Draco Malfoy and the Boy Who Lived

Draco Malfoy and the Boy Who Lived

By Eratosthenese

When you've been in love

with someone who hates you,

then will you understand.

For those who understand.

prologue

Draco Malfoy's father was in Azkaban and his mother was in the service of the Dark Lord. Death Eaters were wreaking havoc in the Muggle and Magical communities, and Draco found himself one of the few involved. He had been there when the Brockdale Bridge was destroyed and a dozen Muggle families were sent hurtling into the river below them. He was a witness to two very high profile murders of respected wizarding citizens. He had been there when a supposed hurricane had destroyed the West Country. He had even been assigned to practice his Imperius Curse on the Muggle Junior Minister, Herbert Chorley, who had reacted poorly from the improperly done spell and was now recuperating, Draco heard, in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. How he had gotten there, Draco could only imagine, but now he found himself lying in his rich bed, enveloped in the smooth emerald silk sheets, not really feeling them at all.

One thing was on his mind, and he had tried so hard to suppress it all summer to no avail, that he simply succumbed to it, accepted that it just would not leave his consciousness.

He rolled over in his bed and buried his face in his pillow. The house was silent. He was going off to school soon, and he still had so much to do, and none of it was homework. A small knock on the door and Draco said, "What?", muffled by the pillow. The door opened a smidgen and then closed quietly. He lifted his head a few inches above his pillow, searching for the intruder, and in seeing no one, assumed it was their new house-elf.

After Harry Potter had freed Dobby, their old servant, Draco's father had searched ceaselessly for a new one. This house-elf was a small, submissive girl with a long thin nose, though not quite as protruding as Dobby's. She had great big green eyes which Draco couldn't stand to look at, and unnaturally large ears which folded over like a dogs.

"Some tea for Master Draco," squeaked Fitsy.

"Set it on the table," he said, dropping his head back onto his pillow. He heard a light clanking, then soft pads as Fitsy went to the door, opened it, and closed it noiselessly behind her. Draco had absolutely no interest in a cup of tea. He let it sit on its silver tray, steaming peacefully, and though his hands were cold and it was all he could do to stop from shivering, he couldn't bring himself to swallow anything.

He rubbed his face voraciously into his pillow before pulling himself out of his bed, as if a string were attached to the ruff of his neck and stood motionless for a while, letting the dizziness fade. He wanted to look out the window over his rich estate - a strong source of comfort in times of mental turmoil - but he knew that all he would see through his clean glass would be a sea of fog.

Instead, Draco momentarily contented himself by starring at his reflection in a full mirror on the opposite side of the room. He had lost a lot of weight over the holiday, and his blonde hair had lost its platinum hue. He cocked his head, and his mind turned to his mother. She, too, had lost a significant amount of pounds, and her face had grown sullen and hollow, and so pale she almost seemed to glow. She had been very emotional recently, too, always checking in on Draco when unnecessary. He supposed it was just because his father, was in Azkaban.

She was gone for the night with her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. Draco had the same respect for his aunt as he did for his father.

Yawning, Draco left his room, abandoning his image in the mirror, grabbing his wand with him as he left. He was on his way to his father's library to study. He had been given a very important task by the Dark Lord himself, and initially leapt at the prospect, but his mother's constant overbearing behaviour had caused him to rethink. It was too late, however, to turn back now, and all he could do was hope to succeed.