Hope Overture

Hope Overture

© Caiden Pace

Chapter One

Let's take a picture now

I do not want to forget

The way you look at me,

When everything is perfect

My name is Christine McKinsey. I'm a freelance writer, have been since I started writing an anonymous relationship column for my junior high school newspaper: The Polar Bear Press. People say I have a knack for relationships, which explains perfectly why I'm twenty-two and a virgin. I stopped listening to what people say long ago; it's much easier that way.

I'm not your normal twenty-two-year-old girl. No, I don't have a secret power or piles of skeletons lying in my closet. In that respect, sure, I'm your run of the mill American citizen. I file my taxes; I'm the manager of the local mall's branch of a clothing line for young adults. I take cooking lessons at four pm every other day at the culinary institute a little further downtown. I used to take yoga lessons as well, but three months into them I overestimated my flexibility and dislocated my hip and, let me tell you, that didn't exactly help my stress problem. So I went back to my previous methods of stress-reduction via white chocolate cocoa and a good murder mystery.

So, you're probably thinking, what's so unusual about you, Christine? You sound plenty normal to me, boring even. And that's exactly it. I live in Cleveland, a trendy city housing the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame that hugs Lake Erie. And yet, I don't live a hip lifestyle complete with piano bars and martinis and swanky urban clothes. I don't smoke and I don't listen to mellow jazz or bands with names like The Plot To Blow Up The Eiffel Tower. I don't drink my coffee in a large espresso cup; hell, I don't even drink coffee. I don't live in a studio flat packed with art deco furniture and I own clothes in more than three colors.

I do, however, like paying ridiculous prices for tickets to horror movie premieres so that I can come home smiling with the knowledge that I'm the first of my friends to have come this close to wetting my pants out of sheer terror. I used to be a social drinker, but ever since the accident I refuse to touch the stuff. I think, for the most part, fashion is becoming ridiculous. That's not to say that I dress like my grandmother, or my mother even. I'm fashionable, just in a classic way. I prefer not to let the entire world know I'm wearing a black lace thong, and I'd rather not let my co-workers see the invincible pooch that snuck up on me somewhere around my sophomore year and has yet refused to go back to wherever it came from. I'll listen to pretty much anything, but I have a fondness for Broadway show tunes. My most valuable possession is my laptop. I live in a townhouse complex by myself, just the way I like it. My fiancé lives in the townhouse attached to the left of mine, by himself as well.

Speaking of my fiancé, it's funny how we met; funny in the wow-that's-really-twisted-way. I remember, I was driving home from Christmas dinner with my parents. They live in the more rural--yet extremely well to do--section of Northeast Ohio called Jackson Township. Even though I only live an hour north of them, holidays are usually the only time I ever visit; we never were a Kodak moment family. Anyways, I was driving home Christmas night, my little '95 Saturn bravely fighting the snow and the black ice. My dad taught me how to drive in the snow at sixteen, so that wasn't a problem. The problem began when my four-wheel drive decided to quit. Ten minutes later and my problems escalated: my brights burnt out. Well. That was fun. So here I am poking along this two-way street with hardly any traction on my tires and barely enough light ahead of me to see through the bright white flurries when suddenly this reFord--that's the beauty of red. You can tell what color it is even in a nocturnal snowstorm--comes barreling over the hill only a few hundred feet ahead of me. I honked to let the driver know I was there, but then he swerved dangerously and I knew he must be drunk, or stoned, or both. You never know with those Jackson kids.

Well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest. Squealing tires, blaring horns, cracks, splinters, screams, tears, breaks, blood, et cetera. I'd been in a couple small altercations in my quest as a sixteen year old to be as wild and reckless on the road as was humanly possible, but those were nothing compared to this. Surprisingly, I got out with nothing more than a concussion and a broken right arm. He, however, was not faring so well.

I remember waking up to find a nurse poking me in various places with a metal rod. It wasn't exactly what I'd always imagined waking up to should I have been in a serious accident. I'd always expected family, friends, flowers, candy, and tears, not an aging nurse with a metal rod and a surgical mask in a gaudy floral pattern. After being filled in on the accident--he was drunk, not stoned or both--and the extent of my injuries, I asked to see him. To this day I still don't know why. I had a rather extensive piece for a local entertainment magazine due in two days and, with a broken arm, it was going to be practically impossible to finish. Not even pulling the doctor's bill and my lack of proper insurance into the picture, I should have been furious with this man. Who was he to go out and get drunk and then think he could drive on a back road in the middle of a snowstorm? Who was he to test my luck and to hit me with such force that it should have killed me, but mysteriously didn't? Who was he to stay in a coma for three days after I was released from the hospital and then demand to see me once he'd awoken? Who was he to apologize profusely instead of press charges, which is what I thought he'd do? And, by God, who on Earth was he to pay my doctor's bill and then set me up with a proper insurance company?

