𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 2008

"Did You Know I'm Naked Underneath This T-Shirt" And Other Great Hits

Title: "Did You Know I'm Naked Underneath This T-Shirt" And Other Great Hits
Team: Team Fanon
Author: britbitribbit
Prompt: The Moon
Wordcount: ~8700
Rating: R
Warnings: Crack!fic, Muggle boarding school AU, underage boys
Summary: I know for a fact that Goyle's a drummer.

~*~

The impact was unexpected. One minute, Draco was minding his own business, trying to get to his French lesson before he got yet another detention, maybe even the cane, and the next, Harry bleeding Potter had landed a good one on his jaw. Draco landed on his arse in the middle of the corridor, holding his chin and glaring up at his attacker.

"What the fuck was that for, Potter?"

Potter's face had the same unreadable expression on it that he always did. Right now, Draco thought that he could possibly read a few tinges of triumph there, but who knew for sure. Potter was possibly the most twisted of all of the students here at St. Brutus's, and they were all supposed to be criminals or something. You just never really knew what Potter was going to do or what he was thinking or why.

Before the usual circle of chanting spectators had completely formed, Potter was already walking away.

The bell rang. As he handed Draco the detention slip, Professor Arnold raised an eyebrow at the bruise quickly forming on Draco's chin but didn't say a word. He, like the rest of the faculty of St. Brutus's, thought a few scraps and scuffles here and there built character.

He knew why Potter had punched him. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out. St. Brutus's music program was difficult to get into, meaning it didn't really exist unless you had parents willing to donate enough money to the school. Which Draco did, and Potter didn't. Draco had just found out last week that he'd qualified for the program, which meant that Potter must have just found out that he hadn't.

Didn't give him the right to punch him in the face, though. Draco pressed his palm against his chin again, and was only too grateful that he hadn't lost any teeth.

~*~

Though he was always getting in trouble for being late to his real classes--particularly French and Geography, the ones he hated the most--Draco actually tried not to be late for his bi-weekly piano lessons.

It wasn't exactly that he was guilty about spending his parents' money. He didn't care what they spent it on, and he knew that they had enough of it anyway. And it wasn't that he particularly liked the piano. Eighty-eight bloody keys were far too many. He much preferred his guitar: still complicated, but in a relaxing way. He was also ten times better at it.

Draco didn't particularly like his instructor, either. He supposed she was nice--a bit on the old side with an affinity for green tartan--but she smelled odd and he was sure she was at least halfway to certifiably insane. She sometimes went on these rambling little rants that just didn't make any sense, and if Draco happened to play the wrong note she'd slap the side of the piano with a flat palm. She wasn't all bad, though. Last week she had brought biscuits.

It might seem a conundrum to an outside observer why Draco would want to continue with piano lessons, then, if he seemed to dislike it so much. He did have a reason. The GCSEs were coming up--in three and a half months, to be exact--and Draco wanted to ace the music GCSE. Needed to ace it, even. And he couldn't play guitar for it, either, because guitars were for shirtless hoodlums sweating all over haphazard stages in Liverpudlian pubs, not well-bred society gentlemen like the one Draco was supposed to come out of St. Brutus's to be.