inching past the edge of reserve

it’s exactly midnight according to my laptop.

my laptop, by the way, has no name.  I temporarily named it Touya but it doesn’t seem to like that.  It honestly feels more like an Ogata. Mylaptop is so needlessly flashy. Such a pimp.

My posts, they are so intelligent.

I have pinched a nerve in my shoulder and for the last 3 days have been walking around like a zombie with one arm stuck out, head frozen rigidly in place.  Just in time for Halloween!

Tell me about your Halloween costumes!

i have not dressed up for Halloween in probably a decade. This makes me sad.  i tried to be a gypsy in the early 2000′s but I could only find one gypsy earring and no gypsy jewelry.  When I was nine my mom made me a She-Ra costume and it was the best costume in the whole wide world ever.  I had a cardboard sword. I rocked.  When I was 13 I tried to go as a mummy to this halloween party I got invited to.  I unraveled. D:  Also the big thing that year was the POGO BALL that year, and everyone else’s costumes allowed them to hop on the POGO BALL successfully.  When I tried it I not only was predestined to failure due to my lolarious lack of coordination technology, but I also had strands of mummy cloth whipping nerdily in the wind.  It was such a bad scene all around.

Tonight, watching House, for the first time in  my life I felt my faith in an OTP waver due to competition. I know this could be because I just had this big discussion with Epon about how polar I am in my choice of OTPS and how I am rigidly unhappy when anything comes between them.  But mostly I think it’s because House/Wilson has been kind of stale, backgroundy, and predictable lately, whereas holy hell, HOUSE/FOREMAN IS REALLY HOT.  Are there interesting, convincing House/Foreman recs out there?  I would love to read them, but I’m so not-in-tune with House fandom I have no idea where I’d look.

In other news, Bones is still awesome. I love that show. Nothing about it has remotely jumped the shark to me, and that says a lot considering Angela’s husband now wants her back, lol.  BUT HOLY CRAP ANGELA IS BI.  I FUCKING CALLED THAT FROM EP ONE.    I love Angela/Hodgins (no K!) so much, though. I shipped her/Brennan in the very beginning of the show but I don’t think any pairing has ever surprised and stolen my heart so completely as Sexy Art Chick/Bug Guy.  Hodgins is so adorably hot and creepy.    I love them. I really just love Bones, something about it makes my heart happy.

I am seriously over Heroes, though.   I’m not watching anything else this season, though after Josie screamed at me to watch last week’s SGA I did and briefly considered marathoning the last season and a half in order to catch up. :/  Should I? So many decisions.

I want the BSG mini-series now.  I want to dig up the will to finish watching Death Note and possibly finish the manga, but I already know that  will never happen.

It’s  12:12 now and i have to sleep soon.   Everyone at work is being so nice about my leaving, and really supportive and encouraging and just generally wonderful.  I am really excited about switching jobs!  Now I will have enough money to actually move into a decent apartment of my own without investing in a townhouse with three other people, haha.    And I can get a cat!!!!  I have waited so long to have the financial stability to own a cat, which is pathetic, but true.   Oh my god I’m totally going to wind up naming my cat Touya, aren’t I.  Oh my god I can get two and name them Touya and Shindou, this is the worst idea ever,  I already can’t stop thinking about it. :/

I miss long Tezuka/Ryoma fic.

I miss my shoulder before it became prey to unceasing muscle twinges. Ow.

I miss being as in love with my own characters as I am other  people’s.

I sort of miss the South.  I definitely miss the ocean.   I miss feeling part of a community.  I miss singing.

I hope I like my job. I hope I can keep up, well, everything I’m doing lately. <3  It’s nice.

I’ve been listening to Amalin’s mix cds lately – the one she made for fall, and the one she made for spring.  The fall one is my favorite and always has been, maybe just because it has “Chocolate” on it.  There’s something about that song – though I’m not a huge Snow Patrol fan, that song just pushes all my hopeful buttons.    There’s something about that whole cd that speaks to me, and sounds a lot like how I imagine Kara’s voice sounds.

She told me once that it doesn’t matter whether you’re 20 or 28 or 58. It takes as long as it takes to figure out how to be happy, how to be the person you want to be.    That has lodged inside of me somewhere.  I think this whole year, post-phoenix rising, because there was something there that week that I think I knew would change me if I let it – and I went there wanting to let it – I have been coming to terms with the fact that I’m ready to be someone else.  I’m ready to change myself.   I am changing myself.  And this is the first time in years that I am standing on the cusp (lol cusp) of Guy Fawkes Day and not freaking out at all the things I’m not doing – all the things I’m not doing and should be, all the ways I’m not who I want to be.  This is the first time maybe since I’ve reached adulthood that I feel like I’m exactly okay with where I am and what I’m doing.  Not because everything’s perfect, but because everything’s in-progress and I want it to be.  Something spinning into control for once, and into my hands.

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Death Note ficlets. :D

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great-o burrito! day so far, so I thought I would make it even nicer by attempting to post fic here. We will see how that goes.These are both Death Note, Light/L naturally (because I am nothing if not predictable).

A random rave and random bad sex follow.

Rating: Hard R for both. NSFW.

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Take my evolution.

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- J-pop. J-pop is like the happiest thing that has ever happened to me. Right now I am listening to “Bokura no Ibasho” by WaT, and it is very nice and happy, and sunny, just like the day outside my lovely long Victorian windows.

- Fall cleaning. So I do it backwards. I can see my floor for the first time in months!

I feel most generally invigorated in fall – like I’m going somewhere. Everything is fresh and alive in fall – it’s the season of change, the season that gets in your nostrils and stings a little, and I love it. Rainy October days when the smell of wet leaves are all around and the chill of the season is in your bones – those are the most compelling days of the year for me.

- Change in general.

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Harry Potter Fanfiction – Ficlets & Drabbles.

For HP fanfic under 5,000 words, and most of it well under that. Mostly older fluff H/D ficlets and newer drabbles.

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Saying Yes.

Original Publish Date: September 2005.

Written for The Eros Affair.

#1. Saying Yes.

“What do you think it means?” snapped Draco. He looked off-balance, and suddenly small, like the eleven-year-old Harry remembered.

Harry took a deep breath and steadied his voice. “I think it means you’re scared,” he said, “because we had a fight and you think you’re going to lose me and you don’t know what to do so you threw it out there as a last resort to keep me from going.”

“Fuck you,” Draco retorted automatically, but there was an injured look in his eyes that told Harry everything he needed to know.

“Draco.” Harry went to him and held him, which was hard work because Draco clearly did not want to be held. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to leave you. Not if we have one fight. Not if we have ten fights, or thirty.”

“But you said–”

“No matter what I say when I’m angry. I–” Harry felt his face heat up in embarrassment, and he hid it in the crook of Draco’s warm shoulder. “Those are just words. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve made my choice.”

Draco stopped squirming, then, and let Harry hold him.

“I didn’t say it because I was desperate,” Draco murmured after a moment.

Harry’s heart stopped beating until Draco spoke again.

“I’ve thought about it for a long time,” Draco said. Harry kept his face pressed against Draco’s neck because he couldn’t bear to look up at Draco’s expression. “Not because I wanted to keep you from leaving, and not to fix things, because things are what they are–but because… I–”

“Shut up,” Harry heard himself saying, and suddenly he was pressing kisses against Draco’s neck, drawing him closer, because it seemed suddenly vital–as if he could never ever get Draco close enough. “Yes. Draco. Yes.”

“Harry–”

“I do,” said Harry. “Yes.”

Draco looked at him and smiled, a little sheepishly. “Yeah?” he said.

Harry kissed him. “Yes,” he said again, because he sucked as a boyfriend and he would suck as a husband, and he might never be able to tell Draco anything that was really worth saying. But he could say yes. To this. To Draco.

