Qu'un Monde Merveilleux

Each passing day of the war seemed to be etched in my mind. From the capture of my father, right to the day Harry Potter succeeded. Most would think that I would be distressed that Harry defeated the Dark Lord… but, I cannot fathom why. The Dark Lord stole my life, my family, away from me. He took my father, and wrapped him in coils of lies and betrayal, creating the Lucius that most knew, and that I knew more than the rest of the world. He twisted my mother into a snob… he turned me into a, with no other way of putting it, jackass. Of course, it wasn’t his hand directly… but, it could all be blamed on him. He was such an easy outlet for anyone’s guilt. Such an easy cause. One that I used frequently.

It was the end of my fifth year that my father was torn from our family, and placed in Azkaban to await trial. It was my sixth year that, when I returned to Hogwarts, I had to face the student body as a Malfoy; a name, since my father’s capture, that was looked on in any light besides respectful. But, I did what my mother informed me to do… I held my head high, and allowed those around me to spread hissing rumours that were anything but true. One even involved me as becoming a Death Eater over the summer. It was amusing. Pansy no longer talked to me-- my flanks of Crabbe and Goyle left my side, and I only found peace in discussing homework with Zambini.

It was an interesting year, but it taught me so much. It taught me to remain silent, and to listen. For once in my cultured, and finely tuned life, I listened. My mouth did not open, I suspect, but fifty times maximum that year-- most just to answer questions. And I drew not only the teachers’ praise and attention; I drew the attention of a black-haired boy in Gryffindor. His green eyes were judging me the whole year. To those who think he loved me, I have news… he did not. He was watching me, he suspected me. Of course, I can understand why. It would be difficult to not suspect a Malfoy of anything but malicious behaviour. I needed a chance, though, and he gave it to me… after sixth year.

It was the dawn of our seventh year-- we were on the train, and, ironically, my father had escaped Azkaban with (supposedly) Voldemort. I was in my own compartment, my nose in a book though my eyes were not moving over the pages. I was lost in thought, pondering over what this year would bring, as stupid and touchy that may have sounded. I was never a friend with Harry, or his friends, but that year, that single rotation of the earth, turned my whole world upside down and allowed me to see things for what they were.

The slide of the door immediately dragged my head from the clouds, and made me look up to a very appalled redhead. The Weasely sneered, his shoulder housing a pair of brown eyes, and curls, and then there was Harry standing beside the both of them. Ron, it seemed, thought I was doing something other than reading, mayhap? His face was worth more than a thousand words, though, and in response, I grinned wickedly-- the usual Malfoy smile. He leaned against the doorpost, his eyes narrowing, “Why are you here? This one is supposed to be empty-- we’ve had it for ages. Way before you dropped off the social ladder.”

My brows arched, and I turned to face them, stretching my legs over the seats, and leaning against the window. I always enjoyed taunting the redhead to the point where he attempted to curse me, and Harry had to stop him. But, this time, Potter remained silent, and I was thankful. It was Hermione who piped up, whispering something into Ron’s ear, and petting his arm as if she were soothing some branded bull… that I had no doubts it was her poker that burned his hide. When none of them said anything, I broke the silence, my voice coming out just as if it would have my fifth year, my grey eyes twinkling with devilish delight at the facet that I still drove Ron’s blood to boil with anger, “Looks as if you need to be taught to share, Weasel. Maybe Potty could flush a few lessons into your skull. I’m on this side, you can huddle and whisper over there.” I pointed opposite me to the bench of seats that flanked the other wall.

Harry frowned, and cut off Ron before the redhead would have said something that he would have regretted, “Insults are not needed from the likes of you--”

“--Oh! The likes of me, hmm? I suppose. I would think that no insults were needed from the likes of me. How the hell do you expect me to cope? I’m not as coolheaded as you, which is a nice change from your fifth year, you hormonal twerp. Nor am I as stupid as it,” I pointed toward Ron as I said-- feeling what I had held for a year boil over, as if it was in a kettle and I felt my emotions sizzle on the flame beneath, “nor am I as clever and witty and God only knows what else as the imprudent Muggle you are standing with!” I stood, my book falling off my lap to the floor with a thud, and my eyes were narrowed at the green ovals that belonged to the infamous Seeker of Hogwarts. I did not understand until later that what I had just said set off a chain of events that no one could reverse…

It is funny, you know, how one word-- one simple, avoidable phrase could do to your future. It could create something you never had, and will never have again, it could take something you hold dear away, or it could do both. What it did to me was beyond some romance novel’s plot. It didn’t form any bond, it didn’t break any love… it simply was. It haunted me, and will always haunt me. It made me something I was since I was born… It made me into a person.

