Chapter 1 : Chapter One
| ||Rating: Mature||Chapter Reviews: 4|
Change Background: Change Font color:
Slash is an entirely new concept for me, and this particular slash isn't supposed to be taken too seriously. It's supposed to be a little bit humorous, if anything.
Also, I was inspired by a Times magazine article about JK Rowling coming out with Dumbledore. If you've read it, you might be able to see where my story is going to go.
Enjoy and Happy Holidays!
PS: THIS STORY CONTAINS A LOT OF STRONG LANGUAGE. IF YOU DO NOT APPRECIATE STRONG LANGUAGE, PLEASE DO NOT READ.
made by .highwayheartbeat @ TDA
Chapter One: In Which the Main Character May Suffer from Serious Brain Damage Due to Banging His Head Against a Stone Wall
Holy fuck. I cannot even believe it. A Yule Ball? Could the barmy old fuck have thought of a better way to humiliate innocent bystanders, such as myself? Obviously not. I personally believe that Dumbledore is an evil man, especially due to his current preoccupation with Scarhead. I am quite convinced Dumbledore wants to emotionally scar us because he is so fucking old and no longer wishes to go on. I will gladly deal with him appropriately, so that he can find a resting place somewhere, like the bottom of the Black Lake or in the Pit of Despair. We certainly don’t need him.
A fucking Yule Ball. With dancing and dressing up and dates. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
I bang my head on the wall nearest me. Just as I am doing that, Draco turns the corner and sees me.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Well, I’m hitting my head on the wall, obviously,” I reply, rolling my eyes, but not failing to see Draco brush his hair out of his eyes so gracefully. Draco is fucking gorgeous, and he is well aware of it.
“I can see that, but why?” Draco asks me, crossing his arms and leaning up against the corridor wall.
“Three words: fucking Yule Ball.”
Draco smirks at me. “Oh. Scared of a little dance, are you?”
“No. I’m not. I just think Dumbledore is a fucking idiot for having a bloody ball.”
“Even if there wasn’t a bloody ball, as you so eloquently put it, Dumbledore would still be a fucking idiot,” Draco said with contempt.
“Well, yeah, but…”
“Blaise, are you afraid you won’t get a date?” Draco asks me suddenly.
“Oh, you can tell me. I am your best friend, am I not?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“I can fix that. Who do you want me to set you up with?”
I groan and resume banging my head on the wall. He was going to set me up with yet another fucking Slytherin slut.
“What? Do I not make good choices?”
“No? I set you up with Marcy Cumming, and Pleasant Oscar, Mary Fairy, and plenty of other girls. Unfortunately, they never did work did they?”
“No, Draco, they didn’t,” I say with tight lips, as I rest my pounding head on the cold stone wall.
“Why didn’t any of them work out? Those girls are the best of the best.”
“The best of the best? The best prostitutes maybe,” I scoff.
“Well, word got ‘round and lo’ and behold…they were willing to give you a chance.”
“Draco, did you even bother to ask me my type?”
“Blaise, you have a type? I thought–”
“No. ‘Slytherin slut’ is not a type.”
“Then what is your type?” Draco continues, shifting his stance.
“I don’t know. I’ve only had the chance to be with every Slytherin, who all, conveniently, happen to be sluts. Minus Pansy, because she isn’t; she has morals.”
Draco gives an uncivilized snort.
“What’s your type then, Draco? Because I’ve noticed that you stay away from every Slytherin like the plague.”
“I’ve got a thing for redheads and there happen to be no Slytherin redheads. They’re fucking hot,” Draco says after a moment of pensive thought.
“Redheads? The only redheads that I know of are those Weasels. And there’s only one Weaslette.”
Draco doesn’t respond. At all. Not even a muscle moves in his gorgeous face.
Then he answers. “How do you know that they are the only redheads. Besides, it’s just a generalization.”
“Sure Draco,” I say. “So you’re not going to set me up with anyone?”
Draco’s eyes flicker with something.
“Not exactly. You tell me who you’d like to go with and I’ll pull some strings.”
“I – I – I don’t know,” I sat pathetically. Of course I know who I want to go with. My pick has gorgeous eyes and a fucking amazing ass.
“Fuck that, you bastard. Of course you know. I saw your eyes get wide at my proposition,” Draco says scathingly. “Just tell me. I won’t judge you. Damn it, if I did, I’d have no friends. Other than Pansy that is.”
“You’re going to be fucking surprised if I tell you,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. Am I really going to tell Draco?
“When you tell me. And I might not be surprised at all, you know. “
Draco crosses his arms again and gives me his signature smirk.
“Fuck. I don’t know how to tell you this,” I practically hiss as I stand up quickly and begin pacing.
“Okay, alright. Well, you see Draco, I – er – like – boys.”
After swallowing my pride, I hesitantly look at Draco.
He looks as though he won some big, fucking prize.
“I knew it! Fucking hell! I knew it!” he hollers.
“Oh, I knew it for a while. When you had that crush on me last year…”
I instantly flush.
“Don’t worry about it. It was pretty fucking cute. I was flattered, even though I couldn’t believe it.”
He smiles – smiles – at me. Draco fucking Malfoy never smiles.
“So, who do you want to take?”
Bloody fucking hell.
“I have a thing for Justin Finch-Fletchley,” I admit quickly.
“Really? Wow. He’s got a fucking amazing ass.”
“I know.” Then realization dawns.
Wait, back up. Did Draco just admit that he’s looked at Justin’s ass and that it’s fucking amazing?
“Draco, are you gay?” No straight guy actually looks at other guys’ asses.
“Who are you taking to the Yule Ball then?”
“He’s a redhead. And his name is Ron Weasley.”
“Weasel is gay?”
“Yes. And for your information, his name is Ron or Ronnikins when I’m feeling extremely kinky. Plus, he happens to be my boyfriend.”
“So my chances with you are completely shot?” I joke.
“Well, yes. You’re not my type anyway,” Draco responds, laughing. “So, I have to set you up with Mr. Finch-Fletchley. I shall have a fucking amazing time doing so. Good thing I know he happens to be available and entirely not straight.”
“And how do you know that for sure?”
“He made a pass at Ron.”