A Little Prince

If Draco had been a different kind of child, namely the type of child his grandfather had wanted him to be, the life he was to lead at Mister Fudge´s Select Seminary would have been entirely the wrong sort for him. He was treated as an esteemed and revered guest, which was the way his grandfather would say a `real Malfoy´ should be treated. Draco, however, was so unassuming that he took it all in stride, continuing to say `please´ and `thank you´ and remaining a well-behaved and agreeable child. Privately, Fudge disliked his show pupil a great deal, but he was far too aware of the fact that a simple letter from Draco would result in Lucius pulling him from the school immediately, so he swallowed his pride and continued his sycophantic attentions.

Draco was used to receiving praise, as his father was quick to bestow it, but he also knew quite well not to put too much stock into what everyone else said. He was a very sensible and level-headed boy, after all. He was aware of the fact that Mister Fudge was nice to him only because he had to be, and therefore only smiled modestly and politely whenever he was praised for his quickness at lessons, his amiability toward his fellow pupils, his generosity if he shared any of the constant flow of sweets and cakes that were sent to him with the other members of his class.

As a result, many of the younger students absolutely worshipped him and most of the elder students respected and admired him. There were those, of course, who were the exceptions to the rule. The most prominent of these figures were the Gryffindors, as they were still called, namely Zacharias, Orion, and Harry.

Zacharias, especially, was spiteful. He had worked very hard to earn his place as the school´s best pupil, and then Draco had arrived and taken his glory away. Orion, too, was rather hateful as far as Draco went, but that was because his father had had a particular dislike for Draco´s father when they were at school together. Harry, while not quite so affected by Draco´s presence, was caught between admitting that Draco was, in fact, an excellent student and angering his friends. So, not unlike his father´s friend, Remus Lupin, had done when he was a boy (but, of course, Harry didn´t know that), he did the only thing he felt comfortable doing. Nothing at all.

If there was one thing he had gotten from his father, though, it was the urge to speak whatever he was thinking whenever he was thinking it. So one day, as he, Orion, and Zach were sitting around, flipping through Quidditch Weekly, he turned to his friends and said, "You know, the thing about Draco Malfoy is that he's never grand. And he could be, because he's rich and spoilt and people make a fuss over him. I can't help thinking that, were I in his place, I might be - but just a little."

Orion snorted. "It's disgusting, the way Fudge shows him off whenever parents come," he grumbled, flopping back against the bed and stretching out his gangly legs.

Zach sneered. "'Dear Draco must come into the drawing-room and talk to Mister Higgs about India,'" he mimicked, in his best impression of Mister Fudge, which was actually very good. "'Dear Draco must speak French to Madame Kirke; his accent is so perfect."

Orion rolled his eyes. "There´s nothing special about him aside from the fact that his father is a rich, stuck-up prick with too much time on his hands. Dad says he´ll grow up just like Aunt Narcissa; lazy, cruel, and snobbish."

Harry blinked. "Remus said that Draco´s dad changed after your aunt died, Rion," he said gently, turning his Dumbledore card over and over in his fingers.

"He just became more ek-eccet-oh, weird," Orion grumbled, shaking his shaggy head. "And Malfoy will be just like him. Walking around like he has a cane up his arse."

Zach cackled aloud at that, no doubt imagining the sight, and even Harry couldn´t suppress a laugh.

It was, however, quite true that Draco was never `grand´. His years in India had taught him to be a very friendly person, although he was still shy of children his own age, especially since children his age had the horrible tendency to be extremely cruel. He was more comfortable with the younger children, in fact, and since they were largely used to being disdained and ordered out of the way by the elder and `more mature´ of the bunch, they absolutely adored him.

Unlike the other elder children, who wielded their power by making themselves disagreeable, Draco´s power stemmed from the fact that he never did. But quite the greatest power of all, above and beyond his luxuries and the fact that he was the `show pupil´, the one that earned him the most followers, was his ability to tell stories.

Anyone who´s had the pleasure of holding companionship with a storyteller knows the power that words can exude; how he or she is followed about and besought in a whisper to relate fantastical stories; how small crowds form on the outskirts of the favored party in hope of being allowed to join it and listen. Draco was quite an artist when it came to storytelling, and his huge, expressive gray eyes and graceful, fluid motions brought his words to life as he would relate the story both with his simple, beautiful words and excited, passionate motions. Almost as if unaware, his slim body would bend and sway, his voice would lilt and deepen accordingly, and his flushed cheeks and intense, sparkling eyes could draw in even the most stubborn of boys to take part in his sessions of fantasy.

He often would completely forget there were others in the room, listening to him, as he would become so engrossed in his stories that all reality would melt away and the world he was weaving would become the new reality in which he played with elves and dragons underneath a giant, golden sun suspended from the sky like a glowing orange.