My fiancé, that's who.

~*~

"What's his name?" Morgan McKinsey asked through pursed lips, which only softened so that she could drink her tea.

"Draco Malfoy," Christine started and held up a hand to her mother's apprehensive look, "I know it's strange, mom, but he's from England and his parents had this weird obsession with Latin history and dragons--that's what Draco means, dragon in Latin--and they're just a really refined European family--I haven't actually met them of course, that's just what he's told me--and I just know you'd like him if you could please look past his name," she rambled, twisting her hands around the rim of her tea cup as if her very breath depended upon it.

"Christine--"

"Mom, you always say never to judge a book by its cover and I'm really hoping that still applies because he's waiting in the front hall," Christine said a bit frantically before biting her lip as her mother's eyes widened.

"Christine--"

"I'll just go get him, then, and please try not to be rude or anything because he really is very nice." She smiled nervously and then pushed her chair back abruptly, sending it scraping against the wood-paneled floor. Morgan sighed and waved her daughter out, and then poured herself another cup of tea. A minute of hushed whispers, both male and female, went by and her daughter reappeared in the doorway separating the dining room from the front hall, a young-looking blond man patting her hand comfortingly.

"Mrs. McKinsey--Morgan, is it?" Draco asked, holding out a hand, and Morgan picked up on his refined British accent immediately. She held out her hand as well and Draco shook it firmly, but with respect for the fact that she was a woman.

"Yes, but I'd prefer it if you'd call me Mrs. McKinsey," she said, her voice calm yet stern. "You understand." She nodded, and he did as well. There was an unavoidable awkward silence. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Malfoy?"

"If you don't mind, please. And it's Draco," he said, smiling as he held out a chair for Christine to sit in before sitting down in the white wooden chair to her left.

"I'd prefer Mr. Malfoy," Morgan said, handing Draco his tea.

"And I'd rather you call me Draco," he said, taking a sip, "not to overstep my boundaries, of course. We all have those things we're somewhat anal about," he added as an afterthought.

"Yes... well Draco, my daughter has told me how you two met-" Morgan scowled, Christine shifted positions uncomfortably, and Draco took another sip of his tea. "-if you could even call it that, and I must say that I'm not exactly impressed with your... history."

"Mrs. McKinsey, I assure you that I had no intentions of harming your daughter when I set out that night--"

"I find it hard to believe that you'd have any intentions at all. It's one thing to be recklessly drunk. It's completely another to put yourself and others in harm by driving, in the snow, no less."

"Mother!" Christine gaped.

"Well, I'm sorry, Christine, but if there is one thing I will not tolerate in this household it is people who lack common sense and--"

Draco set his teacup down on its saucer somewhat violently, interrupting Morgan's tirade. He cleared his throat and then stood up, giving Christine's shoulder a small squeeze as he did so.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. McKinsey. I was hoping we'd meet on better terms, but I was obviously mistaken. Good day," he said, tight-jawed, before leaving the house for what Christine feared and Morgan hoped would be the last time.

~*~

Draco was woken from his dozing by a swift rapping at his door. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before standing up.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Control yourself," he said, opening the door to a very emotionally unstable Christine. She looked somewhere in between absolutely furious and overwhelmingly depressed; tears of what Draco decided could be either emotion were quickly staining her oval face. "Christine," he said softly, pulling her into his arms.

"Draco, I'm so incredibly sorry about my mother!" she sobbed into Draco's shoulder. He ran his fingers through her dark hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner, "she can be such a... such a bitch sometimes and oh! I just... I just hate her! She had no right to say what she did to you and I apologize twenty times over for her impossible rudeness."

Draco realized a long while ago that when Christine got herself worked up it was best to just let her keep talking; that'd eventually calm her down. She sniffled for a rather uncomfortable minute or two more before looking up at Draco and wiping the tears from her eyes with her jacket sleeve.

"Do you mind if I come inside? It's really cold out," she said, favoring Draco with a tiny smile.

"Ah, of course!" He reached behind her and shut the cold December wind outside once more. "I was wondering why my hands were so cold." He smiled and kissed the top of her head before handing her a box of tissues.

Ten minutes later and they were in the small, yet warm, kitchen drinking hot cocoa and flipping through a bridal magazine.

