They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2005-05-28 19:49:00 |
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draco/(eminem) part 4
“No. Absolutely, unequivocally no.” Draco folds his arms and treats the ghost to his most Malfoy glare. He is steely. He is unflinching. He is unshakeable.
Marshall cracks his knuckles. Draco wasn’t even aware that ghosts had knuckles, but the sound echoes through the room like an Unforgivable curse nonetheless.
“You don’t got no choice.” The ghost disappears and reappears in the air three inches from Draco’s face. “You don’t do this for me, I’m gonna haunt you til you drive yo’ self off of a bridge to escape.” His translucent mouth is cruel, his eyes a brittle blue. Draco recognises the expression; he’s worn it himself during most of his conversations with Potter. It’s somehow more effective on the ghost.
Steely, Draco reminds himself. It doesn’t help much. He closes his eyes and gives the matter some consideration. What, really, does he have to go back to? His father is dead, which upsets him less than it really should, and the other Aurors tolerate him only because Snape threatened to test some of his more interesting concoctions on them if they were less than civil to Draco. Besides, as far as Potter and the rest are concerned, Draco is dead.
The tip of his nose is freezing. He opens his eyes and tries not to flinch when his eyes meet Marshall’s. “I can’t rap,” he says weakly. Marshall smirks.
“Didn’t stop Vanilla Ice.”
--
February 10th 2001, 10.37am
Draco wakes to the sound of running water. The bathroom door is shut; as Draco looks at it blearily the ghost emerges through the painted wood.
“Yo, ‘sup?” he says. And then, “I can turn the taps on with my mind, yo. It’s insane!”
“Insane,” says Draco. “Indeed.”
Suddenly the door to the corridor bursts open and Ramone walks in. Marshall swoops away from the bathroom and alights on the dresser, slouching against the wall. The back of his head disappears into the plaster.
“Yo, dog, you still alive?”
Draco nods.
“Then get yo’ ass outta bed, you got a show to prepare for! Rosenberg ain’t happy wit’ you missing the show last night, dog. You gonna have to do an extra performance to make up, yo.”
He tosses a newspaper onto the bed. “Page 5. See the headline?”
Draco picks up the paper (a tabloid, there’s a semi-naked woman on the front page) and opens it. “EMINEM CONCERT CANCELLED AMIDST RUMOURS OF OVERDOSE”.
Ramone folds his arms. His hands are hidden in his voluminous sleeves. “They all sayin’ you fucked up on crack, dog.”
Marshall hits his forehead with a ghostly hand. It makes a squelching sound. Draco mouths at him silently: “Eminem?”
“Marshall Mathers,” the ghost replies, drawing two ‘M’s in the air with his hand.
“What you say?” Ramone gives Draco a quizzical look.
“Uh, nothing,” says Draco, then adds “…dog.”
“Whatever. Hey, did the heat break in here? My ass is freezing off. Anyway, you got to get yo’ self over to the stadium right now, else Paul gonna whup you hard.”
The ghost snorts. “Yeah, right.” Ramone’s head whips round, but he obviously can’t see Marshall because he merely shrugs and scratches at his ear.
“Look, the limo’s outside. You got twenty minutes.”
He leaves the room, but not before scouring the room worriedly with his eyes. An icicle hanging from the ceiling light drips gently onto the carpet.
--
Five minutes later, Draco is on his knees sorting through the contents of a large suitcase. His stomach rumbles.
“I’m hungry.”
Marshall zooms over to the room’s mini fridge – he seems to be in a surprisingly good mood, perhaps since discovering his new mind powers – and plunges a hand inside.
“There’s Cheetos in there,” he announces.
“Don’t be obscene.”
Marshall looks vaguely offended. “What, you don’t like Cheetos?”
“Cheap Muggle food. I’m a wizard,” Draco reminds him, “not Britney Spears.”
“What, you know ‘bout her but you never heard of me?”
“She’s a third cousin,” Draco admits, “twice removed.” Marshall winces. “Unlucky, dog.”
Eventually Draco’s stomach gets the better of him and he eats the Cheetos anyway. They taste of old sock. Then he realises he should probably get dressed, as torn Versace trousers and a floor-length robe covered in potato peelings is probably not suitable attire for a world-famous rapper. Unfortunately, the suitcase yields only three pairs of impossibly baggy jeans and some sweaters that look as though they would reach at least to his knees.
“Haven’t you got any normal clothes?”
Marshall stops attempting to fling the duvet across the room using the power of his mind and scowls.
“What you mean, normal clothes? This is what I wear, dog. You got a problem with that?”
Draco shakes his head quickly. “No, no, not at all. But aren’t these a little big?” He holds up a pair of jeans into which he would fit three times over.
“They supposed to be big, man. Now get dressed or Ramone gonna drag you outta here hisself even if you butt-naked, and that ain’t an indignity I’m prepared to face, you dig?”
“Fine, I’ll get dressed.” Draco picks a t-shirt and hooded top randomly. “Some privacy would be nice.”
Marshall rolls his eyes. “You look exactly the same as me, dog. Nothing I ain’t seen before.”
Draco glares at him. “Privacy,” he repeats.
“Whatever, man.”
The ghost slowly fades from view. Draco pulls his ruined trousers off and regards the enormous jeans worriedly. He’s freezing cold.
“Marshall. You’re still here, aren’t you.”
The air crackles with frost.
