A/N: I know I haven't updated anything for five million years, and I am soooooooo sorry! But I hope you enjoy this. Please read, and review or flame if you have the chance. It's a rather strange story, all based on one quote from Harry.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Only their fake thoughts.
Warnings: Slash, violence, bad language, general darkness.
I Think I Can Tell The Wrong Sort For Myself, Thanks
Draco has never forgotten those words that Harry Potter said to him on the train all the way back in first year.
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
Here was Draco, Draco Malfoy, Draco Lucius Malfoy, being perfectly polite and decent and deciding to actually grace Potter with his presence, with his words, with his fucking offer of friendship, and Potter has the audacity, the insanity, the simple downright callousness of saying-
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
Well.
Draco has never forgotten those words. No, he has never forgotten them. Not once, not ever.
And every time he looks at Potter those words resound in his head
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks
and he feels the hate boiling up inside of him, feels the poison running through his veins, feels his heart beat faster and faster in anger, and he opens his mouth and spiteful, cruel words just seem to fly out faster than the speed of light …
It's all Potter's fault. Draco knows this.
It's Potter's own fault Draco's a bastard to him.
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
No, no, you can't, Draco wants to say, you can't, otherwise you'd realise that Weasley is not worth your friendship, me, me, I am, I am, I'm worth it, not him, me, memememeME!
Potter was Draco's ticket out of his life, he knew it. Knew it ever since he'd first heard of the boy, aged four years two months, had heard his father swearing about 'that blasted little child, how I'd like to fucking kill him' and had thought 'yess! Something we both have in common, he's gonna be my bestest friend!' and had spent the next seven years of his life dreaming of what Harry Potter would look like, would sound like, would be like.
Harry and Draco would talk, talk about everything. About the Dark Magic that Lucius never let him mention to anyone, about the colour of the sky, about if Harry remembered his parents dying, about the ugly black mark on his father's arm, about what love meant, about if Muggles really were dirty, or was it just his father exaggerating things as usual?
Draco would show Harry the bruises, and Harry would be shocked but impressed, and Draco would beam as Harry praised Draco's braveness for taking it all without crying, and then Draco would show Harry the top-secret scar on the inside of his thigh that he wasn't ever meant to mention to anyone, not even Mother, and Harry would gasp and yet again praise Draco for his braveness, and Draco would smile boldly and ask Harry if Harry had any scars, and Harry would, of course, show him the legendary lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and the two would talk about it for hours and hours and hours.
Then when he was nine Draco would tell Harry that he thought he loved him if his definition of love was correct, and Harry would smile shyly and say that he thought he loved Draco as well. The two boys would kiss sweetly on the lips, and it would be as if it was the first kiss that Draco had ever had, and when they grew up they knew they would marry each other and have babies, and Harry would move into the Manor with him and they would make it pretty and cosy and not dark anymore, perhaps blue, or maybe red, or possibly even purple, Draco liked purple, but, of course, his favourite colour was green, because that was the colour of Harry's eyes.
In his head, Harry was the best friend Draco had ever had.
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
But then he opened his mouth that time on the train and shot Draco down with one fucking sentence and didn't even have the decency to sound emotional about it! It was just fucking cold and disinterested, blank and distant, and Draco wanted to scream NONONO, you were my ticket out of here! but he didn't, all he said was an insult aimed at Potter's dead parents, because, after all, the bastard deserves it because he was meant to be Draco's ticket out of there, godammit!
… And Draco loved him, yes, he had loved the boy in his head, they had talked for hours and hours and hours, they had made plans, and they would marry, they would have children, Harry would kill Lucius and they would move in together, and he was not supposed to say no!
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
The words had cut into Draco's half-empty heart so deep that he could still feel the bleeding.
And one cool, sunny day in the middle of January, Draco cracks.
"Leave them alone, Malfoy!" Potter snaps, green eyes flashing angrily (Granger has actually been brought to tears and Weasley has already managed to punch him in the jaw twice), "I'm the one you want to hurt, so why don't you just do it?"
Draco freezes, and before he can think of what he's doing, the tears that have been building up for the past six years are streaming down his face and he's screaming, "YOU WERE MY TICKET OUT OF THERE! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SAY NO, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SAY NO?"
Potter is absolutely gobsmacked and Granger has been shocked out of crying and even Weasley has stopped trying to land a punch and is looking confused.
"AAAAARRGHH!" Draco lets out a feral scream and launches himself on Harry, hitting and kicking and biting and spitting, and Potter is fighting back but Draco is too angry to notice and as he hits and kicks and bites and spits he is screaming
"I-"
(don't)
a punch to the nose
"THINK-"
a kick to the stomach
"I-"
a blow to the neck
"CAN-"
(kill)
a kick to the side
"TELL-"
(you)
it's all his fault
"THE-"
(now)
he was his ticket out of there
"WRONG-"
I'm not wrong I'm not wrong I'm not I'mnotI'mnotI'mnot
"SORT-"
bashing his face into the wall
"FOR-"
this is not enough
"MY-"
I'll die without you
"SELF-"
I'll die for you
"THANKS!"
I love you I love you I love you still
and Potter is lying there, bleeding and dry heaving, but still conscious, and Weasley is beating the living daylights out of Draco and Hermione is screaming and students have begun to crowd around them and Draco realises what he's done and realises what he is and catches Harry's eye one last time and whispers
"I never thought I was the wrong sort until now."