Draco Malfoy, Boy Who Turned Against His Own Father

Chapter Eight: The Great Pretender

Standing outside an old fashioned brick building, Mrs Weasley hesitated. It was not the first time that day. She had doubts even as she flung a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace at the Burrow, had doubts as she walked through Muggle London. Yet, here she was, in front of a Muggle department store called Purge and Dowse, Ltd. The "Close for Refurbishment" sign hanging on its doors seemed to tell her: 'Go, go. You're not supposed to be here. Go.' She sighed; knowing that she had came too far to leave when she was just a few steps away from her destination. She spoke to the ugly dummy in the front window of the store, and walked into the window as the dummy nodded its consent.

Standing in the reception area of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Mrs Weasley could not help but shook her head when she was told to go to the fourth floor to visit the person she came to see. The fourth floor was for spell damage. Spell damage indeed! The Daily Prophet claimed that a Confundus charm was the cause for the victim's sudden insanity. A spell which would cause confusion in a person would not make the person insane, she was sure of that.

'Mrs Weasley!'

She did not hear him at first; she was so lost in her thoughts. A tap on her shoulder made her jump. Harry Potter smiled at her from behind the same glasses he always wore.

'Harry! What are you doing here?' She had only seen him a few days ago, but already, she was missing him. He had always been like a son to her.

'I was with Neville. His grandmother's sick, and he didn't want to come here alone,' replied Harry, pushing his hair back from his eyes.

Mrs Weasley half-expected to see the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, even though she knew for quite a while that it had disappeared. He seemed so different without the scar, so much that it almost seemed as if he was somebody else, somebody plain and normal. The scar that had given hope to so many people must have been a heavy burden for him. Looking at him, Mrs Weasley felt a little guilty. She had once put all her hopes on him and his infamous scar. She had forgotten that he was just a child, that he had fears not unlike her children's. She had asked him to be heroic and courageous, told him to save the world, when he was just a child, trying to grow up.

'I didn't know you two were close,' said Mrs Weasley, trying to hide the guilt in her tone.

'We weren't,' he admitted. 'But after knowing what happened to Neville's parents... well. In a way, we're quite the same. We're both orphans. Not that Neville's parents are... You know what I mean, don't you?'

Mrs Weasley nodded her head. Poor Frank and Alice Longbottom. Tortured into insanity.

'It's just... I understand how he feels. I know how it's like to feel helpless, vulnerable. It... it really hurts. We try not to think about how life would be like if things were different, but it's hard not to.'

She wanted to hug him, to comfort him, but for some reason, she could not.

'I know they're in here,' Harry said sadly, touching the left side of his chest. The word "we" had turned into "I". 'But it's not the same. It's not the same.'

Mrs Weasley was quiet. She did not know what to say. Looking at his miserable, tearless face, she wondered if anything she said would have made a difference. No, she thought, no, it would not.

'Harry, I...'

'So, what are you here for?'

His voice was unnaturally cheerful, the forced smile on his face disguising the sadness in his heart. Mrs Weasley looked at him, but his eyes did not quite meet hers. She sighed inwardly, and knew that she must play this game of his, a game he had been playing for years.

'To visit Narcissa Malfoy.'

There, she finally said it. For the whole day, she did not want to say this name. Her name. She tried to avoid, tried to think of other things. But it was too tiring, and she did not want to lie to him. She cannot lie to him. She cannot look at his face and tell him something untrue. He deserved at least some truth; he had been lied to for far too long. Harry said nothing, so she did. She had to break the painful silence.

'I'm just telling her about her boy, about how he's been.' Still, he kept silent. 'I don't know if she'll listen to me, if she knows what I'm saying to her, but...'

But what? Why was she here, in St. Mungo's, visiting the wife of a man she so despised and detested? Why was she so drawn to her, this horrible, horrible woman? Why did she agree to take in her son? Why? These questions had been bothering Mrs Weasley for weeks, and she had been avoiding them, pushing them away. She tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, and she almost succeeded... almost.

