The Death Eater's Heir

DRACO

"I don't want to inherit your title, father. I have no intention whatsoever of bowing to anyone who would put restrictions on everything I do, including who I associate myself with!"

Lucius's eyes flashed in fury, and at the zenith of exasperation, he struck his son across the face with his fist. It almost disfigured the boy's face, as Lucius was wearing a chain glove, something that he wore to his meeting with his master.

"How dare you speak those traitorous words!" shouted Lucius as the searing pain caused Draco to sink to his knees. Wrathful, Lucius gripped his son's face, which was pinched in pain, and snarled, "You have no choice, my son. That face you so proudly bear resembles no one, but I alone. Do you honestly believe, for a moment, that if you sided with the Light, you would gain acceptance?"

Draco tried to pry his father's fingers away, but the older man was much stronger. He knew that it was a curse to look like his father, but at the same time, it was a blessing as well. Lucius would never truly hurt him, unless he had another heir.

"Despite your naivety, Draco, we both know that they would never accept you. If I fall, there would be nobody to watch your back, you ungrateful bastard. Hence, you had better make sure that I do not fall--by serving the Dark Lord...Our Dark Lord."

"He wouldn't want my service, father," snarled Draco quietly. "I would not give him my full loyalty and obedience. Secondly, unlike you, I do not have any special talents or sufficient cunning to aid him. He would not take much interest in me, compared to other Death Eaters' children"

"Au contraire, Draco. In fact, our meeting earlier was not, as you thought, about your 'friend' Potter. It was about you."

Draco's Obliviating spell malfunction for the second time that day, and as he watched Hermione Granger roll her eyes in disbelief, he swore audibly.

"Watch your language," she warned in the same matter-of-fact voice that he hated. She always sounded so matter-of-fact about everything, as though every single thing that happen ought to happen according to her expectations. Unfortunately, he had to agree with her that he was performing ridiculously at Duelling that day.

"You're supposed to be making me forget my purpose, which is to hit you with a full Body Bind charm, not spraying fireworks. What's wrong you?"

He eyed her loathsomely. Hogwarts had decided to bring back Duelling classes, and understandably so, since Voldemort's rise in the magical world. This time, it was made compulsory for every student, which was why Draco, who was supposed to be siding with Voldemort, was engaging in a mock Wizards Duel with Hermione.

"I just don't want to hurt you," he answered tersely. "Is that a crime?"

"Excuse me?" asked Hermione, her mouth dropping open. "Since when you became warm and considerate? Did someone obliviate you too many times?"

She caught his eye, and sent a full-blown Dragon Fire flare at him. It wasn't supposed to put him in the hospital wing--just scorch him a little, but she was not ready for what would happen during the next few minutes.

The moment she began the incantations, Draco started to mutter a string of cryptic words fervently, as though he was racing against time. But he wasn't fast enough--the fire spell hit him squarely in his chest, throwing him backwards with such force that he lay gasping for air. Hermione barely had time to grin smugly, when she, too, was picked up by an unseen hand, and thrown roughly against the opposite wall. Draco's fall was cushioned by Goyle, who was behind him, but Hermione was not as fortunate. Her skull made a sickening sound when it hit the wall, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

As Professor Flitwick hurried towards her, Draco got to his knees and watched, as though in a daze, as other students began to crowd around the Gryffindor, to Professor Flitwick's exasperation. Nobody heard him whisper, "I said that I don't want to hurt you."

HERMIONE

"Are you sure?" demanded Ginny loudly, thus immediately earning herself a furious glare from Madam Pomfrey. "Sorry," she called out, before turning back to Hermione. "Are you sure that he's that powerful? I mean, I always thought that he's just a pretty face with deep pockets, but I would never in a million years see him as this--"

"Hang on," said a strangled voice. Ginny and Hermione both turned towards Ron, who looked as though he as about to throw up. "You, my level-headed, intelligent, sister, who isn't the least bit blind, actually think that Malfoy's--ugh--good looking? Blimey, what next? Millicent Bulstrode clinching the Miss Congeniality title?"