It was one day, during a particularly fascinating story session, when a soft noise from the corner caught his attention, and he looked up curiously without a pause in his tale. A slim, dirty little boy was crouched in the corner, a ragged robe about his shoulders, and he was tending to the fire with rough, blackened hands. As Draco watched, his motions became slower and slower, and finally ceased altogether as he turned, his sad black eyes glassy and enraptured as he listened to tales of winged horses and giant, muscular men with heavy swords.

A piece of kindling fell from his hands with a bang, and everyone whirled round to stare at him.

"That one´s been listening," Zacharias sneered. Several of the elder children glared at the boy, while several of the younger clung to their mates with fear, as he turned and walked out of the room very quickly, head down respectfully and a slump to his shoulders like Draco had never seen before.

When the boy was gone, Draco turned back to Zacharias, glowering. "I knew he was listening," he snapped. "Why shouldn´t he?"

Orion, a nasty curl to his lip, spoke up. "Well, I don´t know how your father would feel about telling stories to children of Death Eaters, but I know my father wouldn´t stand for it."

Several of the children murmured their assent, looking after the dirty boy with fear and loathing in their eyes.

Harry spoke up, a little apologetically but with angry fire burning in his green eyes. "You see, Draco, it isn´t proper to associate with children of criminals," he said, his words coming out rather coldly. "It wouldn´t do for you to be seen speaking to one."

Draco stared back at him, very long and very hard, and finally Harry looked away, although there were still two spots of color burning high on his cheeks. Draco hardly noticed anything of the conversation around him, so engrossed was he in what the Gryffindors had said.

That night, as Draco was curled up by the hearth, Cliodne on his knee, he turned to Blaise, who was perched in the armchair and eating a chocolate frog. "Blaise," he said suddenly, "who is that boy who tends the fires?"

Blaise dropped the chocolate frog, startled, and then proceeded to apologize profusely for making a sticky mess of Draco´s rug. Draco, however, just waved him off, and repeated the question, his eyes wide and curious as they always were whenever he was learning something new.

After Blaise finished licking the chocolate from his lips nervously, he folded his hands in his lap and gave a little wriggle. "I...I think I remember Mrs. Fudge calling him...Nott once. I don´t know his first name though," a bit apologetically.

Draco blinked. "Why is he working here instead of studying?" he asked.

Blaise looked surprised. "Well..." he started, faltering a bit. "Because he´s...er...that is, he isn´t..." He trailed off, at a complete loss.

Draco went on. "He´s a little boy, just like us...why shouldn´t he be allowed to study here?"

Blaise bit his lip, blue eyes huge. "I don´t know much about that," he breathed, "but I think it has something to do with the war...about his parents choosing the wrong side."

Draco frowned. "You mean his parents were Death Eaters."

Blaise sucked in a breath, looking around nervously as if he expected Voldemort himself to come bursting out of the fireplace. "I--I think so," he whispered.

Draco scowled. "What does his father have to do with anything? He´s not Voldemort´s follower, that´s for sure. I don´t see why a child should be punished for a bad decision his parent made! After all, he´s his own person. He has the opportunity to make his own choices." Simmering, he turned his attention back to Blaise, and found the other boy staring at him with an expression of utter horror.

"What?" he asked concernedly, wrinkling his brow.

"You...you said The Name," Blaise gasped in awe, partially because he was impressed at Draco´s bravery and partially because he couldn´t believe Draco could be so rash as to say the Dark Lord´s name aloud.

Draco just stared at him blankly. "You mean Voldemort?"

Blaise flinched visibly as if he´d been burned.

"What´s the matter?" Draco asked immediately, at Blaise´s side in an instant.

Blaise shivered just a bit, wrapping his arms around his legs. "I´ve never h-heard anybody say His name before," he whispered, awe and fear tangling with each other in his voice.

Draco chewed on his lip just a bit, cocking his head to the side. When he did that, he looked remarkably like a pale owl with his huge, silver eyes and white-blond hair, quite the opposite of Cliodne, in fact, but with no less of a piercing gaze. "I don´t ever think of it as a big deal," he murmured thoughtfully, looking off into space as he often did when telling a story, "and so I suppose I don´t feel the same discomfort with the name as most. You see, we never spoke of such things when I was a child, and, as a result, I don´t have the same filters in place as you and most of the other students." He shifted a bit, curling his knees to his chest and resting his chin upon folded arms. "I suppose it is considered impolite to mention the name in polite society as well then?"

Blaise, looking at Draco as if he was quite the most unusual person he´d ever seen (which was a standard expression for him whenever Draco was involved), merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Draco sighed quietly, and released his knees, rolling onto his stomach and staring into the fire. "There are so many things I shall never understand," he mused, almost sadly, watching the flames lick at the charred pile of logs. Had Blaise been able to see his eyes, he might have seen the unspoken statement there: And I like it that way.