He would say always say yes to Draco.

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Who Loves The Rain.

Title: Who Loves the Rain

Archiving: just ask.
Rating: PG-13
Date: February 28, 2002.
Summary: Harry discovers the dark side of desire. Tom/Harry. Notes:
For Jen, who gave me the original plot bunny: Draco in the rain. Title shamelessly warped from the Velvet Underground.

He had been out walking when the storm broke. He liked to skirt the edges of the Forbidden Forest—he knew better than to go all the way in, of course, but the immediate outskirts were secluded, safe, and extremely silent. The trees created a nice canopy overhead that cast everything in shadow, a fact that always matched his mood quite nicely whenever he took these solitary excursions.

The rise of the Dark Lord had cast a darker shadow over everything and everyone these days, a shadow that touched, yes, even him; but his thoughts lately had not been revolving around Lord Voldemort, as he felt with a twinge of guilt that they should. He had always seen himself as faithful, loyal to the last moment—and in the depths of his thoughts there was always a quiet agony that he should betray himself now, after so many years of vowing to fight the good fight for his Pureblood rights. And yet… could he really help himself? Could he really help betraying even his own family, when every day came with the worry that this would be the morning, the morning he’d wake up, walk into the Great Hall, and know at once by the pallor on everyone’s faces that it had happened?

That the Dark Lord had done it at last. Forever extinguished the impudent laughter that never failed to jolt him like a slap. Quieted the heartbeat that pounded so loudly with life and passion he could almost hear it each time they dove together striving after the little speckle of gold that always seemed to fly right into the wrong hands, leaving him inevitably enraged and lost and wanting. Snuffed the single spark of his dull gray existence: the one person on earth who could make him feel like a human being with blood pulsing through his veins, and not a perfect, ancient mold of stature and stone.

He worried. He lost himself in this worry, day after day, feeling it expand like the length of his solitary walks. And even as he lost himself completely, he was finding someone completely different.

Shrouded in the thick wall of foliage that effectively kept the daylight from distracting him while he brooded, he had no idea that the skies had clouded over until they sank under their own weight and burst abruptly into the worst shower he had ever been caught in. He didn’t mind, really. He liked rain. Its stinging force seemed to mock him now as he tilted his head back to meet it. It was late evening, and it was a rain without thunder—not even a pretense of excitement; it was purely depressive and cold. The night air thickened quickly around him as he returned to the castle. Why, he wondered, should he still enjoy the same things—still love the sensation of rain, of frigid wind cutting across his shoulders, the thrill of the dive and the thrill of the chase, of flying and falling and fucking and so many things that were innately him—how could he love all that, still, and yet have become his own opposite?

“Malfoy.”

He lowered his head, still pointed up towards the sky. Potter was standing at the entrance to the castle. He hadn’t realized how fast his feet had carried him.

How far he’d come in such a short time.

“Potter.” Barely a nod. The rain was soaking him, trickling down his cheeks and causing his normally unruly black hair to submit for once. It was plastered against his forehead, obscuring the scar and looking very much like an ugly wet mop. He found himself staring. “What are you doing out here?”

A shrug. “Watching the rain.”

“Watching? You’re drenched.”

Another shrug.

He wished he could see behind the dirty, rain-spattered glasses into those eyes. They haunted him but usually they were fiery and alert, to match the tone of the voice that was usually laced with sharp malice. Today the tone was dead, and with that worry that had become almost instinctive he suddenly feared the eyes would be too.

Guardedly, careful to keep the sneer intact: “Is something wrong, Potter?”

The gaze shifted slightly to focus on him, and he had the discomfort of being fully seen while unable to completely observe his watcher. “You weren’t at dinner. With the weather this way everyone wondered what had happened.”

He didn’t see what his absence had to do with Potter standing before him getting drenched, so he kept quiet.

After a moment: “Why were you out there alone?”

“This isn’t twenty questions, Potter.”

“Brushing up on a little dark magic?” A note of bitterness had entered the voice now, and he was glad the rain was so cool against the tinge he could feel slowly seeping into his face. “Practicing the curses you’ll use to torture me after you’ve handed me over to him?”

“Come off it,” was the only significant retort he could muster under the weight of his own shock.

He moved past him but suddenly Potter was there beside him, gripping his shoulder, looking up at him through fierce, blazing eyes that were just as alive as always. The relief sweeping over him kept him from noticing the fact that he had gasped at the touch.

“Why don’t you just say it?” Potter’s voice was low and hard now, as though he’d been shaken out of his reverie into the familiar searing hatred. “You’re always going off about how happy you’ll be when all the Muggles are dead. Why don’t you just admit you want me dead too?”

“I—I can’t,” he found himself murmuring. The momentary uncertainty he sensed in the other boy pleased him, and he shoved away from the grasp.

“What do you mean you can’t? Can’t admit it, or, or…”

He looked blindingly beautiful standing with his fists clenched like that, his shoulders back, head lifted in a posture of complete defiance. So perfectly the hero. Standing there, abysmally wet and not even caring.

In a moment of truth destined to live in his memory forever he reached up, yanked a fistful of the wet black mop, and seethed, “I can’t watch you die when I live to hate you.” He held shocked emerald eyes for a moment before letting go and lowering his arm. He was very aware of the rain now, how it fell onto his eyelashes and covered him with false tears.

And he was very aware of the closeness between them, of how the other boy was reaching over and returning the favor by grabbing a lock of his silver, rain-soaked hair and pulling his head down fiercely to whisper, “You and I are meant to fight. Why can’t we fight on the same side?” And even as he was reeling from the plea behind those words he was aware of an arm coming up to grip his shoulder; of the hand in his hair moving back against his neck, almost like a cradle, as lips whose redness scorched the gray all around them pressed firmly against his own, lapping up the droplets of water on his mouth, gentle and hard and sweetly bitter all at once on his tongue.

A second later he was released and stepped dizzily backwards to meet a gaze full of challenge. Potter stared at him without a word, his eyes flashing a menacing promise of—something—and then he turned and walked slowly inside.

Only then did he realize that the rain was mingling now with cool, hot tears of his own creation. He didn’t blink them away as he watched Potter’s figure retreat into the shadows.

The clouds were breaking overhead, and the sun was slowly seeping through, and all the while the shower continued unabated.

Yes, he loved the rain.

 

Art credit #1: by the amazing Ashjay. Also see the incredible, animated version here.

Art credit #2: Cosette has drawn a lovely manga version of this fic!!!! Panel 1; Panel 2.

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Valentine.

Title: Valentine
Archiving: just ask.
Rating: PG
Date: February 14, 2002.
Notes: Originally posted to the Guns & Handcuffs thread at SCUSA as a Valentines Day Ficlet.

“What’s that, Potter?”

“What?” Harry looked up, saw the imperially slim figure of Draco Malfoy leaning into the doorframe, and blanched. “Nothing,” he said as he quickly threw a blanket over the construction paper, scissors, and giblets of scrapwork that littered his bed. “Who let you in here?” “Weasley,” answered Malfoy smugly, his eyes trained on Harry’s face. “He seemed to think you were doing something I’d get a huge kick out of.” He uncrossed his wiry legs and entered the room. Harry straightened and drew his legs in warily. “Now. What on earth do you suppose he meant by that?”

“Oh, leave me alone,” Harry muttered, but Draco had already crossed to the bed and sat on it as casually as if it were his own. Harry tried not to react to his closeness, but it was hard, especially when Draco just as casually reached over and ran a hand smoothly–possessively, Harry thought with a shiver–over his arm.

“Now,” Draco purred, his voice as effective as light silk against Harry’s skin, “let’s just take a look.” He reached around Harry, wrapping one arm around his waist and pressing his body flush up against him as he did so, and flipped the blanket off the items Harry had been hiding.

