The Readiness Is All

From his perch on the bed, he studied the ceiling with a sort of detached half-interest. The ornately carved mahogany cast odd shadows. Grotesque, even, if you looked at them in the right frame of mind. When he was small, it had made him nervous, the ceiling. He used to dream about the shadows becoming monsters, Death Eaters, whatever, and attacking him in his sleep. It had gotten to be so bad that he would wake up screaming almost nightly. Now, however, he found it oddly comforting. It provided a sense of constancy. Yeah, it was kind of horrible, but it didn´t hold any shock value anymore. When you can predict the next move, it doesn´t hold power over you any longer, and Draco had watched the shadows shift and undulate from nightfall through sunrise on more than one occasion. Always, he positioned himself the same way. Not quite relaxed, not quite unguarded. Always aware of his surroundings, always prepared for a quick escape if the need presented itself.

"Lo, I lie, / Never to rise again..."

"Oh, really, Draco, that´s a bit dramatic, don´t you think?"

He started, but regained composure with unnatural speed, quick to suppress the rising panic in his chest.

He didn´t flee, as instinct would have had him do. He didn´t turn to face his father. He didn´t move, but kept his peripheral vision trained on the figure of Lucius Malfoy propped casually against the doorframe.

"I didn´t know you were there."
Curtly.

The doorway framed Lucius just so, and he appeared the portrait of a cold, regal aristocrat, which, Draco reasoned, was fitting.

"Is everything in readiness for your departure tomorrow?"

"Yes." Leave me the fuck alone.

A barely perceptible nod and he was gone.

"I´ll see you over the holidays, then," Draco muttered, unheard.

He shifted slightly and surveyed the contents of his open trunk. Broom, wand, robes, texts, parchment, quills, ink, dragonhide gloves, cauldron... it was all there. He would have to remember to fetch his eagle owl in the morning before he left for Kings Cross, but, other than that, he was ready for another year at Hogwarts.

He felt conflicted. His role had always been so clearly defined. He was a Slytherin to the core. For all intents and purposes, he exercised complete control over his House. He was vain. He was an aristocrat, like his father. He was a future Death Eater, like his father. He hated mudbloods, Muggles, Gryffindors, and Harry Potter, also like his father. He was a role model, in a perverted way, for young Slytherins and future Death Eaters everywhere--they were, after all, one and the same so far as the world was concerned.

He was a protégé.

He was supposed to be comfortable with that--proud--yet he couldn´t help but want for more. It was a fundamental contradiction that had only recently become clear to him. Being a Malfoy meant being the best, the crème of the crop. Being a Malfoy meant being a leader. It meant a cold, composed veneer at all times. It meant being surrounded by a mysterious, luminous aura of detachment. Above all, it meant exerting the superiority that came with the name and pure blood. And yet, it also meant growing into a carbon copy of Lucius.

He was to be the best, but only on his father´s terms. Draco´s path had been mapped out for him long before, even, his existence. He was an heir above all else--an heir before a son. Narcissa had affairs, and they were consistently far removed from Draco´s own. It was commonplace, really, among all the wizarding families who had respect for the old way. He had meant what he´d said to Harry that first day at Hogwarts. Some wizarding families were better than others. Naturally, being better required sacrifice. Nothing ever came freely. It was the way things were meant to be done. Draco had been passed off into the capable hands of the house elves, preened and prepared, and presented to the world with impeccable manners and a wholly warped perception of what love was supposed to be. It wasn´t such an awful lot in life, really. He had whatever he wanted, the best of everything. He wasn´t really the touchy feel-y type. It was just as well.

He had always assumed it was just as well, anyhow, but, lately, he had had to wonder. That, he bitterly noted, was the problem. He wasn´t supposed to wonder about anything. His future was set in stone... or, assured, rather. That was convenient. It eradicated all of the tiresome uncertainties that his peers were beginning to feel about their fate. He was lucky. He needn´t bother with it.

But he had taken to wondering, which was a monumental mistake.

Why, exactly, did he so fervently endorse Voldemort´s cause? What was it, precisely, that made him hate muggles so vehemently? Mudbloods? Potter? If he wanted to be completely honest with himself--which he did not--he could admit that all could be attributed to his father. Daddy told him to. Daddy led by example, and what a fine example he set. When he was younger, that had been passable, but, now, it was such flimsy reasoning, it bordered on the ridiculous.