'Mrs Weasley...'

'Yes?'

'Please don't expect me to express any concern for her or for her son. Not today. I'm... tired.'

She stared at him as he turned away from her. Watching his back as he exited the hospital, she realized something. With or without the scar, he is still who he has always been. He hasn't changed, he just pretends to the world that he has. Everyone expected the great Harry Potter to save the world, but nobody allowed him to feel emotions of his own. Remembering the day she had seen him talking to Draco Malfoy, Mrs Weasley wondered what Harry was thinking as he spoke to Draco. What was he thinking, when he smiled at the boy he hated for seven years?

*

It was the most peaceful dream he ever had since he turned eight years old. He was alone at first, alone in the dark. Then, he heard a voice by his ear. It was soft, barely more than a whisper. Don't give up. Don't give up. In the darkness, a shape began to form. A slender body, long limbs, milky white skin. Don't give up. Don't give up. He reached towards the shape, but no matter how much he tried, he always failed. He tried to see its face, but it remained blurry. Don't give up. I'm waiting for you. He could make out long, wild hair. It was bright and fiery, and he felt warmth, radiating from it. It was calling out to him, beckoning him. He tried reaching out, but his hands, feeling as heavy as lead, could not move no matter how much he willed them to move. Feeling a sudden determination, he tried opening his eyes. They fluttered slowly and painfully. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw her face. He saw the face of the most beautiful girl in the world.

*

With her knees up towards her chest, Ginny curled up in the small chair by Draco's bed. Looking down at the unconscious boy on the bed, she noticed how peaceful he looked. He's not dead, is he? The thought occurred to her unexpectedly and suddenly. Feeling a little worried, she crawled out of the chair and knelt beside the bed, and watched with relief at the sight of his chest moving up and down at a steady rhythm. She smiled at her sudden anxiety. She sat down on the carpet, and with the smile still on her face, she watched the boy on the bed. Studying his hair, his face, his hands, Ginny tried to carve every detail into her mind. She wanted to remember the way his white-blonde hair fell across his forehead, the way his eyebrows gathered, and the way his fingers curled into fists. She did not know why she was doing this; she only knew that it was something she wanted to do.

'Don't give up, Malfoy. Don't give up,' she whispered, her eyes tightly shut. 'Don't give up.'

Please don't give up. There's something I want to tell you, something that I would never dream of telling you before. Don't think that no one cares about you, because I do. I care about you.

'Don't give up. I'm waiting for you.'

It was then that Draco let out a soft murmur. Surprised, Ginny jumped. Hastily, she got up and bent over him. She watched as his eyelids fluttered, waiting patiently as he struggled to open his eyes. She straightened up, thinking to tell her brothers, but something made her stop. It was the look in Draco's eyes. Ginny did not know what to expect to see in the eyes of a person who just tried to kill himself. Would it be embarrassment? Anger? Bitterness? Would he even admit to the fact that he tried committing suicide? All these thoughts ran through her mind as Draco opened his eyes and looked at her. However, what Ginny saw was something she never thought would happen. In the depths of Draco Malfoy's gray eyes, was a look of awe. He was looking at her with wonder, almost as if he was looking at her in a way he never had before. I must be dreaming. Malfoy would never look at me like that. Unfortunately, the moment did not last, as Ron chose that second to burst into the room. Instantly, Ginny straightened up and leapt away from the bed.

'Ginny, Mum's on her way home! We've got to - Um, did I, ah, just...?' Ron began to stutter when he noticed the way Ginny had jumped away from the bed, and that Draco was already awake.

Yes, he had talked with Ginny, and yes, he agreed that he would support her. Of course, some things are easier said than done, and he was still not prepared for his sister to be with Draco Malfoy. First of all, he was a Malfoy. Does that not explain a lot? Secondly, Ginny and Draco were cousins. Well, distant cousins, but still... Anyway, he was a Malfoy. A Malfoy! That should be explanatory enough as to why Ginny should not be with Draco, not that it made any difference to his sister.

