A Reason To Live
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Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
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Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,147
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Part 01A: Survival of the Fittest
Disclaimer: Let's not start with a lie, eh? I'm no college student; I earn comfortably enough that I would gladly swap a bit of green for some downtime, and yeah, I'm not in any illusion that the World of Harry Potter is in any way mine...
Music listening: Hier kommt Alex
A Reason to Live by black fungi
Part 01A: Survival of the Fittest
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference."
-- Serenity Prayer
Nature abhors a hero.
For one thing, he violates the law of conservation of energy. For another, how can it be the survival of the fittest when the fittest insists on putting himself in situations where he is most likely to be creamed?
"Do it! Don't fucking pretend that you care! Just do it!"
I breathe in deep and slowly exhale. Morgana's tits, I give up! I have long suspected that there is no statute of limitation to this boy's stupidity, but this is just plain retard. I wonder if it is far too much to hope that his minuscule excuse-for-brains has begun to calculate the precariousness of our position or even *imagine* the very obvious cause-and-effect had I done as he had asked of me. *All right*, as he had shrieked, shouted and screeched his commands at me for the past five bleeding minutes (and he acts like a perfectly, spoiled prat too; I didn't know he has it in him), but let us not get into the semantics, shall we?
His lips move rapidly, his whining voice an accompanying drone in the background of chilling screams and loud lashes of whizzing spells between warring sides. I do not need to listen word for word to know he is yelling more strings of boring curses and hexes a first year would not be caught dead mouthing on the simple grounds of pride and honor, and you do not need me telling you that he has no ounce of shame any more than I have tolerance for poorly manicured nails. Speaking of nails, I grimace at the sight of my own and promise myself a three-hour nail spa once this shite blows over.
"Or make that *four* hours," I curse softly under my breath as I give another cursory glance at the raw, bloody state of my fingers.
Ah, ma chère maman would have thrown a hissy fit were she to see them. While I cannot say I am positively certain of the advantageous properties of having beautiful nails, it does fit perfectly the package of being me, and as I've been told countless of times by fawning sycophants: I am but disgustingly beautiful. Merde! On second thought, forget the nails! I bet maman would be turning in her grave right now if she knew how her only *pride and joy* is debasing himself to the likes of -
"-Oi! You listening to me?"
A sharp tug at my arm and it is almost all I could do not to give an undignified yelp at the unexpected pain that rips through said appendage to my neck. C'est un vrai casse-pieds! Oui, oui, you have *absolutely* no idea! Disturbing black spots begin to creep around the perimeter of my vision, and I panic. Yes, I'm *bloody* panicking because I. Do. Not. Do. Faint. That said, I remember I do not do panic either. I grip the stoned ledge harder, ignoring how its rough, cutting edges tear at the soft flesh of my mangled fingers; my only thought is that it would surely be a crime to seek a premature audience with Odhinn and rob the world of this excellent specimen of a wizard. Fils de putain! If I haven't so much a will to live as he to quit...
When I trust our position secured and I am in no immediate danger of humiliating myself by conking out like some pissy queen, I glare daggers at him, biting back an acerbic reply that would've surely been a waste on one who's on a severe dearth of intelligence. And what do you know? I was right on the galleon all along; only pleased that he has my *undivided* attention again, he continues on with his tirade of inexorable yapping, completely oblivious to the fact that his ill-timed tantrum could have cost us our lives. Seriously, calling him stupid would be an insult to stupid people and I'm being awfully kind.
Holding back a mental sob of mortification at the knowledge that this pathetic creature has as much right a claim to the "Pureblood" tag, I am almost glad we lost our wands (or rather the idiot *lost* his all by himself and he made me lose mine; I'll get to that story another time perhaps) if that incident with the slugs is anything go by. How he managed to survive the OWLs is as good a guess as mine, although I would not put it pass a certain cowing bastard of a headmaster to rig the results. The old, dastardly codger *is* after all as *fair* as that: he pissed a homicidal maniac something fierce with his "Mudbloods-and-Halfbloods-are-our-Equals" crackpot ideas (if the rumor on the Dark Lord's questionable pedigree is any true, wouldn't that be an irony of ironies?), wangled his way out of the fix with a half-baked prophesy about a "Battle-between-le-Bien-et-le-Mal", and then - wait for it - he left a nancy-boy who has not seen pass his eighteenth birthday to carry the can.
Did I mention that he's also managed to rope in a handful of clueless children into this grand (and most fatuous) scheme of his? Very Slytherin, were you to ask me.
Heh heh... It could be "worse". He could have left it all to me.
