Danny commits to the Bit a bit too hard...
So! For the first few weeks after his accident, whenever Danny would try to help the people of Amity Park, he would be treated as a Villain.
No matter if he had just defeated the Big Bad of the Week or saved a Cat from a tree, everybody in town only saw him as a Monster or Villain to he feared and hunted down. Danny was really getting sick of trying to get them on his side, until Sam made a suggestion.
"Why not just...play into it?" She said, barely looking up from painting her nails.
It was just an offhand suggestion, but it stuck with Danny. Why shouldn't he lean into it? The people of Amity Park already saw Ghosts as Evil, and they already assumed he was in cahoots with the Ghosts attacking the town. Why shouldn't he just...play into it?
So he does just that.
From that day on, whenever Phantom was spotted he would dramatically monologue about his Evil Plans, or claim that another Rogues attack on the City was his own act of terror.
Box Ghost destroys the towns Warehouses? It was on his orders.
Ember mind controls masses of Teenagers? All part of his Plans somehow.
Every Adult in Town is kidnapped by Young Blood? Danny gave them over to a friend as a Gift.
He crafts an identity for himself as the most Vile and Horrible Ghost that has ever attacked the City, using his own infamy to cement his legend even more firmly. The town only sees a Monsterous Villain, who has eveded capture near effortlessly for months on end, who constantly attacks their City and gets away with it.
Of course he still needs an excuse for how his plans keep getting stopped, and he gets it when his girlfriend Valerie becomes the Red Huntress. Before that, he just claimed infighting or the Fentons getting lucky, but Valerie becoming the Town's Hero meant he had a plausible excuse for how he kept getting "Foiled".
Val was suspicious, because she was not as involved as Phantom painted her to be, but in the end she had no proof of him faking his defeats. And she couldn't come up with any explanations for why he would do that in the first place. I mean, who would fake being a Supervillain? It had to he something else.
This did come back to bite him a while later, when the Justice League decided that enough was enough, and dispatched Justice League Dark to recruit Red Huntress and help Deal with him.
Coincidentally, that was the same day Pariah Dark attacked the Mortal Realm and sucked Amity Park into the Ghost Zone.
And honestly? Danny had spent over a Year proclaiming himself as a Villain who commanded Ghosts to attack the Human Realm, and he had heard about the Right of Conquest being Absolute in the Ghost Zone, so why not make it official? Why not overthrow the Ghost King, become the Ghost King, and cement his identity as a Villain while also forbidding Ghosts from entering the Human Realm without his permission?
He may have gotten a bit carried away and forgotten that the Villain thing was a disguise...but hey! He was still preventing Ghost Attacks! ...mostly. That's got to count for something right?
He may have let the Bit run a bit too far...
...
Check the tags for more context!
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Numbly
“I've been informed,” Harry Potter burst through the door with his habitual earth-quake of a shout, “that you don’t even like peppers!”
“Good morning,” Draco said dryly. Harry Potter glared.
With a sigh, Draco retreated to the kitchen to fetch the biscuits from the cupboard.
Around his third one, an insistent crumb hanging to his upper lip with all its tiny might: “Peppers, Malfoy!”
“Pardon?”
“Peppers!”
Draco blinked. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what on earth you’re on about.”
“Pansy said you hate them!”
He looked absolutely outraged. Draco sipped his long-cold tea.
“Do I?”
“She said you’re allergic!”
“Am I?”
“Stop—fucking with me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” But the corner of his lips was twitching. “I’m not allergic. I was simply a horribly dramatic child and she still naïve back when we were, what, six. Seven. I’m fine with peppers now.”
Harry Potter pouted, terribly chipmunk-ish, and even put the biscuit pack down. Down to business. “I cooked the—bloody hell, Malfoy, just, honestly. Why wouldn’t you say? That you hate peppers. I would’ve made something else. I would have happily—why?”
Utterly bemused, “I am. Honest, I mean. I don’t mind peppers anymore.”
“That’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”
Grasping at straws and failing, at least managing to stop the wobble of his stupid mouth, the automatic turning downwards. Went for his cup instead. The tea was ice-cold and flavourless and Draco poured it down his throat like it could cure him.
“Your hair’s a mess,” he then said, venomous, and turned his eyes back to the wall, where they refused to stay. It was always like this when Harry Potter barged into his flat. Even the water stains on the ceiling lost their usual allure and could not hold his attention. “If it’s raining, cast a bloody Impervious. Or take an umbrella.”
Harry Potter took a deep breath instead, sounding awfully, weirdly small. Some of the tension bled out of him in increments, his shoulders first, then the fists unclenching, then his belly un-hardening. His jaw was last. Draco was helplessly mesmerised by the transformation.
“You’re impossible,” but his voice finally not straining, his fingers not twitching towards the biscuits. No longer needing the obvious distraction. “Next time, if I make something you dislike, you have to tell me.”
