Tuesday Evening
03 November 2009
Williams' POV
" The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Often go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy! "
- To a Mouse, by Robert Burns
I'm lost.
Fucking wrecked.
You were so close.
I almost had you.
You were within my grasp, or so I thought.
And, with one goddamn sentence, you fucking ruined me.
"She saw the wrong person!"
Merlin, you were so excited when you first turned to me, excited and full of joy, and it was almost too perfect.
Like how I always imagine you looking at me, those beautiful eyes of yours lighting up as a brilliant smile takes over your face, and for an instant, I could pretend you were happy to see me.
Maybe the app suddenly worked?
"She saw the wrong person!"
And with one sentence, my world crumbled.
Everything I've been working towards.
All of my carefully constructed plans.
Gone.
Saw the wrong person.
Of fucking course!
It explains everything.
Tells me why you're still fawning over him.
The fucking Boy Who Lived.
Because, of course, he'd been there when I cast the app into your phone.
Because the two of you are in-fucking-separable.
And I planned it all so carefully — had been sure you'd been looking at me when I cast it, but... no.
You were looking at the wrong person.
As if the stupid Boy Who Lived needed another person to be obsessed with him.
The Daily Prophet still ran monthly stories on Harry with some random witch he'd been photographed with and speculating about the nature of their relationship.
Hell, I had half a mind to leak to them why none of these women he was photographed with ended up being in any sort of serious relationship.
Except, then, of course, I'd have to out you, too.
And I would never do that, Draco.
I would never hurt you.
You've been hurt enough in your life.
I know about your past.
I see the stares — the looks — people still give you when you walk by.
I know you still hurt.
Still need someone to comfort you and love you and hold you.
And that's all I want.
I just want to be the one to love you and cradle you in my arms as you smile sweetly into my neck and tell me about your day.
I want to be the one to run my fingers through your hair and feel you curl your body around mine.
Don't get me wrong.
I also want to fuck you because, fuck, you are a sexy motherfucker.
And let you fuck me.
And do every kinky, dastardly thing I know you liked to do with Ben.
And probably still do with Harry.
Except it will be a million times better with me.
Tie me up — something you've always seemed rather fond of — tease me to the point of gibbered begging before sliding into me with that amazing dick of yours.
Or I could choke you.
Watch as your eyes slide shut and your body jerks as you cum, listening for that sated gasp of air when I release your throat and revel in the gravelly rasp of your voice declaring:
"Merlin, that was good," while those exquisite grey eyes of yours flutter open and that smug smile reappears on your lips.
Or a thorough spanking.
Merlin, I'll never forget that night when Ben had, apparently, had enough of your snooty attitude and had paddled you so hard and so long, I'm not sure how you managed to sit that pretty little ass of yours down for the next week.
And I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about how fucking gorgeous you'd be, your asscheeks flaming just as pink as the ones on your face, staring back and up at me, completely wrecked and begging.
Of course, you'd gotten your revenge soon after, tying the poor man up so securely (I'm sure you used magic, you sneaky son-of-a-bitch), then teasing and taunting him so close to the edge, only to leave him there, struggling and gasping for release, before returning and beginning the entire cycle again.
You did this for hours, you devious, conniving, positively beautiful human, and when you finally let that stupid Southie brute cum, it sounded so spectacular, I'm still not sure where I'd like to be in this particular scenario with you.
Teasing you or being teased by you.
They both sound delicious, and from what I could tell from your interactions with Ben, you switched back and forth quite often, and I'm not sure either of you had a preference.
But you're not with Ben now, are you?
You're supposed to be with me.
But you're with the stupid Boy Who Lived.
And I can only imagine what kind of dominance issues that one has.
You, my beautiful, dark angel — reduced to a submissive, love-sick fan, I'm sure.
And it's all my fault.
I made you obsess over him.
And he's clearly obsessed with you.
Although, honestly, how could anyone not be obsessed with you, Draco?
You're fucking perfect.
Beautiful.
Intelligent.
A tad naughty, but, Merlin, that makes you even sexier, doesn't it?
And, hard a pill as it may be to swallow, Harry Potter really isn't worthy of you, now, Draco, is he?
Don't get me wrong.
He's beautiful.
But... not really your type, is he?
Attention-starved and kind of low-class for you, honestly.
You need to be with someone who understands your station.