"You know, Chris, I'm pretty positive I'm not supposed to know what dress you decide on until our wedding day," he commented, and then frowned at the picture her finger was lingering on. "On second thought, maybe I should help you. I'm not sure I wouldn't leave you at the altar if you wore that."

Christine gasped in mock anger and said, "Draco! That was not very nice and--hey! Are you mocking me? Why are you laughing?" By that time she was laughing as well; she poked him on his side, where she knew he was ticklish.

"No fair! No fair!" he squirmed, laughing and trying to push her away, albeit very halfheartedly. Once she got her arms around him, he took advantage of the situation and pulled her closer and finally, into a kiss.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Christine asked, pulling away from Draco after a few seconds. He smirked and pulled her tighter to his body so that their hips aligned.

"There's no need to ask," he whispered, kissing her neck right below her ear.

"Draco," Christine squirmed, "I am not going to sleep with you." Draco sighed and set his head upon her shoulder. Christine thought that couldn't have been very comfortable; he was almost a head taller than her. "I'm sorry, honey, but you know my beliefs. I'm waiting until I'm--we're married."

"And then?"

"And then we can have all the sex we want," she smiled and he made a little 'Yippee!' sort of sound.

"Promise?"

"I promise." She kissed him again and then pushed herself away from his embrace and asked, "Do you have some clothes I can wear? This--what do you call it in England? A jumper?" Draco nodded. "This jumper is itchy."

"C'mon then." He took her hand and led her into his bedroom, his hopes crushed and his hormones raging.

~*~

Reagan McKinsey shook the snow off of his wool newsboy and overcoat and closed the door behind him. The familiar sounds of his household were drifting into his ears; the stove was beeping, letting Morgan know it had finished cooking whatever she'd put in it. The television was being switched between what sounded like the news and some comedy sitcom; his kids were most likely fighting over the remote. Another sound, this one unfortunately familiar, made its way to Reagan as he untied his boots: the sound of Morgan yelling at her children.

Reagan remembered times when he'd come home from his job at the garage door plant and would be greeted with running hugs; cries of 'Daddy!' and sloppy kisses. He remembered kissing his wife with his eldest daughter, Christine, sitting on his hip and his second youngest daughter, Angela, tugging at his pant leg to pick her up too. He always had liked Christine better, even though no good parent should play favorites--he'd read that in a book once. Up until high school she had always been such a free spirit. Nothing and no one could ever bring her down. Then something happened. It was as if that light in her soul burnt out and she didn't even care enough to try and rekindle it. At the time he owed it up to her being in her terrible teens, but as the years went by he was forced to realize that Christine would never again be the little girl who ran through fields of wildflowers with a daisy chain crown and a sunflower patterned dress.

Of course, she wasn't a complete failure. She had enough writing jobs pouring in so that she could afford a nice townhouse in the suburbs of Cleveland; she had a graduate's degree in English with a minor in Music History. And, according to a recent phone call, she was seriously involved with someone.

"Hey, dad," Angela smiled at Reagan as she sat down at the table.

"Hey Angie, RJ," he said, nodding to his seventeen year old daughter and his thirteen year old son. "What's for dinner, Morgan?" He looked up at his wife as he sat down.

"Chicken and rice," she stated, placing the dish down in the center of the table and sitting down herself.

"Aw, mom! We had chicken and rice yesterday!" RJ complained.

"Stop whining and eat," Angela ordered, thrusting a fork into one of the smaller pieces of meat. RJ sent her a death look but started spooning himself some rice nonetheless.

"So dear, how was your day?" Reagan asked, pouring chicken broth over his plate. He looked up from his meal and his smile stopped. Morgan was looking at her glass with a murderous eye. "Morgan?" he ventured.

"Christine brought her fiancé home," she replied in steely tones.

"Well, that's wonderful! How was he?"

"Was he cute?" Angela asked, taking a sip of her milk.

"I didn't like him, no," Morgan said, ignoring her daughter. There was a pause, and then Reagan asked,

"Why not?"

"Because, Reagan, he put our daughter in the hospital! No one knows why he's over here from England. I just... didn't like him."

"I know why he's over here," RJ said in a small voice. Everyone was now looking at him, so he continued, "I accidentally picked up the phone when they were talking once and I heard him say something about how he felt bad for killing all those people, but he didn't have any other choice and they made him go... or something like that."

Morgan's glass fell to the floor.

~*~

"What's this?" Christine asked, pulling a large, leather-bound book out from underneath her pillow. Draco turned from setting his alarm clock. His eyes widened when he saw what she was holding.