Harry’s face was unreadable, stoic in a sense as I stood there, my hands balled into fists, and my eyes narrowed at him. The stormy grey was so bitter it resembled steel-- hard and uncaring. Hermione remained silent, her eyes watching me as if I were a time bomb and could explode at any given moment. I probably was, in all sense of the word. My seventh year, I was one that needed to be handled with care, with understanding… In my eyes, the world had turned it’s back to me, and had forced me to make my own living capable. And this was something that, plainly, wasn’t used to. Harry was, however, and he took it into his soul (I presume as an act of virtuous nature towards, not me, but his on consciousness to prove that he, simply, could do it) to help me. Ron, however, looked as if he felt as angry towards me as I did toward the world, “Who cares? Who really gives an ounce of thought towards you? Who ever did? You’re a bloody speck in the world-- and no one gives a thought towards you. You’re a speck that most who know you wants to erase!”

“Go count your fingers, Weasely-- make sure you can still count. I know you haven’t had much to count lately--”

That that was my mistake. Ron acted quicker than Hermione and Harry could have ever dreamed, and quicker than I ever thought could happen. Getting punched is not all it’s cracked up to be. Most boys, I have no idea why, favour being punched. They like being hit and knocked around a bit, but it isn’t worth it. My nose still has the bump on it-- just above the bridge. Where the cartilage broke, Ron had laid his mark on my otherwise handsome face. It was a shoot of pain that I will never forget… It’s quite silly. Something such as a thump in the face I cannot ever forget, yet, I can never remember what it felt like to be under the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Stupid, honestly.

As Ron raised his fist, everything shifted to slow motion. He sent it towards me, and I attempted to duck-- I was too slow. It hit my nose, and I saw a haze of red. It was as if someone drew a sheer red drape over my eyes and I saw their forms through it… But, as soon as that happened, all of it came back to normal, and I hunched over, putting my hands up to my nose, and cupping them. I felt the warm sticky liquid of my own blood, and felt it running down my throat. I gagged, and coughed-- my eyes open and staring at my polished black shoes, watching steady drips of my own blood come to rest on them and the floor. I vaguely heard Hermione subdue Ron, and Harry shut the door behind them, pulling down the blinds as surrounding students attempted to see what the ruckus was. I should have thanked him for allowing me to save that much of my dignity.

“Christ, Ron! Don’t kill him!” Hermione’s voice was very weak to my ears… I was solely concentrating on the pain from my broken nose that lead to my brain; save Buckbeak’s attack, it was the first time I had ever gotten hurt. It seemed that it hurt worse than the talons of the hippogriff… possibly because it was from another human being. All pain is multiplied when something happens from one’s own species, apparently.

“Let me see…” Harry sat down in front of me, reaching up, moving my hand, and arching a brow. In his lenses I could see the damage, and my eyes went wide-- my nose was clearly broken. It was bent at an awkward angle on my face, and I saw the dried areas of the blood on my pale skin. It was sickening to me; it reminded me of blood spilt on snow.

When he reached for his wand, I felt a sickening plop of my stomach falling into my legs, and I grabbed his hand, muttering, “Oh, no you don’t.”

Harry gave me a look of annoyance, and he rolled his green eyes, gesturing to Hermione. With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, and pointed up at me-- nodding, Hermione took out her wand and before I could utter anything in response, she tapped it (albeit a little bit hard) to my nose. As soon as she did, however, I felt relief, and looked down, cross-eyed, to inspect the girl’s handiwork. It was straight. There were no signs that it had ever been broken that would be visible to the untrained eye. There was a small bump where the cartilage attached to the bone, but it seems as if I am the only one to ever notice that.