Harry blushed from shame and mortification and closed his eyes.

There was silence for a moment. Such a long silence, in fact, that Harry grew even more uncomfortable and had to fight not to squirm out of the Slytherin’s grasp as he opened his eyes. Draco was sitting staring in shock, holding the giant card in his hands that Harry had been working on all afternoon and only just finished a few moments earlier.

It was a complete hodgepodge, magical and makeshift–a huge card in the shape of a heart. It had a silver outline that had been enchanted to glitter in iridescence, as had the writing on the card itself. It had three layers, the middle of which was an intricate paper pattern–not like lace, but a spider’s web of silvery, sheen-like words that spelled out unmistakeably against their dark green background, “To Draco Malfoy, the Pride of Slytherin.” Harry thought it looked ridiculous as he sat there watching Draco’s reaction to it, but Draco simply absorbed it in silence. After a moment, Draco flipped the card over and received another shock. The back of the card was a completely different color–bright red. Two snakes, one gold, one silver, wound around the edges, their tails touching at the top, their heads touching at the bottom in an eerie, beautiful kiss. In the middle this time, traced in confident, bold lettering of solid gold, were the words, “You’re Mine. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Harry, red from his nose to his ears, was now convinced that Draco was about to storm out of the room in disgust. So he had no words when he felt Draco’s hand slowly reaching up to caress his cheek, the card still tucked in his fingers. “It’s beautiful, Harry,” he said softly. Harry just blinked back at him, feeling a bit light-headed, and still not sure what to say.

And then–a question, so honest, so quietly asked, so jarring in its tone, a tone that was not-quite-willing-to-believe…

“Do you… you do…really love me, don’t you.”

Harry slowly raised his gaze to Draco’s incredible silver eyes with their tiny gold hints, felt himself falling into their depths, and nodded with all the helpless adoration he felt.

The look of absolute relief that passed through Draco’s face–relief mixed with hope and joy and things too beautiful to articulate–was unforgettable. Without waiting for a response Harry moved to sink his lips into Draco’s and hold him firmly in his arms. He thrilled when Draco responded in turn, and for a long time there was only the sound of quiet kissing, sighs, soft gasps, frantic heartbeats, and unspoken declarations of love.

“So,” Harry murmured finally when they were at last gasping for air, still trailing kisses over Draco’s cheekbone and jawline. “What do you say? Wanna be my Valentine?”

Draco cupped Harry’s face in his hands and a genuine smile lit his face, reminding Harry that pure, unadulterated happiness had nothing to do with what one had and everything to do with who one had it with. “Why not?” he said playfully, and then, seriously, “Every hero needs a dragon. And like you said–I’m yours.”

And Harry proceeded to slay him.

 

 

AN: I wish i could claim that I thought of that last catchphrase, but that honor goes to Twilights Death. *grin* I’m stealing it from her for the purposes of this little cookie, so i hope she doesn’t mind. *schnoogles Twilights Death* Also, the phrase “imperially slim” belongs to Edward Arlington Robinson and “Richard Cory”—not to me.  I just can’t resist using it to describe Draco wherever possible.

Happy Valentines Day, everyone.

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Strip/TEASE!

Title: Strip/TEASE!
Archiving: just ask.
Rating: R
Date: January 2002.
Summary: When Draco Malfoy decides to put on a show, boy, does he have a lot to show. And when he puts on a show for Harry Potter, everyone gets to enjoy the act.
Notes:
This is a post- H/D donut written for Thursday-September, who, while feedbacking a chapter of Love Under Will, said, quote, “Malfoy putting on a show for him, huh? Wouldn’t it be great if he just started a striptease right there?” This is my first posted HP fic, anywhere.

Harry’s heart was doing somersaults as he entered the Great Hall for breakfast. He and Draco had been up nearly all night trying out a new bottle of Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavored Lubricant—and hours and hours of Malfoy’s flavor alone was enough to send him to the moon. He wondered if Draco was as completely swept away as he was by the memory; he didn’t even attempt to concentrate on what Hermione was saying as he joined her and Ron for bagels and orange juice, which he then proceeded to completely ignore in favor of staring out the window, reliving the dream that had been Draco in his arms.

All at once a loud, sustained roar of whistles, shouts, and catcalls arose from the Slytherin section. It was instantly joined with cries and applause from every corner, and jerking his head around Harry instantly saw, to his delight and horror, the cause of the commotion.

Draco Malfoy was swaggering to the center of the room, his eyes bright with mischief, his deep green Quidditch robes flowing out behind him and his long silver-blonde hair, still wet from his shower, tucked carelessly and irresistibly behind his ears. Harry didn’t realize his mouth had gone dry until he tried to reply to Hermione’s insistent, “Harry, what’s going on? What’s Malfoy doing?” and found that he had no voice left.

Apparently the rest of Hogwarts had some inkling of what Draco was up to, but Harry and Hermione looked on in confusion. As they watched Malfoy walk forward towards the podium where a smattering of teachers sat looking on approvingly, Harry swore he heard Ron say, “I can’t believe he’s actually going to do it!”

Harry leaned forward and gripped Ron by his shirtfront. “What did you just say?”

Ron blinked at him. “Blimey, Harry, you mean you didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” Harry snapped. Somehow he didn’t like the looks of this…

“Well, let go of me and I’ll tell you!” Harry did so irritably, casting a wary glance at his lover, who was conversing with Dumbledore about something and had yet to throw a single glance his direction. He forced himself to focus on what Ron was saying and not the feline body of the Slytherin, the body that had given him such pleasure and brought him to ecstasy more times than he could remember.

“Last week Malfoy bet on the outcome of the Quidditch match against George and Fred,” Ron informed them both. “They got into an argument in the locker room and Fred bet Malfoy that Hufflepuff would win or else Draco would have to put a Confundus charm on the faculty and do a striptease in front of the entire school. They thought he knew they were joking but then Malfoy called their bluff and took them up on it.”

“In exchange for what, if the twins lost?” Hermione said, wide-eyed, sipping her orange juice without apparently noticing what she was doing.

“Uh—as to that, I—I’m not exactly sure,” Ron faltered.

“So you’re saying that Malfoy’s about to—to…” Harry trailed off and just stared.

“That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy was by this time finished speaking to Dumbledore, who was sitting back in his chair with a very innocuous smile on his face, watching the Slytherin with an air of mild bemusement. Indeed, all the teachers were smiling and nodding as Draco turned to the audience of several hundred student and said, “Sonorous,” so that his voice echoed over the hall.

He’s incredible, thought Harry. Look at him: no one can take their eyes off him. He certainly couldn’t.

“Uh…good morning,” said Malfoy in his pleasant, naturally elegant drawl, now magnified to sound even more articulate and distinct as it rang throughout the room. He was answered with waves upon waves of screams and yells, which he silenced with a graceful wave of his hand and a demure smile. “I would like to thank the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for putting me in this position.” He eyed their table with a smirk. “Actually, I suppose it’s Ravenclaw I owe my thanks to, because they had to go and play the WORLD’S SUCKIEST GAME OF QUIDDITCH!” He advanced upon them and yelled at Cho. “What, were you blind?” “The Snitch was right in front of you three times and you couldn’t even follow it!”

Cho, instead of getting mad, giggled and shook her head. “Ah,” said Malfoy with a debonair grin, “I bet I know what you were doing.” He knelt down to Cho’s level and held out his wand to her like a microphone. She leaned into it appropriately. “Tell me, you were really looking for that Snitch, weren’t you?” He let her follow his gaze and pointed his head—

At Harry.

Harry gasped, but everyone else, including Cho, seemed to think this was complete fun. Cho laughed lightly and bent towards the wand/mike. “Yes!” she said giddily, her voice a crazy sing-song Harry wasn’t exactly familiar with. He felt his cheeks beginning to burn, and tried desperately to escape the quizzical gazes staring at him from all around.