Harry grinned and patted his best friend's back sympathetically. "I know the feeling," he said in an understanding voice. "I mean, my uncle and his wife are always lavishing Dudley with praises on how he's the handsomest, cleverest, most virtuous demigod in the universe and beyond. But," he added as an afterthought, "Hearing that Malfoy is handsome is a gazillion times worse."

Hermione clapped her hands together, and swallowed the rest of her water with a gulp. "Haven't any of you been listening?" she asked, reminding them all of Professor McGonagall. "Malfoy isn't powerful. He wasn't the one who caused this hospital stay. Something else did it," she said slowly. If anything, I suspect that Malfoy was trying to counteract whatever it was that was about to hurt me."

Ron shuddered. "An invisible bodyguard? There's no ends to what money can buy, I see."

Hermione shot Ron a look. "Invisible, yes," she agreed slowly. "But I doubt that it's a bodyguard. I don't know...he wasn't able to perform any memory charms on me earlier, but when I tried to hurt him, the exact same thing happened to me, only on a much higher scale. It was as though he was trying to stop me from attacking him...so that I wouldn't get hurt."

A cloud passed across Harry's eyes. "Do you think that Voldemort has anything to do with this?" he asked slowly. "I've never seen anything like this happen before, at least it's not something that the teachers have taught us."

Hermione gave him a reassuring smile. "Well, we've never let what's not in the textbooks stop us before," she said. "I'll see what I can find out."

DRACO

The Christmas hols would be coming soon, and Draco knew that it would be the first time he would have to spend it without his father. In his dormitory, he silently polished the silver frame of his mirror--it was a head taller than him, with a two-headed snake framing the looking glass. Personally, he thought that it was hideous, but since it was a gift from his father, he decided to overlook its aesthetic ugliness.

Outside, an owl hooted distantly. It was night time, and he knew that everyone else was asleep, or, at least, pretending to. Draco finally put down his wand, and stood up to take a good look at himself in the mirror.

He saw what his father had always emphasized: his face, which heavily resembled Lucius's when he was younger, stared out at him. His blond hair was no longer slicked back, but it now drooped elegantly down his angular face. He sighed, and stared back at the grey eyes that looked out in soulful anguish at him. At that thought, Draco almost burst out laughing--soulful anguish, how absurd was that? He was tired, irritated and unappreciated, but to be soulfully anguished, that was ridiculous.

And yes, he knew that he wasn't as repulsive as the mirror. That wasn't surprising, considering that Narcissa was rather good-looking, to begin with. She was the fairer version of her sister, Bellatrix, but only physically. As his eyes trailed down to his chin, he flinched. There, tiny as it might be, was the scar which Lucius gave him. It could be concealed by a beard, of course, but if there was anything that Draco hated more than maintaining a bushy growth on his chin, it was growing a bushy growth on his chin.

He took a good look at himself. To his annoyance, he found that he was still as slim as ever, although not as gangly as Weasley or knobby-kneed like Potter. Lucius's words rang loud in his ears: "Us wizards need not place emphasize on brawn. We fight with lore, and other than that, we engage the strength of golems, beasts and summonings. Remember, son, it all starts with power. A powerful Muggle may only defeat other Muggles, but a powerful wizard may defeat their own kind, in addition to others."

Of course, his father had continued to lecture him on where to seek power, which was basically preaching the benefits of joining Voldemort, and that was exactly why Draco had allowed his mind to drift elsewhere.

And he was taller too, as tall as his father. He resented the thought of having to kneel down to kiss the feet of a ninety-pound wizard and do his bidding. He knew that Voldemort had power beyond his wildest imaginations, but....

"But I'm the one with the looks," he said smugly, and grinned as his own reflection. It was shallow, childish and embarrassing to be caught saying that, but Draco relished the thought of it anyway.

"Mmblefgl," grunted Goyle in his sleep. "Purty...Padma...."

Draco whirled around and stared at his sleeping friend with an enormous grin on his pointed face. "Oh, I see," he said sagely. "Well, at least she isn't a Gryffindor."

