A Plague of Legends

Chapter Three: Paper Faces

Or, The Magician

Draco Malfoy did not think about Harry Potter half as much as the Hogwarts population assumed he did; after all, he had his own life. Not that many people would believe it. Looking up from his mess of food, Draco stared out at the school. He was only mildly gratified when it stared back. Truthfully, Draco did not mind if most people thought otherwise- there was much to be gained from the fact that Hogwarts was operating under a misapprehension as to what he really did with his time. So if he occasionally sneered or mouthed off at the Boy Wonder it was more in the way of keeping up appearances than anything else. If it hadn't been so important for Draco to maintain a solidly pitch front to his audience he would have stopped the charade ages ago.

Point number one: The whole thing wasn't getting old- it was old. As much as Draco had enjoyed the sensation of twirling his villain's moustache in first and second year, the whole thing had long since become stale. Number two: He did not buy his way onto the Quidditch team. Draco had not needed to. If Terence had a father as obsessed with perfection as Draco's was, then maybe he would have flown better in tryouts. So yes, maybe some galleons did pave Draco's way onto the house Quidditch team, but only if one can consider intensive flying lessons at age six bribery. Yet as much as the accusations of bribery rankled Draco's pride, he did everything he could to encourage them. It was in the script. The question of how Draco really felt about Quidditch was never, and never would be, an issue. Number three: He was a Malfoy. Not that most of the peons present at Hogwarts knew what that meant, but it mattered. Number four: There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Nothing. And damn his father, Dumbledore, and everyone else for saying otherwise. Number five: Potter.

It was this last one which made the rest of the situation so utterly unbearable; if Draco was required to maintain a charade, even when his life was coming down around his ears, the least he could ask for would be some support from the other lead. Draco doubted if anyone in his audience knew how difficult is it to play villain to something than can no longer be classified as a person, let alone a hero. While Potter had seemed content for years to play against Draco's cardboard projections, Draco was entirely unwilling to do the same. Potter had, Draco mused bitterly, the most impeccable timing. The change in Potter had begun the summer after Diggory's death, Draco supposed. By the time Potter had returned to school the following September it was like the boy had lost dimensionality. Everything he did was flat, muted. His smiles, his laughter, his frowns, and above all else: his anger. Draco could have found more emotionally fulfilling interaction from reading one of his old 'Enter the Adventure!' storybooks, and this annoyed Draco. Potter had been a constant in his life since that day on the train, and yes, initially the loss of that constant had rocked Draco. Now it only pissed him off. Potter was hand-tailored to be Draco's toy-thing, and it killed him that Mr. Hero was off having an emotional crisis just when he could have proven useful. Despite the fact that Draco knew what had really happened at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, it still amazed him that Potter could sulk for an entire year about something that had obviously not been his fault and certainly could not be helped. Unless, of course, one counted a Potter's birth as a sin, in which case, yes everything had been his fault and could be fixed by an expeditious leap from the Astronomy Tower. Draco's opinion was currently inclined in the latter direction.

But, in the end, it did not come back to Potter; nothing ever did. No, everything currently wrong in Draco's life could be traced directly back to the first day of summer vacation. The fateful day of his 'collapse,' followed by his two weeks in a 'coma.' Utterly ridiculous, and his father knew it. Upon regaining consciousness, Draco had immediately given a full report of the attack on his person. And there was no doubt in Draco's mind that it had been an attack; he was not the overachieving child of a Dark Wizard for nothing. And really, when a figure cloaked in black jumps in front of you and begins hurling curses in your direction it's rather difficult to take the situation as anything but an attack.

The real question was why his father was refusing to believe him. Was the thought that Malfoy Manor was not a perfect fortress so completely unacceptable? More unacceptable than believing that one's son and heir was physically deficient to the point of being on death's door? Apparently, yes. It was only a house, for Mordred's sake; it even had dry rot. Worse yet, his father was acting as though he believed that idiot doctor. Surely a man trained in the medical profession should have been able to imagine a more inventive and believable excuse for the so-called 'collapse.' Collapse from overwork indeed! Hallucinations caused by lack of sleep?! Draco doubted that it was even possible to imagine the pain involved in the Cruciatus Curse. Complete cessation of dangerous activities for the duration?!!

