Dracling

Dracling

Chapter One

In Which There Is a Curse, and Malfoy's Life Story So Far

Draco Caesar Malfoy was quite pleased indeed with his life, thank you very much. His father, the pompous, over-bearing Voldemort-kisser, was dead, and his precious Dark Lord had gone with him. He was a fully-fledged wizard, and, unsurprisingly, had gotten full marks in his final exams as an Auror. On top of his various Auror Let's-clean-up-what's-left-of-those-bloody-Death-Eaters jobs, Draco also played Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons. Only two years into his Quidditch career, he was known nation-wide as the only player to have eighteen suspensions for foul play in a season. Which, of course, made him wildly popular.

Almost, but not quite, as popular as Harry Potter of the Montrose Magpies.

Actually, it was his fierce rivalry with the Montrose Seeker that got him into so much trouble in the first place, Draco would later realize in the months he spent in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Staring at the ceiling and wishing that Harry Potter hadn't started that fight with him at the Three Broomsticks during their Five-Year Class Reunion.

Draco chewed on his lower lip and watched a lonely little spider scuttle across the ceiling. Obviously, the little spider didn't like Muggle music as much as the eccentric black sheep of a cousin Draco was forced to live with did.

If it wasn't for Potter, he wouldn't be ill and, yet again, suspended from Quidditch. Just as the Falcons were going to World Cup against the flamboyant Sweetwater All-Stars and needed him most.

If it weren't for Potter, Draco wouldn't be sharing Malfoy Manor with her. The evil, devil-incarnate American cousin.

Oh, God save my poor British soul, thought Draco, putting his face in his hands.

*

"Draco Malfoy? Draco, can you hear me? He is alright, isn't he, Poppy?" Madame Pomfrey's voice, then, just as he remembered from his days at Hogwarts.

"Of course, Ms. Granger, you must relax, now, relax..."

Granger? As in Granger, the Mudblood? Granger, Potter's little girlfriend? What in the world...?

"I can't believe Harry cursed him like that," Granger prattled on, her voice slightly higher and more strained than usual. "Draco didn't do anything, nothing at all, and---" Draco took a deep, wavering breath, forcing his eyes open. Granger---what was her first name, anyway? Harmonica? Harriet? Hernia? He couldn't rightly remember, other than it began with H. It was morning, and Draco blinked rapidly, the sun filtering in through the blinds bothering his eyes. Granger was sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed, and Draco was quite surprised that he hardly recognized her. Gone was the bushy-haired buck-toothed Muggly know-it-all of his childhood: the woman that sat nervously in the straight-backed infirmary chair was...he hated to say it, but stunning.

"Stop talking," he said in the Malfoy Tones of Imperiousness. "Your voice is giving me a headache."

"Draco, do you remember anything?" Granger asked quickly, her doe-dark eyes lighting up within as she realized he was conscious. Draco? Wait; what was this Mudblood doing calling him by his first name? "It's me, Hermione, love, don't you---" Something in Draco's mind twigged oddly. What had she called him?!

"I'm nobody's 'love'!" Draco protested loudly, struggling to get up but only succeeding in falling on his side with a painful twinge. Madame Pomfrey scuttled over from behind the curtain that closed off his bed.

"Oh dear, he's doing it again, isn't he?" Pomfrey asked in her best sympathetic tone as Hermione---that was her name, wasn't it?---fought back tears and produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her robes. "Dear, we've done all we could to break the memory Charm. You'll have to take him home...something may jumpstart his memory, again." Now Draco was very confused indeed.

"Take me home? I rather think not! A filthy Mudblood escorting me---!"

Hermione started sobbing.

*

The carriage-ride to the Mansion was quite the eventful one. Honestly, I would have liked it much more had I been allowed to Apperate, but Pomfrey had strictly forbade it. Said it would have been a strain on my "condition", which she refused to tell me anything about. Bloody frustrating, that.

Hermione---I was right, that was her name---filled me in a bit about what had happened. All of which I didn't remember a speck about. She started by explaining that she lived with me---I laughed at this point. Seeing my disbelief, Hermione explained further, telling me that we had attended Auror College together for the last three years, and were finishing our last classes before we graduated. Me, a bloody Auror? Ha, I said. Hermione said that we were partners at this so-called Auror College. Hmm. That one had thrown me a bit of a loop---Draco Malfoy partnering with this half-Muggle braincase. I didn't argue with it, though.

Hermione was a gorgeous braincase, if nothing else. I attributed my choice as pure magnetism to the woman.

She also told me that the Head of the Auror College had heard about my condition (again with that "condition" business! Will nobody tell me what's wrong?!) and had become worried about the male component to the brightest pair the College had ever produced.

And so the Head had contacted her.

Oh God, I would have been quite happy indeed recuperating (from what?) in my own house, attended by my beautiful and nicely-formed "partner", but God had to throw a monkey wrench in my gears.

A small, red-headed, female, American monkey wrench by the name of Mac.

And she was supposed to watch over me for the next nine months I got off from the College---for...whatever it was that was wrong with me.

"Gra---I mean, Hermione," I had said. "Am I sick or something? Why is it that none of you people are telling me anything?" Hermione's eyes darkened at a thought, and she avoided my gaze.

"You're not...sick, really. I...I don't know what's wrong, Draco, and as soon as I find out, we'll fix it and then be back at the College. We'll finish up our year, and graduate. Together."

