"Er… er, Rukia? What-" Ichigo didn't get to a chance to finish, for there was a mouth, clever and sweet, kissing his lips, and fingers, light delicate fingers, cradling his jaw and finding the crook of his neck and drifting down under his shihakushou to his left nipple and giving it a sharp, little twist.

He broke away, gasping, clutching his nipple like the blushing virgin he was (not that he was telling anyone). He looked in panic across the table.

He needn't have worried. Renji's mouth was hanging open, his tongue trailing a wet line across his lower lip.

As if Ichigo's life couldn't get any weirder, Rukia bent down and kissed him again.

Ichigo's hand found the small of Rukia's back and slid down. Not that he was trying to take advantage or anything, but Rukia was so soft and round; he squeezed.

"Let's get a room upstairs," Rukia whispered hotly. "Renji too."

"Wha-"

"Surely, you've thought about it, Ichigo."

"Ichigo?"

Something hard hit Ichigo on the shoulder, and he sputtered and lifted up his head. There was a noodle stuck to his cheek.

"You passed out in your soup," said Renji, laughing. Rukia, definitely not in his lap, was sitting next to Renji, howling.

Ichigo gazed forlornly back down at his soup bowl. He was in for it all right.