Believe you me, it is not hard to understand how the thrill of adventures, mysteries and all *that*, is a pretty, pretty lure, and whatever more with the fame and glory that comes along with it. It gets even easier when you add: "A", one emotionally-disturbed half-breed with a "hero-complex" (whose formative years incidentally are spent under the care of abusive muggles - how oxymoronic is that?); "B", a "know-it-all" mudblood who's trying her hardest to fit in a world she has been expelled from; and "C", a destitute pureblood desperately wanting to make a niche (and a knut) for himself, into this perverted equation, all courtesy of one meddling fool.
I do understand the things they do. Honest, I do. I understand them as I pity them, imprisoned by their selfish wants and dreams, and in turn, caught unwittingly in the tendrils of the public's unreasonable demands. Though truly, I fail to see their need to prolong the misery that had befallen on our World (for the love of all things magical, just flick that sorry stick of yours and croak that sodding Wizard already!), and how my ears burn with foolish tales of how they brave untold dangers time and time again, pitching their lives against the Dark Lord carelessly with no thought of the consequence. Our effort, toils and troubles to keep them safe - to keep *him* safe specifically - is like pissing in the wind, and after so long cleaning up after them and their magical messes, I can only deduce that their little minds have yet to discover sex for what better ways to keep hormonal teens out of trouble.
No, *he* could have left it to me, and he effing *knows* it, but he *didn't*.
I don't know if I could have done it better, that much my pride would concede. I do not possess Scarface's infamous luck at getting out trouble as his equal penchant to getting into them in the first place. I do not believe too that my skills and talents differ much from his, except for his damned stubbornness to avoid anything and everything connected with the Dark Arts. Our shiny, idealistic hero apparently cannot grasp the meaning of "fighting dirty". Shall I put this bluntly? He's totally arsed in his beliefs that moral principles is a great deal more important than balancing the scale with a certain twisted Parselmouth and winning the war... but then, that arse has led us this far, hasn't he? Granted there *is* *this* convenient list of the dead and injured that follows our bespectacled hero...
I suppose, had that responsibility been mine, I would have done things outside the expected as my eccentricity demands. But make no mistake. Those choices that would have been upon me to make would have been informed, understood and finally accepted gracefully, without regrets or the unnecessary displays of paroxysmal temper. If it were up to me, the course of this war would have been played out differently, more than a little hurried I think (but planned methodically to the point of obsession and umm... boredom), sans the grandeur and flair that usually surrounds my long-suffering nemesis and his two faithful hounds... and perhaps... perhaps without the bloodshed of those whose lives really matter.
Ah silly, silly, gorgeous me, I forget my place. Again. What is a couple of dead Deatheaters spies? They are but unfortunate mistakes that needed to be atoned with one's own life, and just maybe today, I'd be called to atone for mine; I am a loose end after all, and it will not surprise me the least should the same fate befalls upon me as did my mentor. Redemption of the soul, sins of the father and all that utter rubbish, if you get my meaning.
"Are you ignoring me, you stupid, fucking git of a motherless goat?!"
Name-calling doesn't keep him from plummeting any faster, but much as I loathe admitting, a credit point is in order for his dented creativity - "Motherless goat"? Where did that come from? - and another for unknowingly keeping my blacker thoughts in check lest I slip into one of my dour moods.
"What? Cat got your tongue? Are you a spineless pansy too?" Then, as an afterthought, he adds with a hysterical giggle, "Wait... you *are*."
It must have hurt his brains when he came up with that cack; I know mine does. I roll my eyes heavenwards and sigh for the umpteenth time today.
Never let it say that I have not tried my hardest to keep an open mind where dumb animals are concerned. Of course, when you keep a mind wide opened like mine, it is almost deserving that they should throw garbage in it. My bad. If it weren't for lil' Miss Bossy, I would have ditched him faster than you can throw a Crucie curse. Now gentle wizards and witches, you would have to understand: He makes a very poor accessory, and him (literally) hanging off me does little good for my reputation, and not to mention my physical (and mental) well-being.
I haven't the doubt that most Deatheaters are complete dunderheads, and with my charm working at full-blast, I could probably convince them of everything under the sun... although it'll be hard-pressed to hoodwink all the Deatheaters flocking here (I say about a good four-hundred, give or take) that I, the most esteemed of them (after Father, of course), am doing anything but trying my hardest not to let one obnoxious muggle-lover plunge fifty feet to his death.
Can we say traitor, anyone?
TBC
DEC 07 2005
[A/N: Been mulling over this plot bunny for over 3 bleeding months. o__O Crashing into random meetings has done wonders for my muse; I no longer play "bingo".
