They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2005-05-25 14:59:00 |
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draco/(eminem) part 2
The next time Draco wakes up, he is lying in a huge bed in what looks like a rather decent (to a Malfoy - to anyone else it would be luxurious) hotel room. He aches all over. There is a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, to which he helps himself greedily. As he gulps down water, one of the three doors in the room opens and a man walks in. Draco reaches for his wand: a pointless endeavour, given that it is currently in the possession of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who is convinced that Draco is dead.
The newcomer nods to him and produces a crumpled packet of cigarettes from one of his many pockets.
“What up?”
Draco glances at the ceiling. “Um.”
“Man, you lucky to be alive. That was some crazy shit went down out there. You a’ight?”
Draco isn’t sure. He doesn’t know where he is. He certainly doesn’t know who this man is, although the man obviously recognises him. But – he’s looking at Draco oddly, like there’s something not quite right that he can’t put his finger on. The man lights a cigarette and scratches his ear.
“Shit, dog, what happened to your hair?”
Oh God, his hair. It must be an utter mess. Draco lifts a hand and touches his head gingerly, but it seems all right. Flat, undoubtedly, and slightly frizzy at the ends, but otherwise all right.
“Wh-what happened to my hair?”
“It long, man, you know what I’m sayin’? Shit, I hearda people’s hair turning white when they had a shock, but yo’ hair done grew six inches!”
This is all getting too much. “I’m sorry, I – who exactly do you think I am?”
The man grins, flashing impossibly white teeth. “No need to get all diva on my ass, dog. You Marshall Mathers, the whole world knows that.”
Draco doesn’t. “Right. Marshall Mathers. Of course. And, um. Who are you?”
“Fuck, man, you sure you don’t got a concussion? It’s Jermaine, a’ight. I on’y known you since you was a nobody, dog.” Jermaine looks concerned. “You want I should go get Ramone?”
Draco shakes his head. More people is definitely not a good idea right now.
“No. I’m all right. In fact, if you could just go away for a while, that would be super.”
The room is thick with cigarette smoke and Draco is finding it difficult to breathe, although maybe that’s got more to do with the tight knot of panic tied in his windpipe. Jermaine shrugs.
“Whatever, dog. You need anything, we all next door.” He drops his cigarette butt into a soft drink can among the litter on the phone table and opens the door into the corridor. “You actin’ kinda crazy, man. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, no doctor. Just go away, please.”
Jermaine shrugs again and leaves Draco alone. He considers getting out of bed, leaving the hotel and – doing something? He should find Potter. Potter is an impetuous bastard with marginally fewer brain cells than a St Bernard, but he has a knack for getting out of trouble. Is Draco in trouble? He contemplates this. As far as he can tell, the men who brought him here are under the impression that he is one of their friends. Nobody has come looking for him in – he checks his watch, but the second hand is spinning alarmingly and the minute hand points to quarter past bugger. Hours, at least: the lights in the room are on and it’s dark outside. Either they don’t care what has happened to him, or they think he’s dead. Draco isn’t sure which possibility is more annoying.
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. This causes pink dots to dance in front of his eyes, and his stomach lurches. Getting up is out of the question then. He ought to call Jermaine back in here and explain in suitably imperious tones that there has been a misunderstanding and Draco is not who they think he is. If only he had his wand.
Suddenly, a thought strikes him. He could Apparate out! It’s such an obvious solution that he could hit himself for not having thought of it sooner. Maybe he hit his head very hard.
“Draco Malfoy,” he tells himself, “you are a genius. An idiotic genius, but a genius nonetheless.”
So saying, he takes a deep breath and attempts to focus on a destination. An image is gathering in his mind, swirling together like oil on water, when a voice says “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, dog”.
Draco opens his eyes in shock to see someone who looks very like himself smirking at him. It’s like looking in a mirror, but for one fact. The Draco-twin is a ghost.
[part three]
The next time Draco wakes up, he is lying in a huge bed in what looks like a rather decent (to a Malfoy - to anyone else it would be luxurious) hotel room. He aches all over. There is a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, to which he helps himself greedily. As he gulps down water, one of the three doors in the room opens and a man walks in. Draco reaches for his wand: a pointless endeavour, given that it is currently in the possession of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who is convinced that Draco is dead.
The newcomer nods to him and produces a crumpled packet of cigarettes from one of his many pockets.
“What up?”
Draco glances at the ceiling. “Um.”
“Man, you lucky to be alive. That was some crazy shit went down out there. You a’ight?”
Draco isn’t sure. He doesn’t know where he is. He certainly doesn’t know who this man is, although the man obviously recognises him. But – he’s looking at Draco oddly, like there’s something not quite right that he can’t put his finger on. The man lights a cigarette and scratches his ear.
“Shit, dog, what happened to your hair?”
Oh God, his hair. It must be an utter mess. Draco lifts a hand and touches his head gingerly, but it seems all right. Flat, undoubtedly, and slightly frizzy at the ends, but otherwise all right.
“Wh-what happened to my hair?”
“It long, man, you know what I’m sayin’? Shit, I hearda people’s hair turning white when they had a shock, but yo’ hair done grew six inches!”
This is all getting too much. “I’m sorry, I – who exactly do you think I am?”
The man grins, flashing impossibly white teeth. “No need to get all diva on my ass, dog. You Marshall Mathers, the whole world knows that.”
Draco doesn’t. “Right. Marshall Mathers. Of course. And, um. Who are you?”
“Fuck, man, you sure you don’t got a concussion? It’s Jermaine, a’ight. I on’y known you since you was a nobody, dog.” Jermaine looks concerned. “You want I should go get Ramone?”
Draco shakes his head. More people is definitely not a good idea right now.
“No. I’m all right. In fact, if you could just go away for a while, that would be super.”
The room is thick with cigarette smoke and Draco is finding it difficult to breathe, although maybe that’s got more to do with the tight knot of panic tied in his windpipe. Jermaine shrugs.
“Whatever, dog. You need anything, we all next door.” He drops his cigarette butt into a soft drink can among the litter on the phone table and opens the door into the corridor. “You actin’ kinda crazy, man. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, no doctor. Just go away, please.”
Jermaine shrugs again and leaves Draco alone. He considers getting out of bed, leaving the hotel and – doing something? He should find Potter. Potter is an impetuous bastard with marginally fewer brain cells than a St Bernard, but he has a knack for getting out of trouble. Is Draco in trouble? He contemplates this. As far as he can tell, the men who brought him here are under the impression that he is one of their friends. Nobody has come looking for him in – he checks his watch, but the second hand is spinning alarmingly and the minute hand points to quarter past bugger. Hours, at least: the lights in the room are on and it’s dark outside. Either they don’t care what has happened to him, or they think he’s dead. Draco isn’t sure which possibility is more annoying.
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. This causes pink dots to dance in front of his eyes, and his stomach lurches. Getting up is out of the question then. He ought to call Jermaine back in here and explain in suitably imperious tones that there has been a misunderstanding and Draco is not who they think he is. If only he had his wand.
Suddenly, a thought strikes him. He could Apparate out! It’s such an obvious solution that he could hit himself for not having thought of it sooner. Maybe he hit his head very hard.
“Draco Malfoy,” he tells himself, “you are a genius. An idiotic genius, but a genius nonetheless.”
So saying, he takes a deep breath and attempts to focus on a destination. An image is gathering in his mind, swirling together like oil on water, when a voice says “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, dog”.
Draco opens his eyes in shock to see someone who looks very like himself smirking at him. It’s like looking in a mirror, but for one fact. The Draco-twin is a ghost.
[part three]