“Here… You might need this.” Harry stood, holding out a handkerchief, and I took it, turning to the windows that looked out into the English scenery, dabbing away the blood that lined my face. I watched the reflections of those in the compartment-- they were all watching me as if I had gone green. I sighed, looking turning my attention to my own reflection and seeing that I looked as guilty as I felt. They had helped me-- something I would have never done to Harry or Hermione, and definitely not Ron. They, of course, hated me, but that was the difference between them and me. The difference between good and the evil within the good. I waved my hand at them from over my shoulder, and Harry gave me a slight smile before seating himself, Ron quickly following suit.

It was the longest train ride I had ever taken in my life, and the most interesting. I seated myself in the opposite corner, my eyes watching the fields and fences flash past, occasionally blowing my nose. Blood came out in clots, and I couldn’t help but cough and sneer as I tried to rid my throat of the coppery taste of it. I leaned my head against the cool window, closing my eyes, and listening. Though I was an occupant in the compartment it didn’t seem as if they cared. They talked of everything about the Dark Lord-- Ron making sure he was to speak loudly about my father, to which I responded with a smirk. My reaction to his insults make him fume more, but he dared not punch me again, or trigger my anger; he was just a boy, scared that next time I would reach for my wand versus trading insults.

I was prone to do that. Tempt, anger, then curse. And the Trio knew that they were no exception. I loved the power I had with that reputation, and I flaunted it openly towards the world and school. It was something my father had taught me since I was young; never denounce the gifts one has, for they may turn to be his saviour. Mine… weren’t. My saviour died with my gifts, and my own bravery.

Though I was a young wizard, openly new to the world and steadily learning what most my age already knew, I was brave. I respected my own views, and attempted to understand those if my fellow peers. Most of the time it was only the Slytherin views that caught my good side. The Gryffindors were always too haughty in their handsome bravery; the Ravenclaws too glued to their own intelligence; and the Hufflepuffs were too generous with others. Slytherin was my own House, one that I had been rightfully sorted into. They were too brave in their own conniving to listen to others-- I was now a mix between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. I was quick to anger, I was silent and sly, I was brave, and I was truthful. I was honest to those whom I trusted, and I was dark and mysterious to those that were the same to me. I had learned a great deal in one single year. More than most could learn in a lifetime.

It was amusing, because the only thing I learned that changed my life and the results of everything around me was but one rule. A rule that most do not realise until their deathbed, and one that brought so many I knew to their own funerals…

“What did you say?” I turned toward Ron, his voice drawing me from my gaze out the window, and my brows arching with curiosity and annoyance. It wasn’t as if I was listening, or leaning on their words as if my life deepened on them… But I could have sworn I heard my name in the midst of a sentence.

“I asked you how your father was, Malfoy.” Ron sneered, rolling his eyes, his voice laced with sarcasm and cynicism. I folded my arms over my chest, smirking towards the Trio as Hermione opened her own mouth to, probably, interrupt me. However, she did not say a single word, only allowing her trap to shut soon after it opened; I couldn’t help but be grateful. Putting up with her annoying righteous phrases was the last thing I ever wanted to put up with.

“We didn’t say anything--” Harry started, but I easily interrupted him with my smoothed nature.

“--Yes you did. I heard you. Do not think me deaf just because my family’s name has fallen in influence,” my eyes met the emerald gaze of the fellow young wizard, and I grinned. My brows arched, and I kept eye contact for longer than necessary before turning my grey gaze to Ron’s hazel, “My father is doing fine, thank you for asking. I shall inform him that you wondered about his emotional standing, and I’m sure he would welcome it. Do you wish for me to pass anything else onto my father? I’m in no doubt that he would enjoy a lovely letter from you, Weasely.”

And that was when Ron fell silent, I learned that I had a greater role in what they were discussing than I knew. Only, it seemed, Harry realised that I had potential in becoming the next Severus Snape… I would be traitor to my father and my family, and an unnamed hero to the Ministry and Dumbledore. Harry seemed so confident, I never once knew till it was too late on how insecure he was. His fifth year, full of his yells and screams were nothing compared to what was now, always, drifting through his mind. There were the occasions that I wanted to help him-- which I wanted to take some of his worries from his temple and place them in mine… To allow him some solace as to the fact that I was helping him to carry his unbearable thoughts.

But, maybe he wished the same for me…? I’ll never know. No one will ever know… No one wants to know.