A Mandatory Alliance
By: Provocative Envy
OOO
Author’s Note: This is a reproduction of a story I wrote about a year ago on a previous account. The story itself wasn’t taken off, but my penname was frozen when I was (unfairly) reported to the administration for, if I recall correctly, excessive swearing in another fic. I came across this a few nights ago in an old notebook and fondly recalled writing it; I decided to edit it a bit to fit my current writing style and post it.
OOO
CHAPTER ONE
To: Unknown Pen Pal
I may be mean, hypocritical, ridiculous, and blond, but if there is one thing I am not, it’s misunderstood. I rarely pretend to be something I’m not, and if I do, I have a damn good reason for it.
For instance, I may act like an angelic perfectionist whilst in the presence of my overbearing father, or when I’m putting false notions of my emotional suffering in Dumbledore’s head for my own sick, twisted amusement when he attempts to offer his support in my “time of need”. I’m an asshole to the first degree, and I don’t deny it. I just wish stupid little girls like Pansy Parkinson would stop chasing after me so they can “lick my sentimental scars.” ‘Lick’ being the operative word.
More or less, I have very little to complain about in my life of luxury, superiority, and house elves; I get the occasional problem, but what adolescent on the verge of going evil for all eternity doesn’t? So far, the only real issue I’ve ever had was deciding whether or not to murder Harry Potter and his dumbass lackeys. Much to my father’s dismay, I seem to have completely missed the point of the empowering speeches he feels it’s necessary to give me before I leave for school every year.
These long, dreary spectacles consist of loud reassurances that if I “just happen” to let my knife slip during dinner one night and kill off the entirety of Gryffindor house, he wouldn’t hold it against me. In fact, he might even buy me that new racing broom that came out so I could flee as quickly as possible from the fascist Hogwarts professors. It’s at this time that I usually point out that there’s a reason I’m a seeker: I’m not exactly renowned for a disability in holding on to things. I actually suggested once that he employ Neville Longbottom as the instigator of one of these “accidents”. Unfortunately for my father, I’ve never seen his face go quite that shade of red. Shocking contrast to that platinum hair he was generous enough to pass on to me. (Yes, I’ve gotten quite enough renditions of “Whose That Beach Blonde Girl?”. So shove off.)
Despite my moral rectitude when in the face of wiping out those brave, loyal lions, I’m not exactly the nicest of gentlemen. I take genuine pleasure in making first years cry, and those sneaky smirks I manage to set in place whenever I’m around the Dream Team actually are as sinister as they seem. I’m not allowed to be a Death Eater yet, but as soon as I graduate my forearm will bear the mark that deranged men like my father take pride in. There’s no use in attempting to get out of that, and I’m far too lazy to bother trying.
Nonetheless, I like to think that at times I can be a good person. That when it comes down to it, I’ll do the right thing. I have no idea when this confrontation will occur, but I’m positive that it will. My defining moment will certainly be significant, and I plan to milk it for all it’s worth when it finally happens.
My mother always told me that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. I’ve always thought this utter nonsense, since in my mind it’s clearly obvious what you do when you have lemons: you throw them at people. Preferably Pothead, Weasel, and the previously-bucktoothed Beaver. I’m not stupid enough to contradict my frighteningly sensitive mother on that though, so I’ve yet to get her to be reasonable. Besides, I think she has a rather dangerous obsession with non-alcoholic beverages, so I like to let her believe that the rest of the population will indeed always choose the sickly sweet yellow substance over the highly amusing debauchery of Potter’s glasses. Alas, I don’t think she’d find Weasley doubled over in pain nearly as entertaining as normal, sane people would. And so my fantasies remain in my head, where I expand upon them gleefully and wistfully: how I wish life would give me some lemons!
Ahem. Back the point of my mother’s age-old anecdote: you take things as they come, and don‘t fret over situations you can‘t really help. I think I misinterpreted her meaning on this one, but I’ll barrel on anyways. You see, every time she said this to me I had visions of pelting my enemies with the aforementioned citrus fruit, and so my original understanding of it is a bit foggy. Nonetheless, I still think that she meant to not bother preparing for things since something always screws them up anyways. For instance, in her lemon debacle, I personally suggest that it’s implied you expected oranges, or apples, or bananas, rather than lemons, and that life giving you lemons was utterly surprising and dreadful. (What if you’d wanted to make apple juice instead of lemonade?) Which brings me back to the focus of my treatise on my mother’s wisdom: being prepared is for boring, bushy-haired freaks like Granger, since people like me, who are naturally superior, always come out on top anyways. Honestly, if you don’t have it, don’t pretend to flaunt it. Er, somehow I think I misconstrued that one too. Damn.