If not then, later I decided I sort of liked the special emphasis Granger---sorry, Hermione---put on the word 'together'.

*

Michaela Aphrodite Malfoy, a.k.a. 'Mac', grinned lopsidedly at her pale, refined cousin as he stepped regally from the carriage and gracefully helped Hermione out as well.

Draco was much taller and thinner than she remembered him being, but then again, they had been...what, twelve? Now he was twenty-two and looked every bit the adult he was supposed to be. He spotted her---Mac later swore that he cringed---and she could feel his gaze as he gave her the once-over. Mac knew what he was seeing. Elfishly short, shocking, Weasley-esque red braid, California-tanned face and limbs.

"Michaela?" Hermione queried, holding out a hand to be shaken.

"Hell, yeah. Call me Mac. You must be Herm, right?" Mac asked, grinning. Hermione nodded a bit lamely. "Kick ass, I got it right. Hey Drac," Mac said, transferring her brilliant I'm-a-Californian-nutter-and-don't-you-forget-it smile to her cousin. "You look like you've been through the blender one too many times. Did those loons at the College figure out what Potter cursed ya with?" Draco muttered something that sounded a bit like "I'mfinethankyounowgoawayandbeagoodlittlegirl" as he bolted for the steps. Mac waved at his retreating figure.

"Wow. Ten years and I still scare the crud out of him."

*

And he was dreaming...

There were two of them, flares of darkness amid a second skin of darkness. They were poised like statuettes of silver and ivory over a chessboard of equal or greater brilliance, a pair of fallen angels whispering over their treasure trove of lost souls.

"Will the pawn survive?" The woman-because they were, in truth, a man and woman, hardly angels in the least-asked of her male component. He smiled at her, all golden skin and night-black hair.

"Of course, love," he replied easily in a honeyed sort of voice. "This one is important in the grander scheme of things. He will live, and the Dark One will be born unto their plane of existence. Really, your "pawn" is more of a vengeful knight or a castle of impenetrable virtue." The woman burst into laughter like a sharp crystal bell's chiming.

"Castle of virtue? Are we looking upon the same human, my dear?"

"There is much our little "pawn" has hidden from us," the man said cryptically, lifting a chesspiece and turning it so that its many-faceted sides stole the silvery light and gleamed. The piece, a bishop, was crafted from a whole ruby, as the opposite army was created from diamonds. The chessboard, it seemed, was cedar wood gilded with gold depictions of knights and their chivalry, kings and their power, and queens and their immense beauty. The squares of black and white were pumice and marble, sparking cold fire.

"I agree," the woman said softly, touching the diamond pawn with small, delicate hands. "But he will prove himself to us, I believe."

"The little dracling," he smiled, and wrapped the woman's fingers around the pawn. "His survival is in your hands, sweetness."

*

Draco had fallen asleep as soon as he had settled back into his room. Madame Pomfrey had assured him that he was alright, but he doubted that very much. Because:

#1 The College wouldn't have sent him home like this had he been 'alright'.

#2 Hermione wouldn't be as worried as she was. If he were 'alright', she wouldn't be asking him if he was every five minutes.

#3 Mac-God curse her-wouldn't be living with him if he was 'alright'.

Truthfully, though, Draco wasn't scared of Mac in the least bit. Actually, that was a lie, but nobody really needed to know that. It wasn't fear of the rabid American that drove him from sleep, but the simple fact that he thought he was going to be suddenly sick.

Which he was, as soon as he had found the master bedroom's grand bathroom.

Draco could hear Hermione and Mac talking in the other room, but he found he cared very little about what Mac could, and probably was, telling Hermione about his embarrassing childhood secrets. In fact, he was only caring about his next Quidditch match against the Montrose Magpies and how he would kick the crud out of Potter for cursing him. Because if he thought about anything else, he just might throw up again.

First, he thought. I am going to light the end of his broom on fire. And as he circles around the field, spewing smoke rings and screaming for his teammates to put him out, I will steal a Beater's club, and 'put him out' with it. Mwahahahaha---oh dear.

Draco took another jog to the bathroom.

After rinsing his mouth, he felt at least slightly better. Maybe that was because he was now absolutely sure he had nothing left in his stomach to throw up. Draco looked at himself in the mirror, noticing how pale and shaky he seemed. He had never gotten ill in his life before, other than getting a common cold once and again. Never ill like this.

What was it that Potter had thrown at him?

What was happening to him?

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

"Eh, Draco, you alive in there? What, did you fall in the toilet or somethin'?"

Damn that American.

"I'm FINE!" Draco yelled as loudly as possible. He tried to get up, succeeded in slamming face-first into the sink, and then landing on his back with a crack. "Oh shit." Draco cursed, finding the room spinning although he couldn't even contemplate moving. Mac's red head swam into his blurring vision.

"Fine? Dude, you look like hell. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. C'mon, let's get you up. You need some R&R. Don't worry---I'll take care of everything."

Actually, that was what worried Draco most.

"But I-I have an appointment with some mediwizards-I need to be at Good Samaritan Hospital, today. So you can play nursewitch later, okay?" Draco thought that Mac grimaced, but she helped him to his feet.

"Right. Doctor's appointment, then rest. Maybe they'll find out what's really wrong with you and put us all at ease."