Reformation

Draco Malfoy awoke swathed in satin and down quilts, but still he felt chilly, as though he had been swimming in painfully cold water on a pleasantly warm day. He glanced around sleepily, wondering why he might possibly be awake so early. Then he remembered: it was September first and time for school to begin once more. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow, desperately hiding from everything he would be forced to confront that day.

Would there be anyone who welcomed him back, or would they all be disgusted with him as his father had been, as the Dark Lord had been? His master had allowed for Draco's freedom merely because Draco had assisted the Death Eaters in getting to Professor Dumbledore. Draco had only partially accomplished his assigned task. His father was alive but still imprisoned and incensed about the fact that he was helpless. His mother had worried over him ever since he had shown up at home to spend the summer, and she had finally come to the conclusion from Draco's unresponsiveness that it would help him if he was sent back to school.

Draco hadn't protested, but he hadn't been one to protest lately. He'd moped his way through the summer, spending part of the time horrified with himself and part of the time afraid of what was to come. He sometimes felt he could barely remember the night on top of the Astronomy Tower, how ripped apart he had felt when he'd stood there, alone with the Headmaster. But sometimes he remembered it so vividly in his dreams that he forgot, the next day, where he was and how he'd arrived there. He would sit up abruptly, frustrated once again by the experience. Why hadn't he been able to be stronger that night? Why couldn't he make a decision about where he belonged? Did he really belong anywhere?

Draco rolled over and was staring at the ceiling, brooding, when he heard a knock on the door. He hauled himself up to his elbows, his blankets falling down around his waist. His mum entered, carrying a dainty porcelain cup brimming with hot, steaming tea.

"Time for school. Get up," she said briskly, bustling over to the window and throwing open the curtains after placing the teacup on Draco's bureau.

"You'll be fine, Draco," she continued. "I really did think you'd be out of bed by now, though--oh, take your time. You have three hours until eleven, so I expect you to be ready in two."

As soon as she'd gone, Draco resignedly dragged himself out of his bed's deceptive warmth and, snatching a towel from a freshly ironed stack in his mahogany wardrobe, made his way toward the shower. The warm water never seemed hot enough, and Draco shivered as he remembered the rainfall the night he ran. He closed his eyes and ducked into the stream of water. Suddenly, it rushed back to him.

He was running from Harry and from his life. His heart was pounding in time with his fleeing feet as he sprinted. The drizzle began then, a steady pitter-patter of sadness. He reached the Forest and Apparated to the Manor, where it was pouring. He dropped to his knees in the gravel and sobbed harder than he ever had before--in frustration and fear and pure confusion.

Draco reached out in front of him, fumbling desperately for the faucet. He smacked his hand against the shower handle and swore as he turned the water off. He stumbled out of the glass-encased shower and reached for his towel where it rested innocently on its hook. Wrapping it around himself tightly, he leaned back against the moist wall and slid to the floor, resting his head on the tiles behind him and taking deep breaths that shook his whole frame. When he had calmed himself down in the humid air, he rose and leaned over the caramel-coloured marble basin to peer into his silvery eyes in the mirror. They were unresponsive, but Draco knew what was underneath them: fear pain, and no sense of direction.

*~*

Crowds. They always seemed to turn up when he least needed them. Of course, Draco usually enjoyed it when the attention was focused solely on him, but he knew very well that not one of his Slytherin admirers would know a thing about clashing values. They were followers, the lot of them, and Draco was sick of being their leader. He slid past their questions and took shelter in a secluded compartment. Stretching his legs across the empty bench, he closed his eyes and pondered the upcoming school year.

He would be forced to endure mindless devotion from his housemates and scornful disgust from his classmates in other houses. How was he to manage it? Draco reasoned that this year, he would have a chance to improve his marks, and he could be best in his class, too, with Granger gone. Maybe he could manage to salvage his year after all. Draco rested his head on the armrest behind him and closed his eyes. He soon drifted into the most peaceful sleep he'd had since the previous summer, when there'd been nothing troubling him but the absence of his father. Last summer, the Dark Arts had been enticing little objects scattered throughout the Manor.

When he awoke, Draco sat and peered out the window into the endless Scottish dusk. Fields dissolved into lakes as he watched, and Hogwarts appeared on the horizon, the sunset creating a perfect silhouette of the magnificent castle. The flying buttresses that could be spotted on the roof behind the front spires were majestic in the twilight. The stone glowed orange-red, welcoming and comforting in its grand, wise power. Its archaic courage greatly resembled a certain professor Draco used to know.

The train pulled into the Hogsmeade Station with a weary sigh of steam. Draco breathed deeply, readying himself for whatever judgment he was to receive, and rose from his position on the seat, smoothing his robes and hair before emerging from his compartment. The general bustle to disembark quieted as Draco pushed his way through the crowd. The students stared at him incredulously, open-mouthed in wonder. None of them could understand why he'd returned. Draco didn't really even know himself, but everyone else would adjust to his presence at Hogwarts just as Draco himself would have to.

Draco lay in a familiar, comfortable Slytherin bed that night and made a decision that would make the rest of his life immensely different from then on. Had anyone told him was to come, Draco wouldn't have believed them. Though perfect for his own life and helpful to his psyche, Draco's decision was contradictory to everything he'd known.

While he lay staring at his plain ceiling, he made up his mind: he wanted everyone to remember him as a good person. If not a good person, he wanted to be known as wise and brave and loyal and cunning, all of them wrapped into one marvelous individual. As he drifted off to sleep, he mentally rolled his eyes at his own impossible idea. It was truly ridiculous. How could he possible become a good person? He did know one thing, though. Coming back to school had taught him that there was always hope. He would make the best of his situation no matter what consequences his reputation would suffer.