“He’s quite the catch, isn’t he?” said Malfoy, still with that same laidback smile. Cho nodded her head enthusiastically. “Great figure, supple thighs, tight little ass…I bet you’d really like to gobble that up, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” replied Cho.

Harry’s eyes widened, and he turned around to stare helplessly at Hermione, who was looking back at him with her mouth parted halfway and her tongue dangling a little brazenly out of her mouth. When their eyes met, she licked her lips tantalizingly, and said, “Well, she’s got great taste, Harry, honestly!”

It was then that Harry, in shock, realized what had happened:

Malfoy hadn’t just Confunded the faculty; he had Confunded everyone.

“So tell me, Cho,” Malfoy was saying easily. “Would you rather it be Harry Potter up here, or me?”

“I’d like to see you both bumping and grinding and getting it on with each other while we all watch,” Cho replied matter-of-factly.

“Is that so?” Malfoy grinned. For the first time he looked over at Harry, whose expression of consternation and confused horror was priceless, and smiled just for him. The look sent shivers through Harry, who couldn’t help grinning back at him. God, please don’t let anyone else remember this…please please please…

“Mr. Potter,” Malfoy was addressing him, calmly walking through the crowd towards him. “Miss Chang has suggested you join me. How about it?” Harry blanched. “I bet Miss Granger would be happy to second Miss Chang’s idea, wouldn’t you, Miss Granger?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d undress Harry and then stroke him to a climax,” Hermione piped in the same tone she used to answer questions in class. “Or you could always hump him. I’m sure you’re both rabid fuck-bunnies.”

“Hermione!!” Now Harry was positively frightened. He backed away from the Gryffindor table in shock only to find Draco’s hand resting consolingly on his shoulder.

“Now, now, Potter,” he said teasingly. “Everything’s all right. Yes, everything’s fine. Close your eyes and relax.”

“I want to see this!” Harry exclaimed. The audience laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Malfoy smirked, taking his hand and pulling him towards the center front of the dining room. “You’ve got a front row seat…”

“Where?” said Harry, eyeing the tables near the front and seeing no empty chairs anywhere.

“Right here,” replied Draco, motioning to the headmaster’s chair, which on cue flew up and over the table and settled itself like a throne at the top of the steps facing the whole school. Before Harry could say a word, Draco pushed him down into the thick cushions.

“Musicalis,” Draco muttered, and instantly a low, seductive rock beat materialized out of nowhere. The cries of the audience increased, but the music remained loud enough to drown them out. Malfoy tucked away his wand inside of his robes and turned to face Harry. He was standing a few steps lower than his lover, his back to the audience. For a moment he just stood there as the music grew ever more intense and sultry, and then, all at once, like a vibration of sound himself, he began to sway with it.

His body was silk and wind, so smooth were his movements as he gyrated, spun, and shifted to the music.

And then it hit Harry:

In front of 500 rapt admirers, Draco Malfoy was giving him a private lap dance….

Harry gulped. “Um…Draco?” he mumbled, casting a glance over his shoulder at the line full of attentive teachers who were just dying to watch Draco get on with his performance. “You don’t suppose you missed anybody with that Confundus charm, do you?”

Draco only raised a platinum eyebrow, gave him a sultry wink, and began to move as smoothly as ripples on the ocean along with the music pounding in Harry’s ears.

Confess what you crave

Draco ran his left hand down his chest, from his neck to his groin, his eyes fastened to Harry, and the look of horrified delight on Harry’s face. “Tell me what you crave, Harry,” he said calmly, his voice filled with sex.

Harry tried to swallow.

He failed miserably and instead wound up licking his lips as Draco let his Slytherin robe fall to the floor.

a life without pain

Draco’s right hand moved up starting from his thigh, over his hip, to meet the fingers of his left as they hooked into the top of his pants.

you’d kill for the taste

Harry finally noticed Draco’s pants. They were tighter than a wetsuit, and Draco chose that moment to sink down to the floor in a gyrating dance move that made his ass look like hard rock candy. The audience—men and women alike—went wild. Harry let out a weak groan and sank down into the chair. He’d kill for a taste of that…

…my god…

But the hurt still remains

Draco swiveled his hips, still low to the ground, one arm bent back over his head as he moved. He arched his body with feline grace, and Harry found himself wondering if he’d ever put on an exhibition like this before.

And still they don’t know who you are

Harry was beginning to wonder.

His eyes still glued to Harry’s, Draco reached a hand forward and slowly began to massage his crotch through his pants. Harry’s entire body went rigid. Hell, parts he didn’t know he possessed were standing at attention. He thought he heard a whimper of arousal behind him and tried his best not to imagine that it had come from Professor McGonagall.

“Are you doing this for me, Draco?” he asked the boy in front of him, “or because you get off on exhibitionism?”

In response, Draco only smiled enigmatically, pushed himself to a standing position, his movements smooth as flowing molasses, and unzipped his fly.

“Just be still, my emerald,” he sang along with the music. Harry got goosebumps. He’d never heard Draco sing before. He, um…wasn’t bad…

“I’ll be waiting for you;

Do exactly what you’re told:

I’ll be waiting for you…”

Draco pushed his pants part-way down his thigh to reveal his boxers. They were emerald-green just like his robes. The Slytherin girls went crazy, and someone shouted out, “Do us ALL, Malfoy!” –a sentiment greeted by round upon round of catcalls.

Draco turned to the audience and took a step backwards so that his round ass was level with Harry’s head. “Sorry,” he said suavely, “but this”—he unceremoniously pushed his trousers down the rest of the way, so that they hung below his knees, and grabbed his erection again, fondling himself through his shorts so that he grew harder with each word he spoke, “this is exclusive—“ *gasp* —“property“—”of Harry Potter!”

His voice was fire in Harry’s brain. Stifling a moan, Harry reached for Draco and cradled the Slytherin’s ass, feeling his muscles ripple and grow taut with pleasure beneath his touch. For a moment only Draco leaned into his grip, pushing with the music and moving away only to step easily out of his pants and begin his hypnotic slow-dance once again. This time he turned back to Harry and moved very close, until he was almost straddling Harry’s eager hips, which were writhing slowly with the rhythm.

Ashamed by the threats

Draco was moving his hands over his chest again, slowly and firmly, making sure Harry’s eyes followed each caress over each curve and crevice of his firm body. This time he was slowly, deliberately removing his clothing, a layer at a time…

you pierce the embrace

First, his green-and-black necktie, which he easily slid off and draped around Harry’s own neck, pulling the silk fabric gently over Harry’s skin as Harry murmured something incoherent in response…

afraid and alone

…His cardigan came next. Draco moved it up, up, over his shoulders, holding it above him like a prizefighter’s belt, before striking a pose Harry was hitherto convinced only professional strippers knew about and flinging the sweater out over a wildly ecstatic audience. Susan Bones ran to the front, caught it, and hugged it as if it belonged to a Beatle, not to a Malfoy. But then, everyone present seemed to have lost all perspective on that front.

In fact, Harry was losing more than perspective with each beat of the music…

In a dark lonely place

…Slowly, Draco began to unbutton his shirt.

And still they don’t know who you are

The crowd went wild. The music increased magically in volume to match their pitch, and Draco’s eyes bored into Harry’s, pinning him to the seat as if they were force beams of desire. The Slytherin’s silver hair fell around his face; his eyes narrowed into intense amber-gray slits, and he seemed to take himself away from the audience as Harry looked at him, away from the uproar, away from everything but the gaze of the one he loved.