“An order,” Draco huffed. “How sweet.”
Harry Potter could blush all the way to the roots of his hair. It was such a stunning, breath-stealing wonder to witness.
“It’s not a… fuck you.”
“Hmm.”
They sat there in strangely amicable silence. The oven still gave that choking, desperate cough every ten seconds, and it set a nice framework for their breathing, for the non-fidgeting. Harry Potter was always fidgety, but not when he sat in Draco’s kitchen like this.
“What’s your schedule? For today. Nev said you’re doing overtime again.” Leaning back, giving Draco that look all his friends liked to wear, the one on the border of a telling-off. It didn’t usually work on him, but Harry Potter had a slight edge to his disappointment that made Draco’s skin crawl.
“Not—exactly. Shouldn’t be so late. I’ll be home for bedtime, Mother, I promise.”
Even his mother didn’t glare like that. “Third time this week? I kind of want to strangle your boss.”
“Ha. I should inform you that violence is usually frowned upon in the workplace.”
He didn’t smile, but he came near it. Draco could tell, because the corners of his eyes were dancing. “Does it count if it's not my workplace?”
“Mm. Fair enough. Strangle away.”
Now he was smiling. “When d’you start? Want a ride?”
And Draco was so grateful he didn’t launch yet another tirade about how Draco should quit that he said, “Why not.” (Only because he was distracted and rather tired, and not because sitting behind Harry Potter on his motorbike was in itself half-punishment, and not because clinging to his waist on tight turns at far-too-quick was—anything at all). On the downside, it made Harry Potter practically beam, and Draco still needed his eyes.
“Great! I mean. That’s good. That you won’t be late. Bad for your, er, record, and stuff, and you might not get a—bonus or something.”
They didn’t do bonuses at McMillan & McMillan, but that was neither here nor there. Draco nodded, pushed himself up on not so flimsy legs, collected his coat from where it was crumpled on the back of a chair.
“What about lunch?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t take. Any lunch.”
Why was he so obsessed with food? It was dangerously endearing. “I have an apple in my bag. Come now, you promised I won’t be late.”
“An—” Harry Potter shook his head, loosening even more curls out of his bun. They were rain-flat and miserable and still entirely too sweet. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at that poor excuse for a cafeteria you got there. And so help me god, Malfoy, you’ll eat it, or—”
“All right,” both hands up, “no need to shout. Your wish is my command, etcetera.”
He pouted so hard it was almost comical. But there was something still wounded there, so Draco added, “As long as there’s peppers, you know,” and then he was fuming again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and ready to deliver yet-another lecture. Draco watched him, amused, and forgot to lock the door behind him, and forgot his scarf.
Did remember his umbrella, which he Leviosa-ed to follow the Death Machine, stuck it against the silly jacket's back when they reached the office. It wasn’t raining anymore, thankfully allowing Draco to arrive not wet-dog for a change, and it made absolutely no difference.
Harry Potter took off his helmet to watch Draco enter the building. Didn’t follow him inside (wise, to prevent a murder), and so Draco completely forgot about the sandwich threat until it was roughly lunchtime. At which point, a drawer in his desk suddenly jumped open, and a far-too-fancy £12 bready tower appeared. On it a note that scrawled pepper-free, git.
Harry Potter had a lot to answer for. Draco, distracted, chipped away at the sandwich all the same, and was only shouted at twice, and didn’t even spill coffee on his keyboard.
‘Not exactly overtime’ at the office meant staying after everyone else to take note of stock and arrange all the impossible paperwork. That Draco was given this task was already hilarious, and always a disaster: that his boss insisted on continuing to give it to him, possibly commendable. Maybe he thought Draco was being stubborn. Maybe he thought, nobody could really be this bad without actively trying. Well, he didn’t know Draco yet! There was always time to learn.
Stock was stocked. The backroom was stuffy and still smelling slightly of smoke (not Draco’s fault, probably), the sweet dusty smell of paperwork going to rot. It made his head spin, not unpleasantly, made him inhale a little brokenly and laugh to himself. The sandwich from all the way back lunch sat heavy in his belly, sweating. Everything was so incredibly laughable.
When he finally finished (after only forgetting three steps in the protocol), the sun had long set and the streetlights were humming. Not worrying, Draco thought, going back to the office (forgot his bag). Not worrying at all (back to the office, to check he locked the door). (Why would anyone give him the keys?) (Some disasters were just asking to happen).
On his way home he stopped by the corner shop for another pack of biscuits. Some disasters, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare in advance. Harry Potter would surge in soon enough with another grievance. Draco was giddy by nature, and so the shakiness was not necessarily to do with this.
To the crescent moon drowning in cloud he wondered, do I hate peppers?
Couldn’t remember to decide by the time he made it back.
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