Dawn

I'm reposting this chapter, for it was beta-read by Arlette and she really helped me to improve my writing style. Thank you (again) dear !

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Chapter 2 : A loving father

To say that Lucius Malfoy was not pleased would have been an understatement. He was actually utterly furious. Chin high, back straight, he got up swiftly, and left the Slytherins stands, without a glance back, his black cloak billowing eerily behind him.

Even if Draco looked a lot like his father, the latter was far less handsome, for Draco's mother, Narcissa, was part veela and therefore unnaturally beautiful. He was a platinum blond while his son had soft, silver hair. The lines of his face were much rougher, his lips too thin, his smile too cold. Only their steel-grey eyes were alike, and yet Draco's were incredibly warmer.

The boy had disappointed him for too long. Lucius Malfoy did not like to be disappointed. And his stubborn son was going to understand it. Very painfully.

The pitch was almost empty now, for the students had long gotten back to their respective common rooms, and the teachers were busy worrying about the injured little Mudblood. Draco, however, stood alone in the icy wind, obviously waiting for something - or someone. The sky had darkened, as did the mood of the two Malfoy. Clouds had gathered above the castle, and rain was threatening to fall. A storm was brewing. "A terrific omen indeed, young Mr. Malfoy! I saw it in my crystal ball a long time ago, of course!" Draco could almost hear the sinister mental voice of his Divination Professor.

Lucius strode to his son, a snide smile on his face, yet his eyes stayed cold and unfeeling as ever.

"Draco," he said in a monotone.

"Father." The younger man failed to hide the contempt in his voice. He was soaked with sweat, of sport and fear, but soon he wouldn't feel the cold anymore. His father would take care of that. He shuddered.

"What were you thinking, boy ! To save a worthless Mudblood when you could have won the match ! What did I taught you all these years, you silly, ungrateful git ?"

Nothing, thought Draco sadly, nothing but disdain, hate and pain.

"Is that all you have to say? Fine," sneered his father as he drew his wand. It was long, black and apparently inflexible. Exactly like him.

The silver-haired man stiffened. He knew what was coming, and he feared it with all his heart. He would have given anything to be back in the warm and safe Slytherin common room... But he had been taught very young not to dream. So he stiffened his shivering body, and clenched his fists until the pain of his nails in his palms was too great.

"Remember, boy. One sound, and you will regret you were ever born."

Draco locked his gaze with his father's, gritted his teeth, and prepared himself for the worse.

"Crucio."

Unbearable pain coursed his veins. He struggled not to scream, then everything went black.

~ * ~

Glancing anxiously at the unconscious form huddled under a large, white cover, Harry felt bad. Really bad.

"How could I have been that dense ?" He muttered, guilt-stricken. "Did not even saw her fall... was so engrossed in the game... she could have died, Ron !" Leaping to his feet, he noticed Madam Pomfrey glaring at him from the other side of the Hospital Wing, and suddenly realized that he had shouted the last part. Feeling a bit dumb, he slowly sat back, and began awkwardly to smooth down his tousled black hair, as he always did when he was stressed. Ron couldn't suppress a smile. That's strangely comforting to see that there are things that never change... Oddly enough, to see that Snape is still an overgrown bat isn't any comfort. I wonder why...

Ron was sitting next to him, by the side of Hermione's bed. Her temple was heavily bandaged, and the nurse had given her a Dreamless Sleep potion earlier, for she needed total rest to recover. The whole Gryffindor house had come to visit the injured Head Girl, all feeling guilty to have been more worried about the victory than her health.

"Had Malfoy not been there..." he began, but Harry cut him harshly.

"That git! He saved her only because he knew he would loose!" he exclaimed with a sulky look, worthy of a five years old boy. It never ceased to amaze him how smart, mature Harry could become so childish when talking about Draco Malfoy, Quidditch or girls.

"Had Malfoy not been there", he pursued, "she would be in a very serious shape, or even dead. And you know it. We have a debt towards him."

Harry looked at him in horror.

~ * ~

When Draco regained consciousness, pain was at first his only coherent thought. Then, stirring softly, he realized he was wet, and cold. Rain and blood had soaked his green quidditch robes already covered with mud. He was lying on his back, on the grass. His whole body was aching, and he felt rather nauseous but he was alive, and that was sheer luck.

He blinked. The sky, above him, was darker than ever, for the clouds were now hiding the stars. He exhaled carefully, then winced and bit his lips as a sharp pain shot up his ribcage. Usually his father only used spells on him, but obviously had made an exception this time. He released his clenched jaw as the pain diminished, then dried the blood on his lips with his bare hand, unable to suppress the metallic taste which was invading his mouth.

He rose slowly, his sore legs still slightly unsteady. The sun had long set, but given the bright lights emanating from the castle, it was not yet past curfew. Maybe I won't get a detention, after all, Draco mused idly. Like I care.

How he managed to reach Hogwarts was a mystery. The castle was quiet, and he only passed three lost Ravenclaws first year in the deserted corridors. All the students were in the Great Hall, laughing and eating. Surprisingly enough, I don't feel like joining the Gryffindor's victory celebration. How very unfair of me, he thought tartly.

He dragged himself wearily to the dungeons, faltering at every step but nevertheless going on. It was not much courage than pride that sustained him, for he loathed the very idea of being helpless, as much as he despised weak people. He was not at all accustomed to be cared about. The day following his fourth birthday, Lucius had positively ordered his mother not to show any kind of tenderness or love towards him anymore. Narcissa loved her son dearly, but she feared her husband even more. She did as she was told, not caring when Draco was ill, not blinking when he cried, not even looking up when he was beaten. The mother and the son became strangers. Then Draco understood that he was really alone.

He was now used to it, to be and to do all by himself, and the mere thought of asking for help didn't even cross his mind. He had been tamed that way by his father, with the loving use of a fist, a whip and a wand. It was now a part of him, as surely as his sarcastic tongue and sharp wit. Small wonder he was so proud, when that was all was left to him.

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