Somewhere inside Harry’s brain a part of him realized his mouth was hanging open from pure lust. He ceased to care.

did you always want to be

…halfway down his chest, his shirt half-open, Malfoy stopped and pressed his finger firmly to his nipple, tugging and rubbing while he enjoyed the effect this had on Harry. The teachers behind him were moaning and sighing at various pitch levels; Draco paid them no mind. Instead, as if only one person existed for him in that moment, he moved into Harry’s lap, straddling him with a sigh of release.

did they try to steal your soul

His pelvis joined his lover’s hips in an exotic rhythm of slow, deliberate grinding that had Harry’s cheeks burning and his erection shocked stiff. Taking Harry’s hand in his he moved a sweaty palm up over his chest until Harry got the idea and began caressing Malfoy’s smooth, pale skin. Just as he was getting into it, Malfoy pulled back…

did they hurt you with deceit

…and placed a fleeting, gentle kiss on Harry’s forehead before beginning to toy with his shirt again, tugging at the buttons but always teasing Harry by letting his fingertips come just within reach of his undulating chest. He was now rocking back and forth against Harry, his long, supple form coaxing Harry into reacting, into going crazy, all accompanied by deafening, erotic, demanding guitars that made his bones ache with need..

“Can’t you come in from the cold…”

Harry looked up. Draco was singing again. It was too much. Leaning forward Harry grabbed Draco’s back in a firm grip, sunk his teeth over a button, and tugged fiercely at Draco’s shirt as the Slytherin undulated against him. Draco let out a moan of pleasure, arched his back, and sank his fingers into Harry’s tassel of raven hair.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he sang as Harry reached up to rip his shirt from his back, needing to slip his lips over his boyfriend’s skin or slip into a crazed stupor from longing. From far away, Harry was aware that massive noise and shouts of encouragement were coming from every direction of the Great Hall; but he was aware only that Draco was pulling his head up into a deep, sensual kiss, and that the Slytherin was slowly pushing down his shorts to reveal every bit of his luxuriously beautiful form to Harry, who wanted to devour him, then, there, in front of anyone and everyone who looked on.

“Be still my emerald,” sang Draco, looking meaningfully into his eyes.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, the phrase filling him and floating away on the music as though it were a part of the song itself.

I’ll be waiting for you

I’ll be waiting for you

Draco Malfoy throbbed naked in Harry Potter’s arms as the music faded away, his body just beginning to glisten with sweat. Once the music faded the cheers of the crowd reached a roar Hogwarts had never heard. But Harry cared for nothing but the lips he was tasting, the body his arms were embracing, and the voice which so softly murmured into his ear, “I love you too, you know….”

“Mmmmm,” said Harry, trying to wrap Draco up in a fervent, passionate display of love then and there.

Draco pulled away from him and winked. “…and I think the Confundus Potion should be wearing off any moment,” he grinned, scooting off his boyfriend’s lap and moving to pick up his shorts, blanching as he met the wide, luminous eyes of Professor Sprout, who seemed to have her mind on much more interesting things than Herbology. The entire row of teachers were applauding and smiling foolishly along with the rest of the school.

“You’d better get your shirt back from the Hufflepuffs before they rip it apart,” observed Harry, reaching for Draco’s hand in a moment of impulsive affection.

“So how’d I do, Potter?” Malfoy smirked, lacing his fingertips through Harry’s.

“If I might be allowed to speak in Mr. Potter’s stead–”

They gasped.

They looked behind them in shock.

They gasped again.

“No!” Harry said in disbelief. “Draco!!! I thought you Confunded everyone!”

The Slytherin, for once, didn’t have a comeback.

“I must say,” said Snape, leering down at them both, a faint smirk on his vapid lips, “I’m quite impressed with Mr. Malfoy’s, how shall I say it…mad skillz?”

Malfoy went paler than he already was, if such a thing was possible.

“Fortunately for the two of you, the other faculty members are well under the influence of Mr. Malfoy’s very skillful confundus potion. Had I not recognized the ingredients at once purely by their nearly untraceable odors, you should not have been discovered. I might at this point ask several questions of the two of you.”

Harry gulped and squeezed Draco’s hand reassuringly. Draco returned the gesture unconsciously, and then frantically began redressing himself. Snape waited til he was mostly clothed, but Harry couldn’t escape a feeling he was checking out Draco’s, erm, rather noticeable assets while he stood there.

“I might,” continued Snape once again, clearing his throat, “ask how you so cleverly managed to deposit five hundred glasses worth of Confundus Potion into the school orange juice all before seven o’clock this morning. I might ask how two of the school’s most infamous enemies have come to deceive everyone at Hogwarts including their professors by conducting an obviously improper relationship under their noses. I might ask how such an arrogant little prat as yourself, Potter, came to seduce my best and brightest pupil!”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, and Malfoy stepped forward. “Professor, I’ve still got my wand, and I’m in deep shit already, so don’t tempt me to do anything desperate by insulting the man I love.”

“You, Mr. Malfoy, are hardly in a position to threaten me,” sneered Snape. “Now. Listen to me, both of you. In a minute, I am going to turn around and end this. No one under the charm’s influence will remember a thing. You will discuss this with no one. Is that clear?”

Malfoy gaped at Snape. Harry balked. “In exchange for what?” he demanded.

Snape laughed. Malfoy clutched Harry’s arm for support.

“In exchange,” said the Potions Master evilly, “for whatever I want.”