French translation for those inclined...
ma chère maman - my dear mommy
maman - mommy
merde -shit
c'est un vrai casse-pieds! - he's a real pain!
oui - yes
fils de putain - sonofabitch
Battle-between-le-Bien-et-le-Mal - battle between Good and Evil ]
Music listening: Hier kommt Alex
A Reason to Live by black fungi
Part 01A: Survival of the Fittest
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference."
-- Serenity Prayer
Nature abhors a hero.
For one thing, he violates the law of conservation of energy. For another, how can it be the survival of the fittest when the fittest insists on putting himself in situations where he is most likely to be creamed?
"Do it! Don't fucking pretend that you care! Just do it!"
I breathe in deep and slowly exhale. Morgana's tits, I give up! I have long suspected that there is no statute of limitation to this boy's stupidity, but this is just plain retard. I wonder if it is far too much to hope that his minuscule excuse-for-brains has begun to calculate the precariousness of our position or even *imagine* the very obvious cause-and-effect had I done as he had asked of me. *All right*, as he had shrieked, shouted and screeched his commands at me for the past five bleeding minutes (and he acts like a perfectly, spoiled prat too; I didn't know he has it in him), but let us not get into the semantics, shall we?
His lips move rapidly, his whining voice an accompanying drone in the background of chilling screams and loud lashes of whizzing spells between warring sides. I do not need to listen word for word to know he is yelling more strings of boring curses and hexes a first year would not be caught dead mouthing on the simple grounds of pride and honor, and you do not need me telling you that he has no ounce of shame any more than I have tolerance for poorly manicured nails. Speaking of nails, I grimace at the sight of my own and promise myself a three-hour nail spa once this shite blows over.
"Or make that *four* hours," I curse softly under my breath as I give another cursory glance at the raw, bloody state of my fingers.
Ah, ma chère maman would have thrown a hissy fit were she to see them. While I cannot say I am positively certain of the advantageous properties of having beautiful nails, it does fit perfectly the package of being me, and as I've been told countless of times by fawning sycophants: I am but disgustingly beautiful. Merde! On second thought, forget the nails! I bet maman would be turning in her grave right now if she knew how her only *pride and joy* is debasing himself to the likes of -
"-Oi! You listening to me?"
A sharp tug at my arm and it is almost all I could do not to give an undignified yelp at the unexpected pain that rips through said appendage to my neck. C'est un vrai casse-pieds! Oui, oui, you have *absolutely* no idea! Disturbing black spots begin to creep around the perimeter of my vision, and I panic. Yes, I'm *bloody* panicking because I. Do. Not. Do. Faint. That said, I remember I do not do panic either. I grip the stoned ledge harder, ignoring how its rough, cutting edges tear at the soft flesh of my mangled fingers; my only thought is that it would surely be a crime to seek a premature audience with Odhinn and rob the world of this excellent specimen of a wizard. Fils de putain! If I haven't so much a will to live as he to quit...
When I trust our position secured and I am in no immediate danger of humiliating myself by conking out like some pissy queen, I glare daggers at him, biting back an acerbic reply that would've surely been a waste on one who's on a severe dearth of intelligence. And what do you know? I was right on the galleon all along; only pleased that he has my *undivided* attention again, he continues on with his tirade of inexorable yapping, completely oblivious to the fact that his ill-timed tantrum could have cost us our lives. Seriously, calling him stupid would be an insult to stupid people and I'm being awfully kind.
Holding back a mental sob of mortification at the knowledge that this pathetic creature has as much right a claim to the "Pureblood" tag, I am almost glad we lost our wands (or rather the idiot *lost* his all by himself and he made me lose mine; I'll get to that story another time perhaps) if that incident with the slugs is anything go by. How he managed to survive the OWLs is as good a guess as mine, although I would not put it pass a certain cowing bastard of a headmaster to rig the results. The old, dastardly codger *is* after all as *fair* as that: he pissed a homicidal maniac something fierce with his "Mudbloods-and-Halfbloods-are-our-Equals" crackpot ideas (if the rumor on the Dark Lord's questionable pedigree is any true, wouldn't that be an irony of ironies?), wangled his way out of the fix with a half-baked prophesy about a "Battle-between-le-Bien-et-le-Mal", and then - wait for it - he left a nancy-boy who has not seen pass his eighteenth birthday to carry the can.
Did I mention that he's also managed to rope in a handful of clueless children into this grand (and most fatuous) scheme of his? Very Slytherin, were you to ask me.
Heh heh... It could be "worse". He could have left it all to me.