"It's nothing. A... cookbook!" he lied, grabbing for the book. She held it out of his reach, however, and laughed.

"A cookbook? That is, I think, your worst lie yet." She smiled and set the book back in her lap. Draco 'hmph'd. "Now, let's see what this... oh! Pictures!"

Sure enough, the book was actually a photo album. Christine looked at the photographs, occasionally stopping at one to run a finger over someone's hair, or house crest, or unhappy face. Most of them she smiled at; especially the ones with young Draco in them. He watched her carefully, his nervousness increasing every time she turned the page. He had managed to keep his magical past out of their life together so far, and he wasn't going to let a few clues in some charmed-to-not-move snaps he'd paid Colin to give him let the cat out of the bag.

"Who's this one boy?" Christine asked, pointing to a picture of a third year Harry talking to Professor Lupin, "He's in quite a few of these," she said, turning the album back a few pages as if to prove her point.

"Oh, him." Draco stopped chewing his nails. "He was a schoolmate. We weren't really close."

This seemed to satisfy her. She returned to the page she left off on and continued browsing through Draco's childhood. After about five minutes he decided that it was safe to go to sleep, so he lay down and turned onto his side.

"That's odd," Christine muttered.

"What?" Draco asked, rolling over so he was facing her.

"Well, in all of these pictures," she began, holding a few of the beginning pages of the album between her forefinger and thumb, "he looks happy. But from here on," she held the rest of them with her other hand, "he looks absolutely miserable."

Draco frowned and thought a moment before answering, "He had a rough life."

"Had? He's not--"

"No, no... at least, I don't think so."

"He sort of looks like me," Christine changed the subject. "You know, black hair, green eyes."

Draco propped himself up on his elbows and looked at one of the photographs. It was of Harry, sitting just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. If you looked close enough you could see a tear budding on his chin. Draco liked that picture especially. It proved that Harry was real, that he wasn't just some hologram created by Dumbledore to give everyone a sense of security. It proved he was human; he could be defeated.

"His eyes are brighter."

Christine looked hurt, but Draco just shrugged and rolled back onto his side.

"I'm turning off the light now," he said.

"Okay," Christine whispered, though she wasn't exactly sure why. A moment later and the light was off. She fell asleep quickly, listening to Draco's steady inhaling and exhaling.

~*~

The fire licked at his fingertips as he threw the torch inside the broken window. Inside a woman screamed; outside men laughed.

"Draco! Guard the door! Grab them when they come out!"

He nodded and ran to the doorway. Seconds later a woman, ashen-faced and crying, burst out of the door holding a terror stricken baby close to her chest. He did not try to hide himself from her. She was fairly easy to grab hold of; hysteria generally made people confused and easy to catch.

"What do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" she screamed, holding onto Draco's arm and digging her fingernails through his thick black robe. He held her close, crushing the child against her chest. The woman heard her son's muffled cries and felt him struggling. Her fingernails dug further. They were sharp and cut into his skin. He winced and pulled the woman even closer. The heat was making his clothing underneath the robe stick to his body and, for a moment, he thought about raping her just as an excuse for some fresh air, but decided against it when the child's cries stopped and the woman went limp in his arms. Blood stained the fresh snow, along with ash from their burning house.

"The man went this way!" Another masked figure called, beckoning Draco to join him. He nodded and dropped the woman onto the ground. She was still alive, her son's brain matter staining the front of her blouse.

"I have a gun!" The man shouted when Draco and two other Death Eaters finally caught up to him, "I'll shoot you, you fuckers! I swear to God I'll shoot you!"

They laughed. The other two Death Eaters rushed the man and held his hands behind him. They didn't use wands when killing Muggles. That would be unfair.

Draco transfigured a rope out of a torn tree root and tied it around the man's neck. It was only then that he noticed the Muggle was black.

"Goddamned nigger," he sneered and lifted his mask, allowing the man to get a good look at him before Draco spat in his face. He lowered the mask again and motioned to the Weeping Willow on his right. The two men dragged the black man over to the tree and strung the rope over the branch. They hoisted him up just enough so that the man's toes were still touching the ground.

Draco pulled a shaving razor out of the front of his robes and tested it against his finger to make sure it worked. It did. Smirking, he undid the man's trousers and pushed them down below his knees; the same with his boxers.

"You mother--" the man started, but never got any further. He had been struck dumb with pain. He'd been castrated.

Draco awoke to his alarm clock buzzing, his body sweaty, a small smile simpering over his face.