A Flawless Plan

I. [Planning]

Some plans are flawless. Human beings aren't.

Yeah, really profound, I know. I've stumbled over this little piece of wisdom all by myself, mind you. Sounds a bit like those silly messages Muggles place inside fortune-cookies. Well, what can I say, Mother loves Muggle Chinese food. I suppose she does so mostly because it drives Father mad. Driving Father mad is one of Mother's favourite pastimes... Anyway, I'm sure you realised that's rather not the point here.

~''~

It started as a game. A game born out of revenge and the stupid need to prove myself. A game that was meant to cause pain and confusion, a game meant to break Potter's mind, but nonetheless a game. It shouldn't have gone so horribly out of my hands.

I guess I'll begin with the beginning - though, come to think about it, the beginning wasn't all that spectacular...

One evening, two weeks into my seventh year at Hogwarts, a letter arrived, sent by Father. It started with the usual nonsense about the Malfoy Family Pride, which I could've easily recited by heart, so I didn't bother with it. I suppose I wouldn't have read the letter at all, at least not right then, but for two sentences which captured my attention.

Draco, son, you should be very proud of yourself. Our Lord values you enough to entrust you with a mission of vital importance for His plans...

Well, that at least, was something new. Shocking as it might be, as Father was almost openly part of the Dark And Scary One's inner circle, I myself was more or less clueless (which is rather 'more' than 'less') as to what Evil Plans His Wicked Mind was curently weaving. I knew what most knew - Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. I, his son, was to become one after finishing school. (Apparently, the Frightful One found students carrying his mark right under Dumbledore's big crooked nose a bad idea. Very sensible.) You didn't want to piss He-Who-Is-Euphemistically-Reffered-To off. Slytherins are evil. The basics, really.

And then, I also knew some things that most didn't, namely, a nasty dozen of Dark Spells, courtesy of intensive 'holiday study', as Father liked to put it.

But, a mission? I could have never imagined I was so trustworthy! (Please, note my sarcasm here.)

You are aware, of course, that Harry Potter is a constant obstacle in our Lord's path to ultimate greatness.

To put it directly... No shit, Father? Oh, well, I should have figured it would be Wonder Boy again! Never thought, though, that the Dark One Himself found Scar Head so worthy of his 'attention'. Potter had always struck me as the proverbial itch in His Evilness' Ugly Arse, rather than a serious threat to the All-Mighty Forces of Darkness. And let me tell you, it's highly embarassing that there had been a time when Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, believed that. But I've learned to never underestimate Potter again.

For reasons beside your concern, it is imperious that when this year ends and Potter leaves Hogwarts for good, he will be weak, tired of living and fighting, in other words, defenseless. Our Master wants the boy to be 'broken' to such an extent that he wouldn't care or want to oppose Him when time comes.

This, son, is your mission. I don't care how you do it. In fact, I don't want to know how you do it. Use any means necessary, but use them wisely and avoid unpleasant accidents, namely, expulsion. If you fail, the Dark Lord will be extremely displeased with you and so will I.

Needless to say, this letter is to be destroyed as soon as you finish reading it.

Straight to the point, that's the style that suits Father the best. Break Potter or prepare for a fate worse than death! Yeah, I know there was no actual threat in the letter, but what image do the words 'the Dark Lord will be extremely displeased' summon to your mind? Because right then, I, myself, could easily picture my body repeatedly subjected to the 'gentle touch' of Cruciatus, were I to fail in my assigned mission. Disturbing, to say the least... Sod that, I wasn't going to let it happen! I wasn't going to fail! I was going to stand up to the challenge like a Malfoy!

Did Father think I couldn't do it? Perhaps he did, in which case I was to prove him how wrong of him was to underestimate his own son. For, I didn't have to think much to come up with a plan. What can I say, I'm an evil genius. The instant I finished reading the letter, I knew precisely what I was going to do. Even Father would have spared a shiver had he known my intentions. And there was no way I would fail.

~''~

I still have no idea what Father imagined I would do, though. Follow Potter around, provoke him, play silly pranks on him and his friends, get him into detention? Potter had, at some point, stopped reacting to this kind of childish taunts in a satisfactory manner, losing me, thus, one of the few sources of amusement I had had inside the dull walls of that stupid, boring school.

If I insulted him, he wouldn't even look at me. If I insulted his friends, he would throw a fierce glare in my direction, but nothing more than that. If I insulted his dead parents, then he indeed seemed to wake from his damned apathy, drawing his wand to curse me, or, maybe, if I'd been trying hard enough, going instead for the old-fashioned punch in the face. But the Weasel and the Mudblood were always there to hold him back and he never fought them. I still used to sabotage his work in Potions every now and then, mostly for the sake of old times, without really expecting much to come of it. He knew it was me every time when his cauldron exploded, or when his potion evaporated at the end of the class, before he managed to fill his vial and hand it to Snape. Yet he never lost his temper when Snape took points from him on my account, or made him look like a total incompetent in front of everyone. He only stared at me and Snape with deep contempt and sometimes hate, but nothing more.