The End… ???

~~~~~~~

Note: The song is “Emerald” by the amazing Canadian band, Tea Party. Huge thanks to Jen (legomymalfoy) and the S.S. Guns & Handcuffs–and to Thursday September, who requested this story in the first place.

Also, for everyone who has asked, the story is complete. There will be no sequel–although I have written a sort of redux. Thanks for reading!

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The Sparrow Prince.

Title: The Sparrow Prince.
Rating: PG.
Archiving: Just ask.
Disclaimer: not mine.  Wait, technically, this one might actually be mine since it’s completely AU and the name Draco isn’t exactly copyrighted.
Notes:  this is a sleepy little AU fairytale that has nothing whatsoever to do with Harry Potter.

Huge hugs and thanks to littlealex for betaing.

This is for Orphne and Rach, with love.

The Sparrow Prince

nce upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lived a boy named Draco, who was the fairest in all the land.  Being the fairest, he was, naturally, heir to a very large fortune; and it was difficult to say whether the large fortune did not in fact make him all the fairer.  At sixteen, he never wanted for suitors, and his mother and father made sure that his hands never knew roughness.

It came to pass that the boy’s house fell into disgrace; his father was stripped of his lands and all his fine possessions before being sent to a far-away land to work for his bread.  With nothing left to her but her name, Draco’s mother gathered her few belongings and took him to live in a tiny hut on the edge of a great mountain where the wind rattled the thin walls and turned their blood to ice.  The cold threatened to ruin Draco’s complexion, and so every day he sat by the fire, warming himself, while his mother gathered nettles, the only thing growing on the mountainside, and wove them into fishing nets.

One day she called Draco to the edge of the cliff at the edge of the great mountain where their little hut sat.  She stretched out her hand and said, ‘All this was once ours—the earth and the heavens, too.  And now we cannot afford even to buy bread.  You must take these nets down to the village by the sea, the village at the end of the world, and sell them in exchange for bread and kindling.  You must do this, or we shall starve.’

‘But mother,’ said Draco, ‘the nettles are rough and will prick my fine hands.’

‘Then wear you these gloves I have sewn from my skirts.’

‘But mother,’ said Draco, ‘the nets are too many—how can they be bound?’

‘Take you this rope I have spun from my hair.’

‘But mother,’ said Draco, ‘the load is so heavy—how can it be borne?’

‘Take you my walking stick to shoulder the pack.’

And so they bound the nets with Draco’s mother’s golden hair, and tied it to her cane; and sliding on his soft new calico gloves, Draco shouldered the load of nets and set off down the mountain.

Many leagues he traveled without sign of a single living creature, for the mountain was very remote; but at last he came to the place where the sea touches the shore, that place known as the end of the world.  There, Draco was eagerly welcomed and praised by all who admired his beauty, and all through the village it was whispered that surely this stranger was the handsomest boy in all the world.

Because of his beauty, Draco had no trouble selling the nets his mother had woven—indeed, some men were so bewitched they paid double what the nets were worth.  But Draco was eager to enjoy having money of his own to spend again, and so he decided to delay his return for a few days while he explored the village.  His days were spent sightseeing and buying, while his nights were spent carousing in each of the various inns and taverns about town.

One evening into the tavern came a young man, a boy with eyes as green as holly, as bright as the sea beneath the sun.  Intrigued by the sight of the boy, Draco offered him a drink and a place at his table.  But the boy refused both.  Looking Draco up and down he said with scorn, ‘So you’re the famed beauty I’ve been hearing about.  Why, you’re nothing but a cat-eyed calico.’

Everyone laughed loudly at the newcomer’s joke, but Draco, affronted and angry, seized upon the scar that lined the other boy’s forehead.  ‘Why should a cat care for the taunts of the prince of sparrows?’ he said.  ‘You should be careful lest I pounce upon you and rip off your wings.’

From that day forth, the boy was known as the Sparrow Prince.

Yet even after the boy with the holly-green eyes as bright as the sea had departed the tavern, his taunts continued to bother Draco, and upon leaving that night, he resolved that he would set off for home again the very next day.

But when he went to pay for his bread and kindling, he found that he had squandered all of the money he had earned from the sale of his mother’s nets.  He did not have enough for even a stick of wood for the fire.  He tried first to borrow money, but no one wanted to lend.  At last he was forced to sell his mother’s calico gloves so that he could buy a single loaf of bread for his mother.  Binding it up with the rope made from her golden hair, he set off for their hut on the mountain.

Many leagues he traveled before he arrived once again at the hut where he had left his mother.  Yet when he entered, he found the hut deserted.  He cried out for his mother, but there was no sign of her.

‘I am sure she has gone out to gather nettles,’ he thought. ‘I will wait for her to come back.’

The day wore away and she did not return.  The night was lonely and cold, and Draco, who had grown unused to the chill of the wind, had nothing to build a fire save for his mother’s walking stick.  ‘She will not need it,’ he thought. ‘Look, clearly she is out walking already.’ And so he threw the walking stick onto the hearth.

Instantly there arose such a flame as he had never seen before—it was so bright that Draco had to shield his eyes, and so hot that he had to back across the room.

Suddenly out of the flames there stepped a beautiful cat with golden hair.  ‘Do not be afraid,’ it said to Draco.  ‘I am the spirit of your mother, who, before she died, consigned her body to ashes and her soul to embers.’

‘You mean my mother is dead?’ cried Draco.

‘Yes,’ replied the cat, ‘and but for your selfishness she might have lived.  She died awaiting your return, having given you all she had.’

‘Is there nothing,’ cried Draco in despair, ‘nothing that can be done to bring her back?’

‘Only one thing,’ the cat replied.  ‘You must sail across the sea at the end of the world, to the Kingdom of Riches. There you must beseech the King of Kings to give you a fruit from the Tree of All Things, which holds that which is universal, yet cannot be found anywhere in the world.  Feed me the fruit, and your mother shall be restored to you.’

‘But how shall I find this Kingdom and this Tree?’ said Draco.

‘You must return to the village at the end of the world,’ replied the cat.  ‘One is there who knows the way.’

‘I will do this,’ said Draco, and then he began to weep.  For many days he mourned, until his complexion lost its luster, his eyes their glimmer, and his hair its sheen.  He grew frail, and when at last it was time, he braided the cord of his mother’s hair into his own, and set off with the cat for the village at the end of the world.

For many leagues he traveled, and when at last he arrived at the village by the sea, he found it much changed.  It was a somber place where few smiled, and so surprised was he by the difference that he asked the keeper of the inn where he stayed what had happened to cause everyone’s faces to droop.

‘We are ruled by the kingdom across the sea,’ said the innkeeper, ‘the Kingdom of Riches, which has lately been beset upon by a terrible dragon who has ravaged the land.  Many have tried to slay it, but all have died, and everyone fears it will come here next if it is not stopped.’

‘But that is where I must go,’ said Draco, ‘to the Kingdom of Riches.’

‘You will have no luck finding any ships departing for that shore,’ said the innkeeper.

‘Yet I was told there was one who knows the way,’ said Draco.  But in the days to come he discovered that the innkeeper was right.  No boats set out for the shore across the sea at the end of the world.

‘No one who sets out for the kingdom across the sea ever comes back,’ they told him, one after another.

‘But how then do you know of the dragon?’ he would ask, and they would shrug.

And so it went, and Draco grew weary of trying to find a ship that would sail to the kingdom across the sea at the end of the world.  His face grew long and lean, and his hands grew rough; he began standing on the docks to ask each ship as it came to port, ‘Have you come from the Kingdom of Riches?’  The villagers all said he was in his madness.  His hair and his nails grew long, his clothing unkempt; he barely ate, and he slept for a few hours each night at the docks, with his strange cat curled by his side.

There came a bright day, when the sun was high in the sky, and the sea was green as holly, and Draco stood on the docks looking out across the sea, to where he thought the Kingdom of Riches might lay beyond the horizon.  Suddenly, at the juncture between sea and sky, appeared a huge, magnificent ship with all its sails drawn and gleaming in the sun.  Draco felt a great tide rise in his stomach.  He followed the ship with his eyes as it approached, then ran down to the dock where it was lowering its anchor.

‘Have you come from the Kingdom of Riches?’ he shouted anxiously to the first sailor who disembarked.

‘Yes, only just,’ said the sailor.  ‘We’ve come to amass an army to fight the great dragon.’

‘I want to join your army,’ said Draco.

‘You?’ said the sailor, looking him over.  ‘You’re nothing but bones and rags. But talk to our captain—he’ll know your worth when he sees you.’