The affair was so wacked that Draco might have found the entire thing hilarious, if not for the fact that those concerned for his well-being had classified Quidditch as an extraordinarily dangerous activity. That news had been enough to send him running to his mother's china cabinet in a fit of rage. Three dinner sets and one glass cabinet later, Draco had calmed down enough to wonder exactly how long 'the duration' was. Draco's mother seemed to think that it meant 'for the rest of his life.' Draco doubted that he could stand another week of this cosseted lifestyle, let alone an entire lifetime. And it wasn't just his parents, oh no that would simply invalidate the treatment. "What treatment?" was something Draco wanted to scream out, amplified, from the Astronomy Tower. No, both his doctor and parents had gone so far as to owl Dumbledore about his 'condition.' Just brilliant.

The school's treatment, stellar as it was, was simply to restrict Draco from all strenuous activities as per his father's instructions. After all, a sick child is a liability, and Hogwarts certainly would not want a liability on its hands. Not with Lucius Malfoy on the board of governors. Quidditch-gone, Hogsmeade-gone, directed study with Snape-gone. It was the last that had caused both Dumbledore and Draco's parents the most trouble (after the glass cabinet). If Draco had not liked his Head of House before the man's truly impressive fit, he certainly would have now. Snape had been the only person to see through his parents' machinations, and Draco would remember that. Not that Snape's ire had done either of them any good; the potions master was, as a result, having weekly meetings with Dumbledore on anger management. Snape also had to pay for the hole that his howler burned in the Manor's antique flying carpet (which had, only last week, been relocated to the living room).

However, if Draco's 'treatment' had been kept within school grounds he might have been able to survive. Unfortunately, all non-school related activities had also been curtailed. The monthly Dark Arts practice with his father was now deemed to be 'too dangerous' for his fragile body, and had gone on hiatus. Public outings with their circle of peers had also been curtailed. Draco would have taken to scaling walls if he wasn't certain that some pathetic Samaritan might report him in fear for his safety. Whereas before there had been only a danger of this with his ever enterprising housemates, now that everyone knew that Draco had a 'condition' the halls would be crawling with flobberworms eager to turn him in to the authorities. For his own good, of course.

Pinning down a flighty stalk of asparagus with his fork, Draco glowered in the direction of the Gryffindors. They would pay, every last one of them. Especially the Weasel and his Beaver, the nasty puss-filled plague-carriers. In fact, the only person who had not gone out of his way to torment Draco about the announcement had been Potter. However, this was probably because exercising his noble brain would have required some emotion other than apathy. It had been over two weeks now, and Draco still tasted liquid iron in his mouth whenever he thought about it.

***

The Great Hall was unusually silent as Draco, face like a funeral, entered through the main doors with Snape. The two of them emitted bitterness in waves, the only break in their angry front coming when Snape pressed his hand to Draco's shoulder before the boy sat down. He was immediately drowned by his classmates, their fingers sketching patterns in the air as they asked the same urgent question: "What did Dumbledore say?" Draco resisted the overwhelming urge to disembowel Pansy, whose claws had almost taken out his right eye, and instead jerked his head back and forth. No. As if he could make it any more obvious. He looked up and caught Snape staring at him, caught the understanding lurking there. Not that it mattered. Draco felt bile rise in his throat, fought it down with pumpkin juice and peristalsis.

It was then that the Headmaster entered the Great Hall. Draco dug his fingers into his thigh, black folds hiding tense hands, nails waiting. Waiting. Waiting. The announcement would follow Dumbledore's usual speech. An unnecessary cruelty, performed for the benefit of flagging lions' spirits, their hearts worn thin by a hero's emptiness. Even as Dumbledore had argued the kindness of a public exposition, Draco had understood. Snape, too, had understood. This would be no better than public nudity, and Draco's was the body on display. Dumbledore finished his speech and looked over at Draco, his eyes heavy with kindness. Blood filled Draco's mouth, seeped under his fingernails. He wanted the man dead, punished for his false kindness. His pity. Damn his pity, he could have stopped this, he had the power. Damn him.

"And now I have an announcement that I must make, however unpleasant I find this task to be. Mr. Malfoy. . ."

The focus of the Great Hall shifted to Draco, the gravity of their scrutiny pressing him into the floor.