Oh yes, the age of insignificant, infantile pranks was gone. This time, Potter would get so messed up inside, he'd wish he hadn't been born! 'Use any means necessary.' I bet, Father, you could never have imagined just how resourceful your beloved son could be.

I proceeded to bring my plan to life with extreme precaution and without hurry. Because I knew that by the time it was accomplished, Potter would've become nothing more and nothing less than a human wreck. I hadn't taken into account the possibility of becoming one myself. Like a wise man once said, shit happens. Damn Potter!

(I've just heard Father's voice in my head.

"Language, Draco."

Damn him too! It's not like it matters anymore.)

~''~

Next day, I started working on my plan to destroy Potter as soon as I woke up. First thing, I wrote to Father, letting him know that I had a plan and needed an Invisibility Cloak to achieve it. He'd never wanted to let me have one before, no matter how insistently or often I kept asking. However, this time things were different and I had the upper hand. In fact, he probably thought I didn't really need the Cloak, but rather exploited the opportunity for all it was worth. I didn't mind him believing me capable such a petty scheme, for I was, after all, a Slytherin.

Whatever Father might have thought of my request, he didn't dare risking the failure of the mission entrusted to me by His Wickedness, only because he himself didn't trust his son. As a result, on the same evening my hands were touching the beautiful, silvery fabric of the requested Invisibility Cloak.

Time for next step had come. I could practically feel my skin buzzing with excitement. My plan was so evil, so perverse, so beautiful.

I don't know how many students of my age have heard about the Transjuice Potion. I suspect a bunch of Ravenclaws and Granger had stumbled over the name while doing extra-curricular reading, but otherwise, it's not even mentioned in any of our school books. I, myself, had read about it back at home, over the summer, in one of the many Dark Arts books Father prided to own, despite the Ministry's 'vigilant' eye.

So let me tell you a bit about the Transjuice Potion. According to the book I read, it's a rather unusual potion, and it also needs a spell to be performed in order to work. Brewing the actual potion is fairly easy, though not quite a walk in the park. Someone like, let's say, Longbottom wouldn't have been able to do it even if his life had depended of it. But I could. And I was going to.

The ingredients for the Transjuice Potion are basically the same as for the Polyjuice Potion, minus the bit of the person to transform into. Because, obviously, it's not meant to do the same thing as the Polyjuice Potion. Not the same, but something quite similar. The Transjuice Potion is meant to transform the taker, for precisely one hour, into a member of the opposite gender. Got a hint about my plan, now? It should be quite obvious from this point on. So obvious, so simple, so perfect. An absolutely flawless plan and Potter would never suspect!

The Transjuice Potion is also very dangerous. I guess it's the reason why no school book mention it. Oh, and it's Dark, have I mentioned that? If abused or used improperly, it could result into the death of the taker. However, I didn't worry very much about that particular aspect right then. I suppose I was confident enough in my own abilities as a wizard. Malfoys don't believe in failure. It goes as a rule in our family.

That night, with the aid of my newly acquired Invisibility Cloak, I broke into Snape's office and stole the necessary ingredients for my potion. I stole some more random ingredients, so he wouldn't suspect what the unknown thief (that being me) was up to. I started brewing the potion on the same night in a disused classroom. It would take almost a month for it to be ready and I really didn't have any time to waste.

~''~

So far, my plan was working perfectly. When the time would come, Potter won't know what hit him!

But there was still a whole month of inactivity, as far as the 'Potter operation' was concerned, ahead of me. I decided to make the best out of it and watch Potter on every opportunity that presented, getting thus familiar with every thought, emotion, idea or intention of his. Of course, I had to do it as inconspicuously as possible.

On the exterior, Potter hadn't changed drastically since the first time I'd seen him. He was still rather short, shorter than Weasley (but that didn't count, because almost everyone was shorter than Weasley) and shorter even than the Mudblood. His hair was still the same styleless mess it had always been and he continued to wear his silly pair of glasses. I knew he could afford to have his eyes magically repaired, so I assumed he insisted in keeping those glasses only out of pride. They had become as much a distinctive sign of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Been Thick-Skulled Enough to Bounce Off Avada Kedavra, as the scar resulted in the said bouncing.

Anyway, that was only on the exterior. The more I watched, the more I noticed that there was, after all, something different about him. He was more quiet and rarely laughed at Weasley's jokes (not that I blamed him, but, still, he used to laugh at those lame attempts of humour before). His eyes had grown darker, but there was also a hint of fear in them, which I couldn't understand. Wasn't Potter supposed to be the fearless hero? Well, maybe I was wrong about it.