'I didn't... Were you in the middle of... something?' He practically choked on the last word. Please say no, Ginny. I know you can still be saved from this demon!

'No, no, of course not!' said Ginny quickly. 'I was just about to get you. Well, you're here now, so... Bye!'

With that, Ginny Weasley escaped hastily from the room that was beginning to fill up with an awkward tension, leaving a very uncomfortable Ron and an oddly dreamy Draco behind. She could not help it. She was actually, quite, timid.

*

What goes on in the mind of the mentally ill? Mrs Weasley thought to herself as she watched the woman before her. Sitting elegantly in a white, plain bed, gracefully turning the pages of a magazine, Narcissa Malfoy was a picture of absolute normalcy. Her long, blonde hair was held up in a high bun with a jewelled barrette, and she had an air of aristocracy around her. Not for the first time, Mrs Weasley felt plain and dull next to the elegant woman.

'Narcissa...' The word felt odd around her throat, giving her a feeling of raspy dryness. 'Do you know who I am?'

The woman ignored her, her slender fingers flicking through the copy of Witches' Weekly.

'Narcissa...'

Still, Narcissa Malfoy ignored Mrs Weasley. Feeling frustrated, Mrs Weasley got up from the chair beside the bed. What am I doing here? Coming all the way to see a woman who refuses to even acknowledge me! She inhaled deeply, trying to fight the tears that were threatening to stream down her face. She felt so defeated. Her own courage had deserted her when she needed it the most. Suddenly feeling a surge of anger, she whirled around, angry words forming in her mind as she prepared to lash out on the woman on the bed. But her voice failed her when she came eye to eye with Narcissa Malfoy. The petite woman had crept up so close behind her that she could see the rings of silver surrounding her pupils. Yet, she made no sound. Frozen with surprise, Mrs Weasley stood motionless as the woman before her clutched her arms and leaned towards her left.

'Save him...please.' She whispered in her left ear. 'Save my son.'

As suddenly as she had grabbed Mrs Weasley's arms, she released them, taking a step backwards as she did so. There was a wild look in her eyes. A look of desperation and fear.

'Why hello, Molly. What a coincidence seeing you here,' a voice said suddenly. 'On a visit, I presume?'

Distracted by the voice, Mrs Weasley turned around, only to find a familiar but detestable face. Bellatrix Lestrange. Without another thought, she pulled out her wand and pointed at the woman.

'What are you doing here? It's a foolish move to come to place such as St. Mungo's when you're trying to escape from Azkaban,' said Mrs Weasley, her grip tight on her wand.

To her surprise, the woman laughed. 'Who says I've escaped? I'm allowed to visit Narcissa every month. After all, she is my sister.'

'Once a month? You must be joking! I would never let you out from Azkaban for even once in a hundred years!'

Mrs Weasley would have Stunned Bellatrix Lestrange at that moment had it not been for Miriam Strout, the healer in the ward.

'It's true, Molly. She's got the Minister's permission, and there're two Dementors outside the ward to guard her,' said Strout, while Bellatrix smirked behind her.

This is Cornelius Fudge's doing! I am going to give him a piece of my mind one of these days!

Fuming, Mrs Weasley turned around to face Narcissa, but to her surprise, the blonde woman had resumed her pose on the bed, quietly reading the magazine in her hand. It was almost as if nothing had happened. Feeling a little confused, she decided to leave the hospital. The sight of Bellatrix Lestrange sickened her, and the thought of Narcissa Malfoy's actions confused her. It was when she walked along the streets of Muggle London towards the Leaky Cauldron that a thought struck her. Could the appearance of Bellatrix Lestrange be the reason Narcissa Malfoy pretended nothing happened?