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Origins 8 sneak peak
Mar. 24th, 2002 02:54 pmAlright. I will post this to inspire me. I'm struggling with this part a lot. It should be done by now. Here's the first bit of the second section. Second of three sections, I think. Here it goes:
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They stood facing each other on the mat while Madam Hooch attempted to convince some of the younger and grumpily-tired Gryffindors to head off to bed, as it was nearly eleven and the match had not yet even begun. Draco was holding his own foil, not one of the grubby school ones, its tip pressed into the suede of his shoe, stifling a yawn. His foil was silver, inlaid with gold, and had been a Christmas gift. It came in a long, thin, cedar box lined with velvet, and was brighter, shinier, and more comfortable to hold than those dreadful standard issue two-hundred year old pieces of vaguely rusted metal Potter seemed more than happy to use. It had his name engraved along the side of the hilt, as if anyone could possibly mistake it for anyone else's. He pressed down on the foil, its grip still warm in his hand from his last victory, feeling the pressure of the tip against his toes, feeling it bend against his weight.
He had taken an interest in fencing a couple of years before, but since there had never been more than a handful of students at Hogwarts prepared to take it seriously after that first year, he hadn't had too much real practice. Last Christmas, rather than hang around at his parents' deadly dull parties being eyed by husky-looking Death Eaters, he would often go down in to the sub basements of Malfoy Manor looking for the ghost of his great-great-great uncle Luis, who enjoyed a decent round or two. The only drawback was that Draco had to imagine the feeling of foil hitting foil, the pressure of an opponent's will against his own, the sound it made. His father had hired him a fencing instructor for a few months while he was home that summer, which had been great fun. There was something appealing to him about this game; highly structured and elegant, yet brutal, physical, and calculating. He slept better after a fierce series of rounds, as if the motions of fighting and fighting back sated his inner demons for a while.
Now the certainty of that solid grip in his hand fought something both more and less demonic inside him.
"Care to make this interesting, Potter?" He still held his mask under one arm, watching Harry awkwardly attempt to zip up his jacket.
"Interesting? I'm sure beating you will be interesting enough for my taste, Malfoy." So cocky. So confident. Had he not been watching? Draco was disappointed. What he not nervous about meeting him like this, finally? Had he not seen his effortess parries and feints? How there had not been one of these little duels that had even been a remote challenge to him? His lips twitched. Ah, it was all a show with Potter. The game of confidence. He could play that game too.
"Let me see…" He narrowed his eyes. "If you win…Ah yes. I know." He took two rapid steps forward, grabbed his mask and foil in one hand, reached up and grabbing Harry behind the neck and hauling him closer. Potter struggled for a moment, suddenly off-balance, about to pull away, to drop his equipment and get a stranglehold on him until Draco leaned forward, his lips barely an inch from Potter's ear and whispered, "if you win, I won't tell McGonagall about the mudblood stealing books out of the restricted section." Potter stopped struggling, his eyes going wider for a moment. He was clutching at his foil in one hand, mask in the other, his jacket still half unzipped in the back and hanging loosely off his shoulder. Draco reminded himself not to move his fingers along that overwarm neck, that this was a motion of violence and domination, not desire. Not desire.
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They stood facing each other on the mat while Madam Hooch attempted to convince some of the younger and grumpily-tired Gryffindors to head off to bed, as it was nearly eleven and the match had not yet even begun. Draco was holding his own foil, not one of the grubby school ones, its tip pressed into the suede of his shoe, stifling a yawn. His foil was silver, inlaid with gold, and had been a Christmas gift. It came in a long, thin, cedar box lined with velvet, and was brighter, shinier, and more comfortable to hold than those dreadful standard issue two-hundred year old pieces of vaguely rusted metal Potter seemed more than happy to use. It had his name engraved along the side of the hilt, as if anyone could possibly mistake it for anyone else's. He pressed down on the foil, its grip still warm in his hand from his last victory, feeling the pressure of the tip against his toes, feeling it bend against his weight.
He had taken an interest in fencing a couple of years before, but since there had never been more than a handful of students at Hogwarts prepared to take it seriously after that first year, he hadn't had too much real practice. Last Christmas, rather than hang around at his parents' deadly dull parties being eyed by husky-looking Death Eaters, he would often go down in to the sub basements of Malfoy Manor looking for the ghost of his great-great-great uncle Luis, who enjoyed a decent round or two. The only drawback was that Draco had to imagine the feeling of foil hitting foil, the pressure of an opponent's will against his own, the sound it made. His father had hired him a fencing instructor for a few months while he was home that summer, which had been great fun. There was something appealing to him about this game; highly structured and elegant, yet brutal, physical, and calculating. He slept better after a fierce series of rounds, as if the motions of fighting and fighting back sated his inner demons for a while.
Now the certainty of that solid grip in his hand fought something both more and less demonic inside him.
"Care to make this interesting, Potter?" He still held his mask under one arm, watching Harry awkwardly attempt to zip up his jacket.
"Interesting? I'm sure beating you will be interesting enough for my taste, Malfoy." So cocky. So confident. Had he not been watching? Draco was disappointed. What he not nervous about meeting him like this, finally? Had he not seen his effortess parries and feints? How there had not been one of these little duels that had even been a remote challenge to him? His lips twitched. Ah, it was all a show with Potter. The game of confidence. He could play that game too.
"Let me see…" He narrowed his eyes. "If you win…Ah yes. I know." He took two rapid steps forward, grabbed his mask and foil in one hand, reached up and grabbing Harry behind the neck and hauling him closer. Potter struggled for a moment, suddenly off-balance, about to pull away, to drop his equipment and get a stranglehold on him until Draco leaned forward, his lips barely an inch from Potter's ear and whispered, "if you win, I won't tell McGonagall about the mudblood stealing books out of the restricted section." Potter stopped struggling, his eyes going wider for a moment. He was clutching at his foil in one hand, mask in the other, his jacket still half unzipped in the back and hanging loosely off his shoulder. Draco reminded himself not to move his fingers along that overwarm neck, that this was a motion of violence and domination, not desire. Not desire.
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