tracy_loo_who | (no subject)

tracy_loo_who

Theorem¹.

selene_rain is Very Bad for me.

Corollary. I love

selene_rain.

Remark Number 1.

selene_rain has joined SE as Pansy and hence there has been much dracoandpansy for the first time since

malfoyesque and

hearts_ease. I have been in a state of consistent and extreme giddiness for days on end, and am literally shedding fuzz wherever I go because there is just too. much. love. I can't stand it. there are piles².

Remark Number 2. I have been getting up at 8 or 9 am for several days in a row, just so I can catch

selene_rain for a few hours, so maybe this belongs in Remark Number 1. Regardless, 8 and 9 am do not get along with me. They do things to my head. obviously.

Remark Number 3. I have been eating seaweed. This is actually

lallipoo's fault and not

selene_rain's, but that's not the point. The point is that seaweed = crack.

Remark Number 4. Several days ago,

selene_rain had a dream in which Draco did a plebey spell on himself and wound up as Harry's bodyguard. We RPed this, and part of it – the beginning, in fact (Lucius: You are puny and useless. I hereby disinherit you. If you fail to be gone within the next 44 minutes, I shall feed you to Bella. Draco: Can I take Scarhead with me? Lucius: No. I'm going to feed him to Bella. Draco: He's a stuffed dog! Lucius: She won't notice. Besides, it might give her indigestion. 43 minutes.) – gave me my own bunny.

Proof. I wrote fic. ~~A fact I will, however, be denying as soon as I'm more awake.~~

The Birthday Present³

When you are two, one of your birthday presents is a large, squishy package. Your father has just taught you how a Malfoy unwraps his presents (with grace; none of that undignified tearing at the wrapping, or people will think you're some kind of mudblood), and you wave your tiny wand at it enthusiastically as you say the spell. You pronounce it wrong and when the paper falls away, you discover that your present is a stuffed puppy. Only, you've just made a gash on its forehead and some of the cotton has come out. You think it might look like the puppy is bleeding if only the cotton weren't so very white against the black fur, because you've never actually seen blood before and don't know that it's not soft and fluffy.

The first thought that crosses your mind is to throw your stuffed puppy away and demand a new one, but you look at him (for it is a him, after all, you decide) and he looks back and you take him to Mommy.

She makes him better, just like she makes all things better, and when you see your stuffed puppy again, he is no longer bleeding cotton. But you notice that there is a thin, not-quite-right line in place of the gash, and think it looks like a scar (not that you have any, but Mommy has a small one on her knee and you like to sit on it, sometimes, to cover it up).

You try to hide the scar with parchment and cut up bits of your towels and even a few socks, but in the end you think he looks best without any of that. You name your stuffed puppy Scarhead.

********

When you are four, Mommy wakes you one morning to tell you that your new friend is waiting for you. You blink and don't understand, because you are already cuddling Scarhead, like you do every night - how can he be waiting for you? And he's not new, either; he's been your best (and only) friend for half of your whole life.

Your new friend, as it turns out, is a fat boy named Greg, who you suspect is blind, deaf, and mute. You've never really met anyone your age before, but you are certainly not impressed. You are even less impressed when Greg sits on Scarhead.

In fact, you are so not impressed that you shriek (like a girl, not that you've ever heard a girl shriek) and jab at Greg with your wand seven times before he finally gets up.

You spend the rest of that day and all night holding Scarhead to your chest and talking softly to him and petting him. Of course, you fall asleep at some point during the holding and the talking and the petting, but by the time you wake up in the morning Scarhead looks much less squashed already. He is grinning at you, and you smile and hug him and whisper, "Good morning, Scarhead."

********

When you are eight, you bring Scarhead down to the dining hall for dinner, just like you do every day. Father purses his lips and tells you that you are getting too old to play with stuffed animals. You tell him that you love Scarhead, and he narrows his eyes at your insolence. His wand is raised, and when he says something, Scarhead gives a sudden jerk in your arms. Surprised, you let go.

Panicked. That is exactly how you feel as you watch Scarhead fly towards Father. But he never gets there, and that is even worse. Father waves his wand, and Scarhead is suspended helplessly in the air for one moment, still and facing you and staring at you, and you catch a glimpse of his scar before he bursts into green flames and is gone.

You scream and run forward, but there is nothing left but empty space, no smoke or falling ashes, even, to mark the spot your stuffed puppy was destroyed.

You don't eat dinner that night, or the next. It is three days before Mother finally coaxes you from your pathetically fetal position on the bed. It doesn't mean anything; you still feel empty and achy and so, so alone; you still want to cry until you're numb and exhausted and falling asleep, but you've already done too much of that. So you get up and follow Mother downstairs, even though she can no longer make all things better.

********

When you are sixteen, Potter trips over his own stupid feet and falls face down onto the ground in front of you. His books and wand go flying, and Greg laughs. Then, he sits on him. Potter's eyes widen and he stares at you even as Vince is moving to kick him.

You stare back and have the following epiphany: Harry Potter looks like a stuffed puppy.

A snarl at Vince to stay where he is, and then you jab your wand at Greg. This time, you only have to do it once before he gets up. He looks mildly puzzled, but you are looking at Potter.

Potter has turned an alarming shade of red and mumbles a thanks to you as he shoves his glasses up his nose. He gathers his things and scurries away. You try to imagine what he would look like with a fluffy black tail.

A few months and more than a few wet kisses later, you wake up with Harry snuggled against you. His eyes are closed and he is breathing softly, and you think Harry trusts you. In that moment, you promise yourself that this time, you'll keep him safe. You won't let Father destroy Harry.

The scar is partially hidden by his hair, the state of which makes you smile. Harry catches you doing it when he opens his eyes, and he stirs and yawns into your shoulder, just, you suspect, because he can. Then he's grinning at you, and you smile some more and hug him and whisper, "Good morning, Scarhead."

¹I apologize for the severe geekiness, I really do. ~~especially if you noticed that Draco's ages were all powers of 2.~~ But I'm an engineer, after all (or at least, I will be after a few more years of schooling), and not an English major (which might also explain the quality of the fic, but we shan't go into that, okay?), and it really is rather early for me. Just be glad I didn't write this entire entry in third person like I was originally going to.
²I've needed it, the fuzz, especially after the last chapter of StG, because wah. And three more weeks until next update? wah some more.
³Happy belated birthday to Draco! There are no words for the love. ♥

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From:

cutecoati.livejournal.com

*sighs happily*

That was so sweet!! Toddler!Draco and his puppy... *melts into a puddle*
and I have to admit that I've a soft spot for Protective!Draco - thus the image of Draco waking up with Harry in his arms and making his decision... just perfect!

From:

fancy a fuck?

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