Believe you me, it is not hard to understand how the thrill of adventures, mysteries and all *that*, is a pretty, pretty lure, and whatever more with the fame and glory that comes along with it. It gets even easier when you add: "A", one emotionally-disturbed half-breed with a "hero-complex" (whose formative years incidentally are spent under the care of abusive muggles - how oxymoronic is that?); "B", a "know-it-all" mudblood who's trying her hardest to fit in a world she has been expelled from; and "C", a destitute pureblood desperately wanting to make a niche (and a knut) for himself, into this perverted equation, all courtesy of one meddling fool.
I do understand the things they do. Honest, I do. I understand them as I pity them, imprisoned by their selfish wants and dreams, and in turn, caught unwittingly in the tendrils of the public's unreasonable demands. Though truly, I fail to see their need to prolong the misery that had befallen on our World (for the love of all things magical, just flick that sorry stick of yours and croak that sodding Wizard already!), and how my ears burn with foolish tales of how they brave untold dangers time and time again, pitching their lives against the Dark Lord carelessly with no thought of the consequence. Our effort, toils and troubles to keep them safe - to keep *him* safe specifically - is like pissing in the wind, and after so long cleaning up after them and their magical messes, I can only deduce that their little minds have yet to discover sex for what better ways to keep hormonal teens out of trouble.
No, *he* could have left it to me, and he effing *knows* it, but he *didn't*.
I don't know if I could have done it better, that much my pride would concede. I do not possess Scarface's infamous luck at getting out trouble as his equal penchant to getting into them in the first place. I do not believe too that my skills and talents differ much from his, except for his damned stubbornness to avoid anything and everything connected with the Dark Arts. Our shiny, idealistic hero apparently cannot grasp the meaning of "fighting dirty". Shall I put this bluntly? He's totally arsed in his beliefs that moral principles is a great deal more important than balancing the scale with a certain twisted Parselmouth and winning the war... but then, that arse has led us this far, hasn't he? Granted there *is* *this* convenient list of the dead and injured that follows our bespectacled hero...
I suppose, had that responsibility been mine, I would have done things outside the expected as my eccentricity demands. But make no mistake. Those choices that would have been upon me to make would have been informed, understood and finally accepted gracefully, without regrets or the unnecessary displays of paroxysmal temper. If it were up to me, the course of this war would have been played out differently, more than a little hurried I think (but planned methodically to the point of obsession and umm... boredom), sans the grandeur and flair that usually surrounds my long-suffering nemesis and his two faithful hounds... and perhaps... perhaps without the bloodshed of those whose lives really matter.
Ah silly, silly, gorgeous me, I forget my place. Again. What is a couple of dead Deatheaters spies? They are but unfortunate mistakes that needed to be atoned with one's own life, and just maybe today, I'd be called to atone for mine; I am a loose end after all, and it will not surprise me the least should the same fate befalls upon me as did my mentor. Redemption of the soul, sins of the father and all that utter rubbish, if you get my meaning.
"Are you ignoring me, you stupid, fucking git of a motherless goat?!"
Name-calling doesn't keep him from plummeting any faster, but much as I loathe admitting, a credit point is in order for his dented creativity - "Motherless goat"? Where did that come from? - and another for unknowingly keeping my blacker thoughts in check lest I slip into one of my dour moods.
"What? Cat got your tongue? Are you a spineless pansy too?" Then, as an afterthought, he adds with a hysterical giggle, "Wait... you *are*."
It must have hurt his brains when he came up with that cack; I know mine does. I roll my eyes heavenwards and sigh for the umpteenth time today.
Never let it say that I have not tried my hardest to keep an open mind where dumb animals are concerned. Of course, when you keep a mind wide opened like mine, it is almost deserving that they should throw garbage in it. My bad. If it weren't for lil' Miss Bossy, I would have ditched him faster than you can throw a Crucie curse. Now gentle wizards and witches, you would have to understand: He makes a very poor accessory, and him (literally) hanging off me does little good for my reputation, and not to mention my physical (and mental) well-being.
I haven't the doubt that most Deatheaters are complete dunderheads, and with my charm working at full-blast, I could probably convince them of everything under the sun... although it'll be hard-pressed to hoodwink all the Deatheaters flocking here (I say about a good four-hundred, give or take) that I, the most esteemed of them (after Father, of course), am doing anything but trying my hardest not to let one obnoxious muggle-lover plunge fifty feet to his death.
Can we say traitor, anyone?
TBC
DEC 07 2005
[A/N: Been mulling over this plot bunny for over 3 bleeding months. o__O Crashing into random meetings has done wonders for my muse; I no longer play "bingo".
French translation for those inclined...
ma chère maman - my dear mommy
maman - mommy
merde -shit
c'est un vrai casse-pieds! - he's a real pain!
oui - yes
fils de putain - sonofabitch
Battle-between-le-Bien-et-le-Mal - battle between Good and Evil ]