One day, I decided to test his reactions again and I provoked him outside the Potions classroom. Weasley wasn't with him for the class, as he had spectacularly failed to get an OWL in Potions back in our fifth year. Granger had vanished at the end of the lesson, probably on her way to the Library. Potter was alone.

"Some people are really lame at Potions," I casually remarked to Crabbe and Goyle, who had just arrived to meet me (they had that in common with Weasley - never in a million year could they have made it in Advanced Potions. The irony of my words was lost on them, as they hasted to aprove me.) Naturally, I had made sure Potter heard me perfectly.

"I wonder why does Professor Snape allow in his class such incompetents, whose cauldrons blow up every lesson, famous as they might be?"

Needless to say, I was the one who had caused his cauldron to explode. Even so, I didn't expected him to react so quickly at a taunt regarding his so-called incapacity. There had been days when I could have called him a Squib and he wouldn't as much as have raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have a problem with me, Malfoy?" He unexpectedly grabbed the neck of my robes and slammed me into the nearby wall. Crabbe and Goyle finally reacted, and immobilized Potter, but my head was now spinning.

"It's you have some serious problem up here, Potter!" I pointed to his forehead. "Guess all that fame made you paranoid! What, you dreamed I insulted you and came to get your revenge?"

"I don't dream about you, Malfoy! You are too insignificant!" his eyes were shooting daggers at me, but he didn't struggle to free himself from the hands of my Slytherin fellows. Goyle punched him hard in the ribs for insulting me, but I prevented him from doing it again with a slight wave of hand. I wanted Potter to finish his words.

He looked at me, eyes full of hate, although doubtlessly, he would have crouched on the floor in pain the second Crabbe and Goyle let go of him.

"I am tired and sick of you, Malfoy! Don't you think I know it's you're fault for everything that goes wrong with my work during Potions? Don't you think I know that Snape's knowing it, too, but does nothing because you're the son of your father? How bloody daft do you think I am?"

"Oh, Potter, I'm so flattered! I was beginning to fear you'd never notice it was me!" I retorted sarcastically.

"Listen to me, Malfoy! When I said you are insignificant, I meant it! You're nothing but a minor disturbance! All the things you're doing, trying to drive me insane, all those things won't mean nothing the instant I'll face your beloved Dark Lord and it'll be either me or him! Do you listen to me, Malfoy, nothing!"

My blood started boiling with anger. How dared he calling me 'nothing'? I had to fight very hard to maintain my composure.

"Oh, do go on, Potter! Modesty truly becomes you! Well, well, listen to that," I turned to Crabbe and Goyle, who started snickering, "Scar-Head here thinks that he and only he can defeat the Dark Lord!"

I had expected, at that point, that Potter would struggle to get free and hit me, or insult me, or even that he would remain silent and show me with his eyes precisely how much he despised me. What I certainly hadn't expected was for Potter to start laughing. Which he did. At first it had been merely a bemused chuckle, then it grew louder and louder, and the sound of his voice filled the hall, yet his eyes remained devoid of any amusement.

"So you don't know yet, Malfoy?" he asked me, between two fits of laughter. "Son of Lucius Malfoy, and you have no clue?"

I didn't understand, of course, but his reaction drove me so mad I would have punched his stupid face right then and there, if it hadn't been for Professor's Snape sudden appearance.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Malfoy?"

Potter stopped laughing, only to resume his glare. He was getting really good at it. I could have thrown all the blame on him and get him detention in the blink of an eye. I don't know why I didn't.

"Nothing's happening, sir!" I assured Snape "You see, Potter here was feeling ill and we were on our way to helping him to the Infirmary," I explained without blinking.

That's the beauty of being a Slytherin, you see. It goes as an understatement that Slytherins can speak the most blatant lies in front of their Head of House where a Gryffindor is concerned, and get away with it. Naturally, Snape didn't believe a single word. However, he turned on his heels and walked away with only a word of warning.

"Be careful, Mr. Malfoy, your father wouldn't be very pleased if you got yourself in any kind of trouble!"

I briefly wondered if Snape knew about my mission.

"Yes, sir."

Then Snape was gone and so was my anger. I don't like loosing control. It's the sign of a weak mind. But as long as Potter was around, it was bound to happen. So I ordered Crabbe and Goyle to let him go. He didn't collapsed on the floor as I'd expected, although he swayed dangerousely close to falling as he walked away down the corridor.

His words and his laughter followed me that day and many others that followed, like a restless, annoyingly persistent ghost. Despite this, I didn't write Father for an explanation. Perhaps Potter had been bluffing in order to get me mad, or perhaps he hadn't. Yet, whatever it was that I didn't know, Father was the last person to tell me, unless it was in his personal and direct interest.

~''~''~