"Due to a recent illness, Mr. Malfoy will not be able to join in this year's Quidditch season."

Draco might have appreciated the ensuing furor had it not been aimed at his person.

"We are losing a skilled player, but I am sure that Slytherin House will rally and carry on the banner."

The liar. He would have liked nothing better than for Slytherin to fall to the likes of Hufflepuff.

"I believe that a direct announcement is better than weeks spent fostering rumors at the expense of another. Thus it is my wish that you all support Mr. Malfoy in this undoubtedly trying time. Thank you."

***

And that was it. Really, that was all that had been needed to fuel weeks of muffled snickers, solicitous cruelty, and Weasley righteousness. And how righteous the rodent had been: every day it was the same thing, uttered in varying tones of hatred. "Looks like you finally got what you deserved, Malfoy!

"Oh, is the princess feeling light-headed?

"You realize, Malfoy, that you playing wouldn't make a difference anyway. You'll never be better than Harry.

"Leave or stay, the result's the same.

"Harry will always beat you."

Draco supposed that Potter could have used this as revenge for those hilarious Rita Skeeter articles; instead, the only times Potter roused himself enough to notice what a prime target Draco had become, he would only tiredly ask Ron to quit it, please. After all, Draco was not worth it. It was that very apathy which enraged Draco; while clog dancing on Weasley remains could hold its charm for only so long, draining Potter's heart's blood and lapping it up should never tire. Draco was coming to hate the word 'should.'

His nemesis back in mind, Draco realized that it was probably time for one of his periodic Glares of Death at Potter and his coterie. Draco sighed, a tired puff of breath that tickled his lips. Back to the masquerade. Lifting his eyes from his still-wriggling asparagus, Draco looked up to find a portrait of confusing gazing back at him. Harry Potter was staring at him, unraveling him like he was an object to be assessed or a puzzle to be assembled. How long had the prat been staring at him? Draco scowled hatred at the boy, relieved to see the more familiar anger tint Potter's features. Draco glared once more for good measure, then went back to his asparagus.

Potter was still looking at him. He could feel it, could feel the confusion prompting Potter's scrutiny. What in Morded's name had he possibly done to warrant Potter's renewed interest? Potter was disassembling him with those eyes. Draco glanced up again, caught Potter's eyes with his own, challenged him. Look down, damn you. Draco was ashamed to be the first to look away, put off by the questions in Potter's gaze. Where had they come from? They had no business being there. Draco quickly checked over his actions performed near Potter since the semester began. Stop looking, Potter. Draco could feel Potter's eyes on him, the gaze tracing question marks across his body, his hands, his face. There was no reason for this reevaluation- and there was also no doubt that Potter was reevaluating. Had the Boy Whose Personality Died had some sudden epiphany concerning Draco? If so, Draco had better be quick in disabusing Potter of any illusions he might be tendering, however true they may be. Draco calmed himself with a few shallow breaths; Potter's stare was bothering him more than he wanted to admit.

The Slytherin table was as noisy as usual: Vince and Greg were doing their best impression of a Punch and Judy routine, Pansy was busily carrying out her latest seduction (a willowy fifth year renowned for her clever tongue), Bulstrode was still sulking over the Slytherin Quidditch match, and Blaise was engaged with a seventh year, her hands busy on the boy's trousers as her eyes fixed on Draco. Always on Draco. The rest of the Slytherins were equally occupied- all in all, a normal dinner at Slytherin table.

Draco forced it all away, ears deaf as the noise around him slipped into nothingness. Falling into himself, he remembered his father's lessons.

"Know, Draco, that people live most of their lives outside of their bodies. Only when they are forced by pain, pleasure, or similar sensations do they reenter themselves. Even then, they stay within only until the cessation of the reentry's stimulus. However, a person is at their most powerful in these moments, if only they know how to harness the power and not be ruled by their feelings. Yes, very good. That is exactly why blood and sex magic are so powerful. Now, where is your center? No, you are thinking like one of Dumbledore's dogs. The heart is only a muscle, and you should remember that. Your center is here. That is where you want to be."