“Nuh uh, dog. You imagining shit.”
[part five]
“No. Absolutely, unequivocally no.” Draco folds his arms and treats the ghost to his most Malfoy glare. He is steely. He is unflinching. He is unshakeable.
Marshall cracks his knuckles. Draco wasn’t even aware that ghosts had knuckles, but the sound echoes through the room like an Unforgivable curse nonetheless.
“You don’t got no choice.” The ghost disappears and reappears in the air three inches from Draco’s face. “You don’t do this for me, I’m gonna haunt you til you drive yo’ self off of a bridge to escape.” His translucent mouth is cruel, his eyes a brittle blue. Draco recognises the expression; he’s worn it himself during most of his conversations with Potter. It’s somehow more effective on the ghost.
Steely, Draco reminds himself. It doesn’t help much. He closes his eyes and gives the matter some consideration. What, really, does he have to go back to? His father is dead, which upsets him less than it really should, and the other Aurors tolerate him only because Snape threatened to test some of his more interesting concoctions on them if they were less than civil to Draco. Besides, as far as Potter and the rest are concerned, Draco is dead.
The tip of his nose is freezing. He opens his eyes and tries not to flinch when his eyes meet Marshall’s. “I can’t rap,” he says weakly. Marshall smirks.
“Didn’t stop Vanilla Ice.”
--
February 10th 2001, 10.37am
Draco wakes to the sound of running water. The bathroom door is shut; as Draco looks at it blearily the ghost emerges through the painted wood.
“Yo, ‘sup?” he says. And then, “I can turn the taps on with my mind, yo. It’s insane!”
“Insane,” says Draco. “Indeed.”
Suddenly the door to the corridor bursts open and Ramone walks in. Marshall swoops away from the bathroom and alights on the dresser, slouching against the wall. The back of his head disappears into the plaster.
“Yo, dog, you still alive?”
Draco nods.
“Then get yo’ ass outta bed, you got a show to prepare for! Rosenberg ain’t happy wit’ you missing the show last night, dog. You gonna have to do an extra performance to make up, yo.”
He tosses a newspaper onto the bed. “Page 5. See the headline?”
Draco picks up the paper (a tabloid, there’s a semi-naked woman on the front page) and opens it. “EMINEM CONCERT CANCELLED AMIDST RUMOURS OF OVERDOSE”.
Ramone folds his arms. His hands are hidden in his voluminous sleeves. “They all sayin’ you fucked up on crack, dog.”
Marshall hits his forehead with a ghostly hand. It makes a squelching sound. Draco mouths at him silently: “Eminem?”
“Marshall Mathers,” the ghost replies, drawing two ‘M’s in the air with his hand.
“What you say?” Ramone gives Draco a quizzical look.
“Uh, nothing,” says Draco, then adds “…dog.”
“Whatever. Hey, did the heat break in here? My ass is freezing off. Anyway, you got to get yo’ self over to the stadium right now, else Paul gonna whup you hard.”
The ghost snorts. “Yeah, right.” Ramone’s head whips round, but he obviously can’t see Marshall because he merely shrugs and scratches at his ear.
“Look, the limo’s outside. You got twenty minutes.”
He leaves the room, but not before scouring the room worriedly with his eyes. An icicle hanging from the ceiling light drips gently onto the carpet.
--
Five minutes later, Draco is on his knees sorting through the contents of a large suitcase. His stomach rumbles.
“I’m hungry.”
Marshall zooms over to the room’s mini fridge – he seems to be in a surprisingly good mood, perhaps since discovering his new mind powers – and plunges a hand inside.
“There’s Cheetos in there,” he announces.
“Don’t be obscene.”
Marshall looks vaguely offended. “What, you don’t like Cheetos?”
“Cheap Muggle food. I’m a wizard,” Draco reminds him, “not Britney Spears.”
“What, you know ‘bout her but you never heard of me?”
“She’s a third cousin,” Draco admits, “twice removed.” Marshall winces. “Unlucky, dog.”
Eventually Draco’s stomach gets the better of him and he eats the Cheetos anyway. They taste of old sock. Then he realises he should probably get dressed, as torn Versace trousers and a floor-length robe covered in potato peelings is probably not suitable attire for a world-famous rapper. Unfortunately, the suitcase yields only three pairs of impossibly baggy jeans and some sweaters that look as though they would reach at least to his knees.
“Haven’t you got any normal clothes?”
Marshall stops attempting to fling the duvet across the room using the power of his mind and scowls.
“What you mean, normal clothes? This is what I wear, dog. You got a problem with that?”
Draco shakes his head quickly. “No, no, not at all. But aren’t these a little big?” He holds up a pair of jeans into which he would fit three times over.
“They supposed to be big, man. Now get dressed or Ramone gonna drag you outta here hisself even if you butt-naked, and that ain’t an indignity I’m prepared to face, you dig?”
“Fine, I’ll get dressed.” Draco picks a t-shirt and hooded top randomly. “Some privacy would be nice.”
Marshall rolls his eyes. “You look exactly the same as me, dog. Nothing I ain’t seen before.”
Draco glares at him. “Privacy,” he repeats.
“Whatever, man.”
The ghost slowly fades from view. Draco pulls his ruined trousers off and regards the enormous jeans worriedly. He’s freezing cold.
“Marshall. You’re still here, aren’t you.”
The air crackles with frost.
“Nuh uh, dog. You imagining shit.”
[part five]