Who understands that, while times are changing, there are definite differences between the haves and the have-nots.
I mean, sure, you can be friends with them and even fuck them.
But you don't fucking marry them.
Or even get too involved with them, as I've clearly caused you to do with fucking Harry.
And now, here you are, smitten like a fool, having spent Samhain at the Weasleys.
The Weasleys.
Fuck, Draco, but sometimes you're a cliché of every poor, self-pitying rich boy when he's feeling bad about his wealth and going off and slumming it.
First fucking Ben.
Then Potter, who, I know, isn't slumming, but he might as well be.
And then the Weasleys.
Did you really stay at their place for an entire weekend?
This isn't supposed to be what you do on vacation.
I have that all figured out, too.
We'll spend Christmas at the Manor with your mom - mum — and summer on the Vineyard with my parents.
But most of our time being blissfully happy and away from our silly parents' prying eyes and asinine comments, snuggled together in our London flat.
But we're not, of course.
And it's all my fault because I wasn't careful enough when I cast the app into your phone.
I shake my head now and stare at my face in the bathroom mirror.
The glamor I have to use at work.
The one I had so carefully constructed when I received the promotion and moved to London.
The one that was supposed to remind you of Ben and pique your interest once we were working in the same department.
The one I was now forced to use because, despite all my best efforts to look your type, you continued to ignore me.
Worse.
I shudder, remembering examining the crime scene at Ethel Hodge's.
The realization, when you'd allowed your perfect work mask to drop, and I had seen your eyes flick over me in that sort of regal disdain you do so well.
And then there's work.
The past two days have been torture.
You're too smart for your own good, Draco.
You're putting too much together and too quickly.
"Well, fill us in, what did you boys discover Friday night?" Davies had asked as soon as we all sat down Monday morning.
Of course, you , in your typical, no-bullshit fashion, launched right into a discussion of how the app worked and your theory of how the caster only needed their intended to look at them for the love charm to work.
It was fucking genius, really, I still had to admit to myself.
A mix of Amortentia , the Confundus charm, and Imperio, all working to make the intended see that the caster was their one true love .
First, the Confundus charm made one confused and impressionable.
Then, a modified Amortentia , allowing the person to become infatuated, and thus, fall in love with the caster, becoming particularly infatuated with the way the caster smelled... a fucking GENIUS twist on the actual potion, if I do say so myself.
Finally, a modified Imperio caused the intended person to all but become the absolute perfect partner for the caster, according to their exact fantasies and wishes.
Because let's be real.
We'd all avoid those little niggles and troublesome differences in a relationship if we could, right?
What really bugged me, though, was how you described me.
Well, not me, but... the person behind the Erised App.
Which was me, I know, but... you didn't know that.
You weren't even vaguely impressed .
Just as you had on Friday night, you kept shaking your head, looking as though you wanted to retch and kept calling me "a fucking nutter."
Well.
If I'm a "fucking nutter," it's entirely your fault.
I've given you your chance.
So many chances.
So many different glamors and you ignore each and every one.
And now, inadvertently, you've managed to dodge my brilliant app.
Although, I should have guessed you would prove such a difficult prize to capture.
Escaping the fate of most of your family and rising up like a goddamn phoenix out of the ash to become a respected name in England once more.
You, Draco...
You... my angel.
My sweetheart.
My honey pie.
You.
You are proving much more difficult to tame than the average dragon.
I'm going to have to step up my game.
Fuck this app.
I'm going to have to come for you directly.
I smirk in the mirror as the glamor falls away, blond hair and dark blue eyes both fading to brown.
I'm hot, Draco.
And it's not just my ego talking.
I don't blame you for not recognizing me; I've grown up and filled out quite a bit since I was a scrawny nineteen-year-old, stammering at you in awe in Boston.
You're a damn lucky son-of-a-bitch.
I'm gorgeous — nearly as beautiful as you are (and no, you asshole, that's not just ego talking, that's every stupid bloke I've managed to pick up in the past couple of years, thank you very much) — and we'll look perfect together, once I get you caught up to speed.
It's time for a new plan.
One that leaves no room for error.
And, to start, we have to loosen you from that annoying Harry Potter's grasp.
And what better way than to reintroduce you to your darling Ben?
Obviously, I've kept tabs on him since your horrific split three years ago.
It's time to pay him a visit.