He was on the verge of adulthood, and, in all possible senses, he had no idea who he was. Then again, maybe he did. Maybe there wasn´t any potential for substance within him. Perhaps his lot in life really was the one that Lucius had prefabricated. If he discovered that to be the case, so be it. He could live with it--he might be able to be happy with it--but felt it acutely unfair that he didn´t have any say in the matter. After all, it did concern him rather directly.

Some things were entirely his own. He had a love of Shakespeare that Lucius did not share. He did well in school. He got excellent marks, he was an excellent student. He excelled, especially, in Arithmancy. One of the first indications he´d had of his growing discontent had been the dawning realization that he was glad Potions was no longer his best subject. He hadn´t been sure why, until one of his father's prerequisite lectures hinged on his dismal Potions marks. Potions had been Lucius´ own best subject, and--though all of Draco´s marks were as high as ever--was supposed to be second to none. Anything that surpassed it was an unacceptable distraction. The emphasis that his father placed on such insignificant arguing points was a source of constant anger and confusion for Draco. He had absolutely no clue why he wasn´t to do as well as he possibly could in everything that he possibly could.

There were, also, the things that he had most definitely inherited from his father. He was incurably vain. He had an acute appreciation for fine things. He had always enjoyed the air of superiority and importance that preceded him wherever he went. These things were effectively imbedded within him, as far as he could tell, but, of late, their attractiveness had lessened considerably. Especially concerning the latter, which had become a nuisance and an obligation. He no longer relished the feeling of control, as it was tempered by a plethora of nagging followers.

Though Lucius never tired of presiding over lower-ranking Death Eaters at the regular social events he hosted at Malfoy Manor, Draco was already growing sick of the pseudo-groveling of younger Slytherins who looked up to him. Yet another disparity between father and son... a defect, where the father would have been concerned, to be sure, had he known. Luckily, though, Draco was a phenomenal actor. He had grace and poise to a fault. He could fool God himself into believing that he was as sure of himself and his future as ever. It was a fortunate skill. Fortunate and imperative. Voldemort did not look kindly upon those servants who did not appear wholly dedicated to the cause. Draco knew this all too well, had witnessed the boundless anger, and was thankful for his easy façade.

Never did he put that façade to as much use as when he was at Hogwarts. At the Manor, Draco was alone, to his great relief, save during meals and certain social functions that required his attendance. He preferred solitude; relished being alone with his thoughts. Preferred it, though it probably wasn´t the best thing for him, as it was so conducive to all the wondering that had been going on of late.

At Hogwarts, he was never alone. Even time spent in his dormitory was encroached upon by the presence of his roommates. He´d learned to distance himself from the constantly swarming masses mentally, if he could not find a way to do so physically. Crabbe and Goyle knew better than to talk to him when he wasn´t in the mood, the rest of his house was far too afraid to approach him, the rest of the school thought him unworthy of the effort. They thought him cold--he was not in the habit of reciprocating any attempts at interaction that came his way--and often traded rumors of his corruption and supposedly extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts.

So, he all but completely turned within himself. He traded enough barbs with Potter, Weasley, and Granger to keep anyone from truly beginning to wonder--their arguments continued to escalate into physical altercations on a regular basis--and tortured poor Longbottom mercilessly, but didn´t give much actual thought to anything save his studies and himself. He did this out of vanity and selfishness, in part. It was true that he felt interaction with his peers was a step down, intellectually and otherwise, but lately he´d been motivated by a need to be alone in order to sort out his problems...

...Problems that were rooted in wondering...

...And growing.

He wasn´t entirely sure whether he was ready to go back this year. Whether he wanted to. What could be offered him at Hogwarts? He knew better than to argue, though, and so said nothing to anyone of his uncertainty.

There was one certainty, at least. The ceiling held no answers. Draco sat up and let his eyes wander over the rest of his room, taking in the heavy draperies, commissioned portraits of long-dead family members, and the many bookshelves, which he had filled to capacity (Granger, after all, wasn´t the only one to have read Hogwarts, A History). There they rested, and he rose to cross the room.

This term promised to be the most difficult to endure thus far. Draco paced the length of the shelves, fingertips ghosting over each spine. He would bring something to keep him occupied. Something to help him remain centered when things got out of hand... something by Shakespeare as, regrettably, no one had gotten around to writing Upcoming Term Ninth Circle of Hell? How to Cope, so far as he knew.

He would bring Hamlet. A favorite, and probably the only thing capable of seeing him through the next few months. He had always preferred the tragedies, and this was as tragic as they came. And yet, it was imbued with such an abundance of sarcasm and caustic humor... he adored it, really, and Draco Malfoy didn´t adore anything as a rule.