These Strange Familiar Things

Chapter 5

Nothing Short of Extraordinary

Air whooshing by him in an exhilarating rush. The feel of the broom under him, almost alive, responding to every nuance of movement, every miniscule shift of his nimble body. The glinting gold sphere ahead of him, ever just beyond his grasp as he hurtled toward it. The colours flying past, blue above, green below, green above and blue below. He looped and turned and flew upside down, the world a blur in his peripheral vision, his whole being focused on one shining point of light. He leaned forward on his slim broom, arm stretched far, further, fingers spread and reaching, white knuckles on his broomstick. Another centimetre...a hairsbreadth.

And then. It was in his hand, cool and smooth, tiny wings twitching futilely like the butterflies he and Crabbe had caught and tormented when they were six, goaded on by proud fathers...he pushed the sudden memory away.

Relaxing, a pleasant ache warming his muscles, he descended in slow spirals, cooling down before he reached the ground. His feet touched grass and he caught up the broom in one hand, wiping his damp brow with the other, a deep, satisfied breath expanding his chest. Practicing Quidditch could take his mind off anything. It was the only time he could be empty of everything but Draco, the sky and the snitch, in a delicate powerful dance. And when he touched down and the world came speeding back, everything looked new and nothing seemed impossible.

Hunger gnawed, reminding him that he hadn't eaten for hours. He glanced at his wrist and saw that he had finished half an hour earlier than he had anticipated, which meant that dinner would not be waiting for him. He could just raid the kitchens, however; his parents had gone out so the house-elves would do whatever he asked of them. Stomach growling, he entered the house and made a beeline for the bath.

He cut his shower short to please his complaining stomach, and soon he was walking down the main hallway toward the staircase. As he passed his parents' door, he heard a funny sound, like a muffled scuffling. A spark of unease shot down his spine. I thought I was alone in the house. A sudden fear made itself known in his brain. What if it was a minion of Dumbledore? It was a well-known fact that his Order - especially Weasley's pathetic father - were dying to get a look at the inside of Malfoy Manor, den of sedition as it was reputed to be (and quite accurately, if one were to be objective). But how could they have gotten in? The Manor was better guarded than Buckingham Palace.

A sharp cry cut off his ruminations abruptly. He sucked air in through his teeth. Mother. It sounded as if someone was with her.

He took a breath and turned the ornate handle, inching the heavy door inward. A pale shapely leg appeared, resting on the white silk bedspread, encased in a silk stocking, elegant foot shoeless. A vulgar-looking run went all the way up the stocking, shockingly wide.

Narcissa Malfoy did not abide runs in her stockings. Something was definitely off.

He inched closer to the doorway, widening it silently. As he watched the leg convulsed suddenly, tensed into a rigid line, then relaxed slightly. A weak moan reached his ears. He gasped, horrific visions insinuating themselves in his mind, and pushed the door wide, flinging caution aside. He whipped out his wand and strode into the room with his arm extended, bracing himself.

What he saw made him stop short in embarrassed shock.

Lucius was bent over his wife, blond hair in disarray, robes discarded at the foot of the bed. His shirt tails were trailing and he had an intense look on his face. Narcissa lay under him, hair damp and curling at her temples, robes gaping all the way down to her bellybutton. She was facing the door, and her shocked exclamation at the sight of her son caused Lucius to start and pivot sharply in the direction of her gaze.

Draco's face flamed, and he looked away from his mother as if his eyes had been burned. He stepped back uncertainly as his father turned to look at him, seeing flashes of malice and fear in Lucius' gaze before a cold amused look settled comfortably on his features.

"What is the problem, Draco? Can't you see that your mother and I are...busy?" He said the last with a bit of a leer. Narcissa blushed delicately and looked mortified as Lucius bent and licked up her breastbone slowly, stopping at her collarbone and biting hard. She whimpered. Draco felt nauseous.

"Ah...I ah...s-sorry..." he stammered in a faint voice, backing away in sickened mortification.

"Draco..." his mother called out unexpectedly as he was turning away. He looked back in confusion. For a moment he thought he saw desperate pleading in her eyes, and then she grimaced and they were suddenly blank. The Malfoy Stare.

"Nothing. Leave us." He frowned at her oddly detached tone and walked out slowly, wondering if he had imagined that imploring look, or if it had really been there after all.

As he closed the door behind him his embarrassment receded a little, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something had not been right in there. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Draco growled and twisted violently, getting hopelessly tangled in the bedclothes. He jerked and found himself thoroughly trussed. There it came again, a scratching, tapping noise. He opened his eyes and looked blearily for the source of the irritating sound, finding a put-out looking striped owl sneering at him through the window. What the hell. It isn't even dawn yet. He swore and struggled to free himself, succeeding only in falling off his bed and landing with a jarring thud.

"Fuck," he whined. "It's too early for this shit."

He somehow found his way out of the sheets and sullenly opened the window. Cool summer-morning air drifted over his face, waking him up fully. Recognizing both the owl and the handwriting on the parchment, he ripped open the letter unceremoniously. It was penned in a loose, flowing script.

Pansy's writing. The beautiful script was incongruous with her hard-faced attitude; then again, her handwriting was one of the few areas of her life Pansy had any control over. It was a large part of the bond she and Draco shared.

Fraught with jagged rocks and sinkholes, theirs had never been an easy relationship; nonetheless it was there, and deep as the earth. They had never exchanged more than ten personal words, but the underlying understanding was born from a recognition of themselves in each other. The recognition that both had buried themselves so far beneath the surface that only another with the same state of mind could see it. He saw reflected in her eyes the piece of darkness in his soul; she saw in his the empty chambers of her heart. It was not and never had been a sexual bond; rather it was like finding an identical twin, a sibling that had always been unconsciously missed.

It was nothing short of extraordinary.

The letter was characteristically brief, just a note really. Something has happened. Come right away. Pansy.

Instantly his annoyed air was replaced with one of grave concern. All thoughts of his parents flashed from his mind as he raced downstairs to the Grand Hall. He threw a pinch of Floo powder into a dining-room-sized fireplace and spared a moment to smooth his expression before he jumped in.