Much later-

"Can you feel it, Draco? Good. That feeling is your magic- it flows through you, like your blood. Ah, I see that you have discovered that, too. Well, it is nothing to worry about; it's present in all Malfoys. Good, clever boy- you catch on quickly. No, I don't- enough of your questions. Now, know this. When centered, personality, body, and powers are no longer fragmented. Now, what are the potential benefits of this? Yes, good. Know also that a person centered is a person almost impossible to control. We will now test you to see how centered you are. Imperio!"

Crouched in the pit of his stomach, Draco gathered up his selves' shattered pieces, examining them for usefulness. There, then there. The emotions from red memories merged, feelings twisting together to create something beyond rage. There- Draco's screams as blue-veined china shattered against wall, table, and floor. There- the sensation of the Cruciatus as it disemboweled him. There- a scrawny eleven-year old, glasses reflecting scorn at Draco's outstretched hand. When it was enough, Draco surfaced, carrying with him all of the anger he could muster. Potter's unwanted gaze was still fixed on him, tickling his forehead. The asparagus jerked about on the tines of the fork, a magical mimic of flailing limbs, impaled flesh bleeding green. Draco looked up.

***

Harry jerked back, startled at the thing that was now standing and glaring at him. Malfoy appeared a pale beast, eyes shining as he pulled back bleached lips and mouthed the words, "Fuck off."

And then, in a flurry of black robes, Malfoy was gone.

***

Draco Malfoy did not believe in dreams. Even so, he dreamed.

Draco dreamed of Malfoy Manor. The manor was empty, halls echoing with the vacuum of sound. Draco followed the absence, its impossible presence an anchor in his gut, his body drifting formless through dim hallways. Draco dreamed of unknown stairs now revealed, leading down, always down. It was almost, Draco reflected muzzily, like tumbling into oneself. Now the dungeons, supposedly destroyed years ago. Figures swathed in black, masks cast aside like garbage. The masks peered up at Draco from the floor. Empty holes, empty eyes, empty stares.

Father.

A dark circle- in the center stood a shadow and a snake, the snake whispering legends into the shadow's ear. Low hisses that Draco could understand- after all, it was only a dream. Draco had always wanted to understand snakes and their sounds, the noises they made as their tongues curled around bodiless vowels. Draco drifted into the circle, hovered near the snake as she spoke of glass mountains and ruby hearts. . . did he know this story?

Invisible and unmarked, Draco watched as the Death Eaters performed their ritual. And then he was marked, branded by red eyes that somehow saw him, formless as he was. It was in that moment that Draco first felt his soul invaded, kissed and caressed by a presence that left darkness behind like oil, like slime. And even as Draco's mouth was filled with a smoky tongue, he heard a thin voice rattle out, "Be still, my heart."

Draco woke covered in sweat. He shivered. He wished for his mother to be there so that she could kiss his forehead and smooth his covers. Except that Draco never had nightmares, so he could not remember his mother even once soothing him to sleep. Draco rarely dreamed and did not know how to handle dreams or their darker cousins. He felt tense, cold, violated. He wanted to feel clean, free. He wanted to fly.

Draco dressed silently, lightheaded from shallow breaths and the fading taste of smoke. The room was still dark, and dawn's faint rays were well hidden by heavy drapes shielding beds and windows. A clock told him that it was just before five in the morning- the perfect time to be out. Too early for anyone to be up, out, and reporting on him. Too early for anyone else to be on the Quidditch pitch. Draco smiled at the thought as he threw on his robes, then snagged his Nimbus 2001 and left the dungeon.

***

The Quidditch pitch was empty and crowned with the sun's lengthening rays. It seemed like forever instead of yesterday since he had flown, Draco mulled as he kicked off. The air was a bit chilly and nipped at Draco as he dove and wheeled across the stadium. But if the wind did tear at him, the only things snatched away were the remains of Draco's dream. It had only been a dream. And even if the dream, a dark spawn of some frightened corner of his mind, had shown some part of Draco's future, what of it? Draco was flying.

Draco was in the process of executing a wild attempt at a triple backwards roll when he felt eyes boring into him. Potter. A glance below him showed the Gryffindor standing off to the side, eyes wide as he clutched at his Firebolt.

Draco felt a deep bitterness burn up from his gut; would he never be allowed even the slightest bit of freedom? Floating down towards his rival, he spat out the boy's name, knowing that he had never hated anyone as much as he hated one Harry Potter in that moment.

"Potter."