Draco did not have to ask how he would know the captain, because at that moment he caught sight of the captain descending from the ship.  It was the boy with eyes as green as holly, as bright as the sea.  He had grown into a fine young man: he stood taller, his shoulders were broader, and the brightness of his eyes had hardened into a fierce intensity.  For the first time since he had arrived at the village, Draco felt ashamed of his haggard appearance and his unkempt clothes.  Still, with what little hope was left to him, he went to speak to the Sparrow Prince.

To his great relief, when he approached, the young man appeared not to know him.  He raised an eyebrow and looked Draco over with some distaste.

‘Is it true you are sailing to the Kingdom of Riches?’ Draco asked.

‘Aye, we set out again in a fortnight’s time,’ said the Sparrow Prince.

‘Is it true you’re gathering an army?’

‘It is, but what would you want with that?’ said the Sparrow Prince. ‘Haven’t you heard we go to battle the fiercest dragon in all the land?’

‘I wish to join your army,’ said Draco.

The Sparrow Prince scoffed.  ‘You? You’re barely standing as it is.  The first puff of the dragon’s nostrils would singe you to a crisp.’

‘Please, I must come with you,’ said Draco.

At this the Sparrow Prince paused.  ‘Can you cook?’ he said, after thinking it over.

‘Yes,’ lied Draco.

‘Very well,’ said the Sparrow Prince. ‘I shall keep you aboard as a galley cook for the two weeks my sailors are on leave.  You shall cook for me and do my bidding, and it I am satisfied with your services at the end of the fortnight, you shall come with us to the Kingdom of Riches.’

Draco was much moved at this, and bent to kiss the hem of the captain’s garment in the tradition of his family; but already the Sparrow Prince was moving away, giving no more thought to Draco.  Draco was left to make his way on board and move his few belongings below deck.  The ship was cold and drafty, and reminded Draco greatly of the hunt on the mountainside; only instead of the wind whipping through the cracks in the wood, seawater leaked onto the floor, and barnacles and algae sent him slipping and sliding when he walked.

He had never cooked in his life and was very afraid lest he be sent from the ship in disgrace; yet the first night the captain stayed on shore and did not send him any orders.  The next morning, however, Draco was awakened from sleep in his tiny bunk in the galley by a sailor holding out three large gold coins.

‘The captain pays you for your services and requests you purchase food for the journey,’ he said.

Draco was amazed, since he had heard nothing from the captain since the day before.  Still, he made careful note of what supplies the ship already had and went ashore to purchase quantities enough to feed an entire army—for the captain had given him money enough to feed the ship’s crew and passengers three times over, at least.  Having seen the supplies delivered aboard, he returned ashore.  With part of the remaining money he purchased a sturdy new set of clothes, trimmed his hair, and took a hot bath for the first time in ages.  When at last he stepped back aboard the ship that evening, he felt more himself than he had in weeks.

The Sparrow Prince greeted him, his brows furrowed in anger and impatience so that his scar was more pronounced than ever.  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, paying Draco’s changed appearance no attention.  ‘I am hungry. Your orders await you below.’

Quickly Draco hurried down to the galley, where his heart sank.  The captain was calling for a large order of venison stew.  Not only was there no venison with which to make the broth aboard ship, there was no venison to be found anywhere in the village, for venison was scarce throughout the land.

Draco, feeling that the Sparrow Prince must have known the impossibility of his request, was about to curse his captain’s cruelty when the cat spoke.

‘Cook the ingredients you have and squeeze a few drops of blood from your finger into the broth,’ it said.  ‘Then pull a strand of your mother’s golden hair and place it in the pot.’

Draco gathered the ingredients he had, cooked them, and spilt a few drops of blood into the broth. Then he took the strand of his mother’s hair, placed it in the pot, and sang:

‘Mother, oh Mother, with your blood I brew;
Favor my fortunes and flavor this stew.’

Then he tasted the broth, and found that it was as fine a taste of venison as any cook had ever produced.

He soon produced the stew for the Sparrow Prince.  The Sparrow Prince tasted the stew, said coldly, ‘This is hardly adequate,’ and said no more until he was finished eating.  Then he rose and departed with an order for Draco to clean the kitchens and have his breakfast ready early the next morning.  Draco, frustrated and lonely, did as he asked and went to bed, feeling certain he would not last the week.

In this way the days passed quickly.  Each night the captain would demand a dish more outlandish and extravagant than the next, and each night, with the cat’s help, Draco would pull a strand from his mother’s hair and flavor the dish just as the Sparrow Prince requested.  Each day he worked twice as hard as the day before, cleaning and scrubbing the galleys like any slave, storing away supplies, and learning to bake, boil, fry, steam, roast, broil, and brew.  Sometimes after eating dinner, the Sparrow Prince would have Draco into his quarters to unlace his boots and press his uniform, and always he would have the same cold assessment for Draco’s performance: ‘Hardly adequate.’  Draco often awoke with the dawn, feeling dull and tired and useless, certain the captain would turn him from the cabin the next day.  Each night, however, the captain would send him to bed with his orders for breakfast the following day.

On the thirteenth afternoon of the ship’s stay, Draco was jolted out of his chores by the sound of a shrill whistle on the quarterdeck and the thump, thump, thump of thick boots tromping overhead.  Clambering above deck, he beheld a glorious sight: the Sparrow Prince had amassed a huge army, so many Draco doubted they could all fit on board the mighty ship; yet somehow, they did, and now, from his command on the foredeck, the Sparrow Prince was training them all to slay a mighty dragon.

When he spotted Draco peering out from below, the Sparrow Prince barked, ‘You there, get back to your duties.’  Draco obeyed; and for the rest of the day he dreaded the evening meal, feeling certain that the captain would dismiss him the next morning.  Yet when he went to bed he received only the usual ‘Hardly adequate,’ and his orders for breakfast.

When he awoke the next morning, they were at sea.

The first few days were hellish indeed, for, having never been at sea before, Draco was completely unprepared for the lolling and tossing of the ship on open water, or the sudden changes in weather that would have every man awake and active at all hours of the night.  He learned to control his stomach during a swell, and how to stand upright and walk without falling over in the middle of a gale.  He learned to rush on deck in a sudden storm and help lower the sails or add to the ballasts.

Overjoyed as he was to have passed the tests the Sparrow Prince had devised for him, Draco could not but wonder what had convinced the Sparrow Prince to allow him to stay; for, with the money he seemed to have at his disposal, he could certainly have hired any number of splendid cooks to sail with him.  When he was around the Sparrow Prince, Draco always felt ashamed, for he was reminded of how frivolous and haughty he must have appeared the night they had met long ago, when Draco had taunted the boy for his scar.  What a fine man he had grown into! thought Draco more than once.  No one could have argued that the Sparrow Prince, with his handsome features and gallant carriage, was a sight for mockery now.  It is I, Draco reflected bitterly, who have become the mockery.  Indeed, his fine smooth hands, always so pampered in his youth, were now coarse and rough, and his delicate pale features were chiseled into hardness.  Had I but been less selfish! I, too, could have had my wealth restored to me, and my mother might live today!

Draco had only one consolation for these bitter reflections: that the Sparrow Prince had never yet recognized him for the proud boy at the tavern.  How insignificant Draco must seem to the Sparrow Prince, then as well as now!  For they rarely saw each other, except during the mealtimes when the captain would sup with his crew and his army, and at night when Draco would enter the captain’s chambers to help him undress.  Draco had his hands full feeding and cleaning up after the hundreds of men aboard the ship, and though now he had a regular galley crew to help, the job did not get any easier.  At night the captain rarely spoke to him except to deliver his orders for breakfast the following morning, and to issue the same accolade: ‘Hardly adequate.’  Still, Draco began to grow used to the cold, gruff voice, and as the weeks passed he found himself looking forward most to those few moments in the captain’s cabin each night.

At only one other time during the day did the Sparrow Prince notice Draco.  Each afternoon the army the Sparrow Prince had recruited from the port would assemble on deck to practice its drills.  The Sparrow Prince would take his place on the foredeck, armed only with his whistle and a look of command.  There he would train the soldiers to recognize the signals of the whistle, until they moved as a unit, swift and sure; and to the deck, every day, Draco would be drawn as if by force, to watch and learn and observe, until the captain, spotting him as he always did, ordered, ‘You there! Back to your duties.’  And Draco would go below, his head full of drills and patterns and whistles.

They practiced in the sun and rain: on afternoons when the sunlight lancing off the ocean made it impossible to see, and on afternoons when the sky thundering overhead made it impossible to hear.  And always the captain would spot Draco peering out from below deck, watching and learning; until at last, one torrential day when the rain stung Draco’s eyes so badly he could hardly see, the captain saw him there and barked, ‘You there! Fall in line!’

