Deus Ex Machina
by Silvia

deus ex machina:
a.) Some improbable thing introduced into a work that suddenly clarifies the plot line or provides direction to the other characters.
b.) A person or event that provides a sudden and unexpected solution to a difficulty.

The roll of parchment stretched out along the bedding, down to the stone floor, and out towards the Slytherin common room. It was a marvel that all seven yards had yet to be stepped on.

"Malfoy," Millicent said, "What the fuck?"

"I'm composing an epic poem," he explained. The end of his quill was wet and dripping.

"An epic poem?"

Draco was firm. "An epic poem. It's a clever ruse to defeat Potter and his little friends once and for all."

"You're going to defeat them. With a poem."

"An epic poem," Draco said. He made a firm stab through the air in her general direction. "You're not picking up on my emphasis here."

"No, I have it now. Epic poem."

"Right." Draco nodded. "The subjects of an epic are always the heroes. Consequently," he made another stab into the air, "Potter and his lot will cease to be the heroes. We will be the heroes."

Goyle scratched his head. Little bits of skin flaked off, rather unattractively. "Why do we want to be the heroes?"

Draco sighed the sigh of a boy carrying a great burden. "Because the heroes always win."

"But winning isn't any fun if you're a hero," Millicent reminded him haughtily. "You don't get to do much of anything."

"You get to be right all the time."

Goyle blinked. "I thought you said you were right all the time."

"I am."

"You don't seem very much like a hero, " Goyle observed, "You're rather mean. You stole my socks and sold them to the house elves for poison and they were my favorite socks, and the poison didn't even work."

Crabbe appeared to wake from a deep slumber. "The Hufflepuffs giggled up breakfast. It was all over the table and they cried. That was funny."

"That was disgusting," Millicent said.

"Well. Yes," Draco admitted. "But, also: I'm special. And I'm already three stanzas in. And besides, we're only the heroes until we win. Then we change back."

"We change back?" Goyle engaged in further head scratching. There was a neat little mountain of flakes forming on his left shoulder.

"Yes."

"But then won't they be the winners?"

"No, once you're the winner you're always the winner."

"How do you know?" Goyle insisted.

"Everyone knows these things," Draco said.

"I don't know these things." A deep frown loosened a few more bits of skin.

"Yes, you do," Draco said.

"No, I--"

"Oh, Goyle?"

"Yes, Draco?

"Once you're a winner, are you always a winner?"

"um. Yes," Goyle said promptly, and paused. "Oh, my! I do know it."

Draco nodded. "I'm always right. I told you."

***

Goyle stopped him in Care Of Magical Creatures, thick hand on his elbow, but didn't say anything, which meant Draco had to ask, and he wouldn't ask, and so they stood there and didn't say a word for at least a minute, and it was all incredibly annoying. He was sure that other fifteen year old criminal masterminds had moved on to bigger and better henchman.

He tilted his head and had to admit that Goyle was at least bigger.

"Wait," Goyle finally ventured, looking vaguely poleaxed, "if the heroes always win, how is The Dark Lord going to reign triumphant and strike down upon his enemies with furious vengeance?"

Draco sighed. "Have you been talking with your father again?"

"He's my father," Goyle said, "Of course I've been talking to him."

"Well, you shouldn't. Your father's an idiot."

"Your father says that You Know Who will reward us handsomely for our fidelity."

"My father is sadly deluded."

"That sounds a lot like stupid," Goyle pointed out.

"Yes, it does. Funny how that works," Draco said, watching with detached interest as Goyle's amble backside inched closer and closer to the Long Beaked Sniggles' enclosure. "He's sad. It's very tragic. He deserves all of our empathy."

"But, he said--"

"Look," Draco snapped impatiently, "we have my clever ruse, so we don't need to worry about that."

***

Draco had a neat pile of folded and carefully arranged stanzas, and was plotting out their future adventures and misfortunes in a small log that he kept at his bedside. Heroes had quite a lot of misfortunes. He was relatively sure that the food fight in the Great Hall counted, but Draco thought perhaps it might be better to be certain, and inquire with Professor McGonagall. She seemed the type to know about these things.