Whatever, though. As warped as my perceptions may be, they’ve gotten me through life unscathed, for the most part, and I intend to live by them for the rest of my natural existence. Once I’m dead, I may take up poetry, or croquet, which would undoubtedly broaden my horizons and possibly double my political influence. Or at least that’s what my mallet-wielding father says. But let’s remember that he also runs around blasting innocent people into the air and prancing down streets with large groups of middle-aged men in masks, so I don’t think I should trust him. Besides, he grows lemon trees, and we all know my opinions on that.
Pansy Parkinson once told me that I was an arrogant, selfish little brat who didn’t care one whit for the rest of the world, and certainly not for her. I realize now that she probably meant for me to argue with her so that we could make up and then have hot, steamy, make-up sex in her parent’s bed. But I found her description of me so vividly accurate that I simply stood up and shook her hand, expounding upon the brilliance of her depiction. She’d then burst into tears and fled from the room, wailing about my indifference and lack of appreciation. I’m still confused, however, as to what I should have been appreciative or grateful of: she slept with half the bloody school, so I don’t think she could have possibly been referring to the sex.
Other than that one little spat, our relationship is just peachy. We talk all the time, the snogging’s great, and my father approves of her. Although, now that I think about it, I usually end up snogging her for all England just to shut her up, and my father only really likes her because her father is one of those madmen with wands who thinks no one knows what they’re doing when they magically appear in empty cornfields, or graveyards. Sometimes I really wish Potter would just finish off that creepy bloke with the snake so I could get some peace and quiet. Whenever I’m home my father is usually laughing evilly and plotting a sixteen year old boy’s demise, which is actually very, very pathetic when you really sit and think about it.
But back to Pansy. I’m not quite sure why I keep her around, since she’s both ugly and stupid, and rarely contributes any real usefulness in my life. All she’s really there for is to laugh at my witticisms, and point at the person I’m making fun of while snorting like a goddamn crack whore with a bag of powdered sugar. It used to be fairly hilarious to watch Pansy’s peanut-sized brain try to process the insult I’d hurled in the direction of my victim, but as of late it’s merely gotten sad. Maybe I’ve gone soft, but it’s just not as much fun as it used to be to witness her incomprehension.
If I had a grain of honor, I’d break up with her now, and quit leading her on and fueling her dreams of marriage and blonde babies and money. But then she wouldn’t be around anymore, and I’d lack a female crony to giggle incessantly at my jokes. Nonetheless, it would be twice as fulfilling to give her a bullshit speech about “just being friends” and bring her to tears. What a shocking dilemma.
From: Your Obnoxiously Perfect Pen Pal, D.M.
OOO
Draco Malfoy reread his first letter, grinned in satisfaction, and sealed the paper with steaming red wax. Since he didn’t know who it was going to, he left the front of the makeshift envelope blank, admiring the creamy white surface of the parchment as his thoughts drifted to this pointless “unification-of-international-wizarding-schools” scheme Dumbledore had decided was necessary to everyone’s emotional well-being. The senile old man really was beyond all hope of recovery if he genuinely believed a few anonymous letters in a mandatory correspondence would solve all the hostility that had been brewing for centuries between the schools.
Draco had written freely about all of his secrets and problems, thinking the entire situation was a farce and a facsimile of a sham. When Dumbledore had announced the plan, he had, in actuality, thought it was the psychotic headmaster’s idea of a joke. But then the professors had posted reminders all over the halls about the deadline for the first letter, and he’d grudgingly admitted that it was, indeed, real. And so he’d started his first draft, sparing the recipient none of his sarcasm or sadism. If Dumbledore wanted other young witches and wizards to learn to accept him, they’d better damn well be open-minded.
Standing up and yawning, Draco glanced over at his clock and was alarmed to discover that dinner had started. Snatching up the parchment and walking briskly towards the Great Hall, he stopped at the wooden box outside the Slytherin common room. Studying the object from every angle, he surmised that the opening at the top was where he was to deposit his letter. Without hesitation he slid the paper through the slot and went on his way to dinner, whistling the theme song to Friends and not even looking back.
OOO
No comments:
Post a Comment