Thus it was that Draco became a soldier for the mercenary army of the Kingdom of Riches.

By day, Draco cooked and cleaned, joining the other sailors only when dining and drilling, or when his assistance was needed on deck during a gale.  By night he served the captain and his officers in the captain’s quarters, and waited upon the captain after he retired.  Gradually, the Sparrow Prince ceased telling him what to serve and let Draco draw up his own menus.  Moreover, as the drills progressed, the Sparrow Prince cast his eye upon Draco more and more frequently, and soon moved him up in the ranks to become a regular officer.  Then at last his chores as the cook were given to someone else.  But even though Draco no longer ran the galleys or served the captain his dinner, the captain still seemed to require Draco’s presence for a few moments each night, even if it was only to remark to him that his progress, as ever, was hardly adequate.

The voyage to the Kingdom of Riches was long and wearying, lasting many months; and when at last they neared land it seemed to Draco that he had aged a lifetime between one shore and the next.  He said a prayer of blessing for the royal family of the land as he stepped onto the soil, for he had not forgotten his mission to retrieve the fruit from the Tree of All Things, which held that which was universal, yet could not be found anywhere in the world.

‘I must go to the royal family and ask the king to grant me a bit of fruit from the tree,’ he vowed to himself.  ‘Then I shall return and discharge my duty by fighting in this army against the great dragon.’

Word of the ship’s arrival spread quickly throughout the city, and to the sailors’ great surprise throngs of people, clad all in black, hurried to meet them, wringing their hands and crying praises and thanks for their safe journey.  When the Sparrow Prince disembarked, a cheer arose from every side, and all the citizens went down upon their knees for him.

At this the Sparrow Prince’s eyes filled with tears, and he said to one who was near, ‘But what does this mean?  What of my father and mother?’

‘Oh, your majesty,’ the villager replied, ‘the dragon has beset the castle.  It has killed your mother and father and many others.  It has declared itself ruler over us all, and intends to kill you upon your return so that none may conquer it.’

Then all the citizens cried out with one voice, ‘Hail to the King of Riches!’  And thus the astonished sailors and soldiers who had come from the land across the sea learned that their captain, the one they called the Sparrow Prince, was in fact a true king.

Upon hearing this news, the new king’s despair was great, and he went away from the huge throngs of people that were gathered there.  Seeing him go, Draco followed at a distance.  The Sparrow Prince led him out of town to the top of a great hill, where Draco could look over the city and see the billowing smoke from the ruins of the castle, and the hulking black shape of the great dragon.

The Sparrow Prince sat down in the middle of a small clearing.  There, he wept, and sang softly:

Oh, mother, oh father, oh where have you gone?
Would I had stayed here and fought for the throne.
Now all your strength must become my own—
Oh, forgive me, forgive your poor wand’ring son!

When he heard the Sparrow Prince’s song, and saw his sadness, Draco, who had been hidden in the brush, stepped forward and made his presence known.  Kneeling before the Sparrow Prince, he said, ‘Oh, great king, do not weep.  Turn your vengeance into victory.  Let us march against the dragon. I am at your command.’

Drying his tears, the Sparrow Prince looked down at Draco.  ‘How far we have come since the day we met, Cat-Eyes,’ he said with a weary smile.

Draco was astonished, and could scarcely speak a word for mortification.  The Sparrow Prince continued gently, ‘I recognized you the moment you approached me that day on the docks.  I wondered what had caused such a change in your fortunes.  You had been so haughty, and I relished the prospect of having power over you.  The trials I devised for you when we began our journey were done out of my arrogance. I wanted to humble your pride, but it is I who have been humbled instead.’

In shame Draco hung his head.  ‘I am not worthy of calling myself your subject,’ he said, and he recounted his exploits since that fateful meeting at the tavern—the loss of his mother, his long journey, and the instructions the cat had given him.

‘When we have reclaimed the castle,’ said the Sparrow Prince when Draco had finished his tale, ‘You shall have all the fruit from any tree in the orchard you desire—and may it end your quest at last.’

Together they went back down the hill to the city, where the surviving members of the King’s cabinet were anxious to speak with him, and where Draco was all too eager to find a bed that did not roll back and forth as much as he did.

In a few days’ time, the Sparrow Prince and his army were ready to march against the dragon.  They set off for the castle.  All along the route where they marched, the people of the kingdom cheered them on, and then ran to lock their doors and bar their windows in anticipation of the mighty battle about to begin.  When at last the mighty army arrived at the castle gate they found it broken completely off its hinges.  Huge chunks were torn out of the stone wall where a large, bony tail had crashed into it.  All around was a heavy stench of brimstone, and the air was filled with smoke.

As they were preparing to pass through the damaged gates, a mighty roar came from within, and suddenly the giant dragon sprang up from within the castle ruins.  The shadow it cast fell over the entire army, and many drew back, afraid.

‘Who dares to disturb the king of dragons?’ roared the dragon.

‘I am the true king of this land,’ replied the Sparrow Prince in a firm voice.  ‘Leave this place at once and we shall let you live in peace.’

In response the dragon let out a mighty roar, and spat out a huge flame that promptly burned up half a dozen soldiers.  Great were the cries of alarm, but the Sparrow Prince was not afraid, and on he led them into battle.  For many days and nights the battle raged, and despite many casualties, the dragon was driven back and back, into the reaches of the ruined castle.

The further they drove it, the more destruction they found, until at long last they cornered the dragon within the castle orchard.  There, the Sparrow Prince called to Draco, and bade him look at the devastation the great beast had wrought: all around the trees lay felled, and not a single thing remained growing in all the gardens.

‘See what becomes of your quest,’ said the Sparrow Prince sadly.  ‘The Tree of All Things is no more.’

‘Which one is this tree?’ asked Draco.  Upon spotting where the prince pointed, he darted forth to find the fruit.  The dragon, who had been using the tree for his giant nest, saw him, and spat out a flame that devoured the entire tree in one blast, and nearly took Draco right with it.  But just as he jumped back, Draco managed to grab one of the fruits that had fallen from its branches, before the fruit and the tree were turned to ash forever.

As Draco dodged the dragon’s talons, all at once the Sparrow Prince took up his great sword, ran forward, and thrust it upward into the beast’s heart.  With a cry, the dragon fell onto the sword—but with its claws it struck the Sparrow Prince as it died.  The Sparrow Prince gave a cry and sank back.

Immediately, Draco was at his side.  ‘Good king, are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘If I but had a little water,’ replied the Sparrow Prince.

‘Then take you my flask,’ cried Draco, giving him his flask.  The Sparrow Prince drank, but fell back with a cry of pain, and again Draco asked: ‘Good brother, are you hurt?’

‘If I but had a pillow for my head,’ said the Sparrow Prince.

‘Then take you my cloak,’ said Draco, bundling his cloak beneath the Sparrow Prince’s head.

Again he asked: ‘My prince of sparrows, are you hurt?’

The Sparrow Prince replied, ‘Soon I shall feel no hurt ever again.’

‘Then take you my quest,’ said Draco, ‘and live.’  And he fed the Prince the fruit that he had taken from the Tree of All Things, which holds that which is universal, yet cannot be found anywhere in the world.

At once the Sparrow Prince was healed, and he sat up and threw his arms around his loyal soldier.  Draco, knowing his mother to be lost to him forever, wept and held the king close.  But as they embraced, the cat who had directed Draco on his journey now approached them both.  As they watched, it transformed into a fine lady with hair of gold, and Draco cried out in amazement, for it was his mother.

‘My dear mother, I did not complete my quest,’ he said.  ‘How can it be that you are alive?’

‘My son,’ she replied.  ‘Your selfishness sent me to my death, and only its opposite could restore me,’ replied Draco’s mother.  ‘The fruit of the Tree of All Things is that which is universal, yet cannot be found anywhere in the world.  Unselfish love is that which everyone in the world needs—yet it can never be found; it can only be given.  When you learned to love someone else above your own desire, you gave up your quest—and through your sacrifice, I was reborn.’

Then she embraced Draco and the Sparrow Prince.

‘Now I shall rebuild my kingdom,’ said the Sparrow Prince, ‘and you shall both live in the castle as my family.’

Then all the kingdom gathered to celebrate the defeat of the great dragon, and the Sparrow Prince was finally crowned the King of Kings.  And the king took Draco and his mother to live with him for the rest of his days, and if they have not found another dragon to chase after, they are living there still.

The End.

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