He stopped short. No wonder something was gnawing at his mind the entire day--there was a Gryffindor spending the night in the hospital wing, and it was nobody's fault but his. Strangely, Draco was caught in between feeling triumphant and guilty. He mentally berated himself for even doubting his victory, but he couldn't help thinking about the scene in which Hermione was thrown against the wall as a result of her attempt to hurt him.

He sat down in his bed, leaning against the post of his four-poster bed and cradled his arms in his head. Just before his father was sent off to Azkaban, Lucius had given him a long-hidden piece of information.

"The Dark Lord was talking about me? What, he wants to know about my loses at Quidditch? He wants to go to the next Quidditch World Cup with me? He-"

"He knows about your Armour," said Lucius coldly as he watched Draco struggle to his feet without offering any assistance.

"Armour?" asked Draco confusedly. "What armour? You mean the suits of armour that-"

"To put it simply, Draco, if you have nothing intelligent to say, kindly shut up so that others will not be immediately aware of your stupidity," snapped Lucius, glaring hard at his son. "Armour, Resistance, Offensive Shield, those are the many words that refer to the unique defence that you're born with. Some call it a blessing, others a curse, but the Dark Lord sees it as an asset."

Draco watched with open disgust as his father's eyes brimmed with admiration when he spoke of the twice-born wizard. "An asset? MY asset, right? I presume that this armour or whatever it is is mine, right?"

Lucius raised his eyebrows at his son, before laughing disparagingly. "You will be sixteen soon, my son," he continued. "That's when I will be rendered powerless to stop your Armour from protecting you. And then, you will find out why the Dark Lord has taken an interest in you."

Draco's mouth fell open. "You have been blocking my powers?" he demanded in disbelief. "Why?"

Lucius smiled coldly. "Because that means that I will suffer along with you, whenever I punish you. You see, your Armour does not stop you from being hurt--it amplifies the magical damage you receive and reflects it back. In other words, if I hit you with a Crutiatus Curse, I will receive the equivalent of Avada Kedavra. You will be tortured, but I will die. Only one in ten thousand Purebloods are born with it, and frankly, I am surprised that it happened to be you."

Draco's voice was hollow and his face was impassive when he spoke. "And...can this power be transferred?"

Lucius smiled thinly. "How fast you are learning, son," he said mockingly. "There are evidences that show that it can be siphoned and stored, but I am sure that my master will uncover a method to gain control over your...gift. After all, what is ours naturally belongs to him. You should be obliged to let him have it...and he will have it, soon."

Draco shook himself out of his musings. The clock showed that it was past midnight, and Granger would be in deep sleep, thanks to her medicine. He shuddered; he knew what it was like to take five different types of medicine at once--according to Pansy, who had been simpering annoyingly when she told him, that was the number of potions Granger had to down. The impact had been huge, and he was surprised that she was still alive.

"Maybe the countercurse did work, after all,' he muttered absently to himself. His eyes fell on the vase of roses on his bedside desk--a First Year had given them to him earlier that day. He touched a velvet petal with his index finger, and inhaled its delicious scent.

Roses, wasn't it the most sensual flower to give anyone? "I am the one with the looks," he grinned again. Pansy had sworn to murder the girl who gave him the bouquet, but Draco had conveniently forgotten her name. But as beautiful as it might be, he had no use for the roses. Feeling bored, Draco fiddled with his wand, and ended up turning the blood-red roses pure white, with ivory streaks at their hearts.

He reached for a piece of parchment, and ignored the fact that it was dirty and yellowed. "Mudbloods don't deserve better," he said to himself. "She doesn't deserve anything, and it's her fault that she's there with a bandaged head," his voice grew stronger with each word, and in the end, he crumpled the note he was writing, and threw it into the fireplace. "I should get some sleep, or I'd end up feeling sorry for her," he shuddered.

All the same, Hermione Granger woke up the next day and was surprised to find an anonymously-sent bouquet of white roses by her bed. Still, her reaction was what the sender was hoping for: for a while, Hermione forgot the bitter sting of her medicine and the pulsating headache she had.....and smiled.