scribe_of_clio (scribe_of_clio) wrote in harrydraco,

Fic: Flights of Fancy Ch. 1/?

 Title: Flights of Fancy Ch. 1/?

Author: scribe_of_clio 

Pairing: H/D

Rating: Hard R over all

Summary: After the war, Draco is haunted by many things. The owl really should be the least of his concerns. EWE. First time H/D


A/N: First  fic in quite a while, so PLEASE give me concrit! Concrit is love! Also, I'm looking for a beta.... I'm absolutely terrible at editing my own work. Any one care to help a poor soul? *sticks out bottom lip*  Any who, here's the story:




    Draco Malfoy hated ghosts. 






     He hated this ghost in particular. This  ghost seemed to have it out for him. It was the only animal ghost he had ever met (and so far, it was not making a good impression). She ( and 


he felt it was a she) was a large, pale silvery owl. And she was annoying. She had taken to haunting the the new wing of Malfoy Manor (where the old Oak Grove had stood a decade 


ago). This was, you know, the least fucking convenient place in the entire Manor. 



     Draco mostly avoided the older wings of the Manor. They were filled of another sort of ghost. 




     But never mind that. His point was, Draco reminded himself, that this ghost had to go. She woke him up every morning by screeching at him.  She flew through his head while he 


was eating his cornflakes. She had this eerie habit of just staring  at him.



     At, well, inappropriate times. 




     Like now, for instance. Draco was (for the fifteenth morning in a row) getting dressed in front of ghost-bird. He was not particularly shy (Pansy had once called him a  vain, self-


obsessed peacock -- but that was nonsense), but this was pushing the limits of decency. He was wearing nothing but the boxers he had slept in (and he was all too aware of his pale, 


slender legs and his goose-bumped torso), and a frustrated expression. He wanted to change his underwear and get dressed. Preferably before certain vital parts of his anatomy were 


frozen in the chill of the winter morning. 



     "Shoo!" Draco cried, shifting his feet on the cold stone floor. 



     The owl hooted, ruffled her feathers, and readjusted her (imaginary, doubtless) grip on the back of Draco's desk chair. 



     "Merlin's toe nails, get the fuck off my chair!



     The owl, preened her wing briefly, then recommenced staring at him.



     "All right, fine, don't go away." He gave the beast his trademark sneer, unconsciously raising her to the level of a human opponent.  



     This meant war. 






     War, in Draco's case, meant calling in the Ministry of Magic. 



     So, later that morning, he found himself on level four of the Ministry (Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures), talking to the resident department idiot (a 


blond, blue-eyed, handsome bloke who probably spent most of his time engineering ways to make life difficult for Draco personally).




    "Yes, I've tried Tacento. Do you think I didn't try the most obvious spell in the book?" Draco drawled. He placed his hands on Idiot's desk (The small plaque on his desk read, "Henry 


Jenkins", but draco preferred, "Idiot") , and leaned forward menacingly, "I've tried every spell I can think of, from Absentium  to Expiroimago  I even tried Finite Icantatum! Nothing works. 


Only the most advanced specialist will be able to roust this ghost. So if you don't mind, kindly get off your ass, and get me that fucking lay-about Pyrite!"



    Primilla Pyrite, Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, poked her head out of the office behind Draco.



    "There's no need to shout, Mr. Malfoy, I'm right here."



    Draco wheeled to face her, banging his hip against the desk in the process. He heard Idiot snort. 



    "Ah. Good. Madame Pyrite, If I might speak with you?"  Draco offered a charming smirk. 



    Primilla was not charmed. "I'm very busy, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure Henry here can help you."



    Draco gritted his teeth, took a reassuring breath and purred, "I assure you, Madame Pyrites, that Henry here will be helpful in no way, shape or form. If I need advice on wanking at my 


desk without anyone noticing, I will indeed come to Henry he--"



    "Mr. Malfoy!" Yelped Primilla, primly. 



    "Little did I know the department was in the drastic a state. Really, I may speak to the Minister." Draco put on his best sneer. He heard Idiot mutter something. 



    "Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, there's no need for that, we'll put our best agent on it right away!"



    (Really?) "Excellent."




    The next morning, Draco was tolerantly putting up with the owl's presence in his bedroom (she would soon be gone), when a knock sound at the great front door. He heard a house elf 


answer it, and then she apparated with pop a few feet in front of him.



    "Master Draco has a visitor. Visitor says his name is Charlie Weasley. Should Etsy be letting him in?" 



    Draco felt his heart thump heavily in his chest, "Yes. I mean, no, I'll go."



    Draco arrived at the front door to find a surprisingly calm Charlie Weasley leaning against a handy pillar, and examining the grounds with an appreciative eye. 



    "Mr. Weasley" It popped out like he was addressing a professor. Draco tried to sneer, to lessen the polite effect. 



"Malfoy." Charlie looked perfectly unruffled to be at the Manor. Which was more than could be said for Draco, most days. 



Draco decided that since there was no way this affair was going to be pleasant, it might as well be brief. 



"I'll take you to the ghost."



Charlie nodded, a little curtly, and Draco lead him down the long hall to his bedroom (felt very strange).



Charlie smiled when he saw the ghost: Small, fluffy, and not-menacing as she was. 



"They called me in from Romania for this? It's usually the larger sort of dragons, or particularly nasty specters. I've never had the Ministry call me in on something so small."



Seeing Draco's glance of puzzlement, "Lately I've been freelancing for the Ministry when they really need help. So many good people were killed during the war, you know, that they 


need all the help they can get. "



He said it blandly enough, but Draco felt his cheeks flush with shame, and, consequently, anger. 



Charlie shrugged. "Any way. Tacento."



Nothing happened. the owl most certainly did not freeze and wait for orders, the way it was supposed to. Draco felt a certain grim satisfaction. He told them so. He was beginning to take 


a sort of perverse pride in this owl. Like the pride one took in a blossoming bruise. 



"That's funny," Charlie muttered, "I'll try again. Tacento."



Still, nothing. 



Charlie frowned. Draco smirked. 






Nothing. The lines around Charlie's mouth tightened. Draco felt a touch uneasy (they were going to be able to get rid of the owl, right?).






Nothing. Absolutely nothing. the owl just sat on Draco's footboard with an amused expression on her faced, and groomed. Charlie tried nearly thirty spells, most of them several times 


over, but nothing worked. They only seemed to bore the owl. Finally, after several hours of fruitless labor, Charlie turned to Draco, who was sitting in his chair, legs stretched out.



"This is hopeless. You need an auror. Or someone who owned the bird in life, and could reason with the twice-cur--"



Charlie broke off, and stared at the owl. 



"Merlin." He muttered. 






"Of course, some one who was both would be ideal." Weasley got out, his voice slightly strangled-sounding.



"Like who?"



"Harry Potter"

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.