"You have a diary?" Warrington jeered, coming upon Draco's silent poise after-hours, and kicked Draco hard in the leg.

Draco calmly flipped over a page and added 'Kill Warrington' to his post-exam schedule. As an afterthought, he scribbled in the margin: 'Probably want to wait until am evil nemesis again.'

"You Know Who has a diary," said Draco calmly.

"He does not," Warrington said loudly.

"He does so," Draco replied. "He makes lists of people that will be horribly tortured and checks them off with little red x's."

"He does not."

"He uses a quill dipped in blood." Draco paused. "And it's not a diary."

"It's all bound like a book!" shouted Warrington, "It has a cover!"

"It's a journal."

"It says, Draco's Diary in big black lettering!" Warrington insisted.

"That," Draco said, "is a clever disguise."

Goyle was awestruck. "You think of everything."

"I certainly do", Draco agreed.

***

He was nearing twenty four stanzas, and it was all going exceedingly well,  except that Potter was -- not unpredictably -- being difficult.

"Would you stand still," Draco finally said, trying to get a hand on Potter's evasive jaw. "I have to know exactly what color your eyes are." He cocked his head in contemplation. "Would you call them limpid pools or expressive orbs?"

"Um, what?" Harry said.

"I'm writing poetry about you," Draco informed him, businesslike. "You should be very flattered."

"How about incredibly disturbed?" Ron said, scowling. He yanked Harry back abruptly, his glasses clattering to the floor.

"um, OW," Harry muttered, a bit woozy. "All the blood's rushed to my head."

"Sure," said Draco absentmindedly, making notes on a thick, folded square of parchment. "Now turn to a bit more to the right. I need to sketch your profile."

***

"Draco!" Pansy shrieked, "Goyle said that Crabbe said that you said he had to go sit out by the Gryffindors all night, until he could get their password, and I said it would all go horribly, horribly wrong, and it did, because he tried to hide behind a plant, and it didn't even cover his arse, and then Filch! Filch caught him and he's in Filch's office and we're all going to be in so much trouble and it's all your fault and I hate you."

Sometimes Malfoys were very very dumb.

"You're going to lose us 200 points, you little twat!" shouted Millicent, dashing up beside Pansy with lungs chugging like a steam engine.

Draco sighed. "And I suppose I'm expected to go fish him out?" 

"Well, YES!" Pansy shrieked.

"Anyone else care to weigh in?" Draco said, "My left eardrum still appears to be functioning." 

"No," said Blaise, "I'm fine."

***

Draco dutifully spoke to their political prisoner through the keyhole in Filch's office door.

"In times like these", Draco told Goyle, "I think you need to repeat to yourself: My friends care."

"My friends care."

"My friends will be with me through thick and thin."

"My friends will be with me through thick and thin."

"My friends will get me out of any bind."

"My friends will get out me of any bind."

"Draco Malfoy is not my friend."

"Hey!"

"You cannot directly tie me with Slytherin. I'm feeling incredibly loyal at the moment, actually. Rather like a Hufflepuff. And their school colors are so instinctually soothing."

"Hey!" Goyle said.

***

"Quite sending your drones to stalk us!" Ron demanded loudly, marching over to the Slytherin table during lunch.

Draco mildly returned his gaze. "Have you ever considered that it's not always me putting everyone up to everything?

"No," Ron stated emphatically. "Because it is."

"Perhaps it's simply your irresistible cheery disposition."

"..."

"Maybe he's simply a small yellow flower, and you are the sun towards which he turns."

"..."

"There are no words that describe the depth of my hate for you," Ron said.

"Wait, can you repeat that? " Draco said excitedly, feeling about his pockets, "I'm going to write that one down."

***

Countless rolls of parchment, knotted with ribbon, had collected in a pyramid at the foot of Draco's bed, won through weeks of finger cramping, ink stains, and subtle, guerrillaesque tactics. The only problem that remained was the big finish: Draco didn't have one.

'Potter, Potter, Potter,' he thought, 'Done otter, yes, and rotter, and yacht-er...'

"It's all right, Malfoy," Harry said, looming over his shoulder. "I know."

Draco peered up, squinting through his bangs. "It's all right?" He was in such a state of disrepair. Next step after he took over the Muggle world -- get a haircut.

Harry sighed. "Well, I can't very well stop you, can I?"

"Hmm," Draco said, "You've got a point there."

"Crushes are, they're there, and they happen, and it's not like a cold, where you starve it. Or feed it. Or, um, I'm sure it's one of them."

"A-- what?" Draco broke in, bewildered. "Who has a crush?"

"You do," said Harry impatiently.

"I do?"

"Last time I checked."

Draco stopped short. "You check?"

Harry reddened. "I-"

"You check. You have a crush on me, " Draco declared gleefully. "Not that I can blame you... Oh, what the hell, sure I can blame you. It's practically my job, or, no. Wait. I'm supposed to be the hero for the moment, aren't I --"

***

"Mmm," Harry said, and licked across his tongue, fisting hair at the back of Draco's head as Draco's hands scrambled across his chest.

"Mmm, what?" Harry said, and Draco thrust himself backwards, sputtering various pronouncements about whiplash and, "Why in the bloody hell would you do that?"

"If I have a crush on you," Harry said, reasonably, "and we know you have a crush on me--"

"I have a crush on you?" Draco yelped.

"You follow me around everywhere! You stare, and you keep tripping me by accident, and I can tell it's an accident because you look so surprised."

"I'm writing a poem. It's a nefarious plot to defeat you."

"You're using a poem to defeat me?"

"YES," Draco exclaimed loudly. "Why is this so difficult for everyone?"

***

When Pansy inquired as to why he was clucking like a chicken ("As opposed to, what, an orangutan?") Draco answered that Professor Snape had advised him it would be gone by the hour's end. And also that he absolutely hated people a whole lot.

Because he did.

***

"All right," Draco hissed, dragging Harry off to the east corridors by his elbow after Potions, "I've decided that maybe I have a crush on you."

"You sounded pretty sure that you didn't," Harry said back snappishly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, there was that poem thing. but. It was sort of short sighted."

"Really?" Harry drawled, "Victory through poetry. I would think you'd have to have that awfully worked out. Sounded complex and long ranging."

"Well, yes, but. the part about. sentencing you to the Dementor's Kiss and all. It would sort of. It would be weird not having you around."

"Weird? And from that you get crush?"

Draco flushed. "And there's this thing. With your neck. It looks soft, and. like I should touch it."

"That's fascinating, I mean it," Harry finally said, and Draco jumped a little, for it had been quite some time since anyone had said anything. "But I've been thinking, and I've decided that I don't like you at all."

Draco made a small choking sound.

"I would apologize, or something of the sort, but being that you're sort of my sworn enemy, or, one of them... " Harry shrugged and headed out to lunch.

***

"I wanted to see if you'd cry," he said.

Draco was horrified. "I'm not going to cry!"

"I can see that," Harry said.

"Potter, and I mean this in the most offensive manner possible, could you please get the fuck away from me?"

"No."

"No?"

"I wanted to see if you'd cry," Harry explained, "because maybe you were just saying you like me."

"Malfoys. Don't. Cry."

"How about the time when that seventh year cursed you with boils for three days 'cause you tripped him, and when Snape called you callow and weak-willed, and when Pavarti sent you that valentine and your house was all laughing and smirking about it, except it turned out to be really mean?"

"Allergies," Draco said. "And maybe my clever ruse was working. You've become a complete prick."

Harry looked down to his feet, toed the ground as if he were, oh, five, and then stared off at something vaguely in the distance, over Draco's shoulder. "I'm trying to impress you -- is it working?"

"Yes," Draco admitted.