The Readiness Is All

The countryside sped past the train, an indistinct blur of greens and browns. Draco sat in his compartment, dividing his time between absentmindedly flipping through Hamlet and glaring at Crabbe and Goyle who snored obliviously on. He shifted impatiently in his seat.

All uncertainties were now worthless. It wasn´t as if he´d seriously considered not coming back this term... even so, he felt incredibly ill at ease. This would be the greatest test his façade had ever endured. The last thing he wanted to do was imagine what would happen if he cracked. Never mind his pride, and the admittedly justified pleasure it would give Potter and his miserable cohorts... Draco had his father to answer to. He had Voldemort to contend with. Things were expected of him--things that could not easily be cast aside...

He shook his head violently, as if to physically free it of this latest, disturbing train of thought. Movement outside the compartment caught his eye--Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Naturally. Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. A little petty taunting might cheer him up--after all, it had always been a favorite pastime.

"Okay, Draco, we start small... Phase One. Get Weasley to take a swing."

"What?"

Crabbe had woken up.

"Go back to sleep, Crabbe..." and, as an afterthought, "Shut up."

He rose and started after the triumvirate.

He found them in a compartment near the end of the train, and assumed a casual pose in their open door.

" `... We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service--two dishes, but to one table. That´s the end.´ Well, Weasley, it seems that you didn´t really hit the jackpot after all. The Boy Who Lived meets his heroic end as nothing more than The Boy Who Was An Appetizer... right along side you... with the mudblood, here, as a main course," He said with a nod in Hermione´s direction. "It´ll be a bit disappointing for your rabid fan base, I´m sure, Potter, but, really, I think it´s quite appropriate, don´t you?"

Too easy.

He was out of practice--that much seemed obvious--and, still, Weasley´s face was the same unflattering red as his hair. It was almost disappointing, really, to get that much reward for so little effort. It made the victory an empty one.

"Don´t, Ron. He´s not at all worth it."

Oh, not at all, Granger, not at all. Splendid job of peer mediation.

"What, Malfoy, can´t wait until we get to school? Have to come and taunt the commoners bright and early this term?"

That´s right, Potter. Come to the rescue.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, so, you admit to your inferiority, then?"

"God, Malfoy. Doesn´t being a complete prat ever get old?"

This was getting boring far more quickly than expected. Draco shot a parting glare at Weasley and Granger, then rounded on Potter once more.

Of course. In fact, it rather has already.
"Of course not."

He donned his best smirk and began to walk away, caught himself walking and began to saunter.

Back in his own cramped compartment, he wasn´t quite sure how to feel about the exchange. It hadn´t been difficult to carry on--that much was certain and promising--yet he hadn´t gleaned any satisfaction from it. That much was disturbing and indicative of his further disillusionment. Crabbe and Goyle were awake now, murmuring to each other stupidly, in low voices. He refused inclusion in the conversation with a glance. There was another bright spot; comforting if minor.

He was still able to communicate his whims to Crabbe and Goyle with the slightest facial gesture. Some things would probably never change. But, he was wondering again. Not good.

He needed a distraction, and attempted to read a bit. Within moments, however, his thoughts were drifting. Since when was his favorite literary work unable to maintain his attention?

Potter and his lackeys passed the compartment again, this time with Longbottom in tow. He glared vehemently at their retreating backs, unseen. Potter was quite like Hamlet, really, Draco realized with no small amount of bitterness. Even in fiction he was not to be avoided.

He was the prince of the wizarding world, endearing and well liked by all. He was in a position to be powerful--God knows he was a living symbol of all that is glorious and good--and he hadn´t the sense to capitalize. Had Draco found himself in such favorable circumstances, he would have taken advantage of all available perks. That was why he was a Slytherin. That was precisely why he wasn´t in such a position. Clearly, he´d made do with what he´d had, and had a splendid go of it. Yes, he´d had a good run as... Lord of Slytherin. And, now, just when he should be enjoying the fruits of his labor, he was beginning to think he understood precisely why Harry kept the attention at arm´s length. It was a strange feeling, being able to identify with Harry Potter. Especially on a point such as this, which, Draco strongly suspected, even Weasley couldn´t grasp.

No, Weasley was envious. Amend that... insanely jealous... it was absurd. Draco, who had zeroed in on this knowledge early on, had wasted no time in using it to get a rise out of him. Not even insulting his poverty could evoke such a brilliant shade of red... well, nothing short of insulting Granger, but he saved that for special occasions.

Draco was perceptive--he felt himself capable of sensitivity, but had never had an opportunity to find out whether this was so or not--and Potter was one of the few people he was unable to read. Most of the time, Draco resented being unable to outdo him even in this, but, in his quieter moments, almost respected him for it. A master of deception is not easily fooled, as he himself, in all likelihood, uses all of your tricks. Potter, however, had something up his sleeve that Draco could not fathom.

Just how akin was he to the Prince of Denmark?

In the end, Hamlet loses his own life and that of both of his parents to the wickedness of Claudius. Harry seemed poised for the same fate. He couldn´t escape the will of Voldemort indefinitely. If his schoolwork was any indication, he was certainly prone to procrastination, although, it was Weasley who took it to new heights. His rashness, too, was obvious. So often, bravery and impulsiveness go hand in hand, Potter being a classic example.

He was brave and he was loved, but was he happy? It was something Draco had often pondered. Lately, he´d been inclined to say no. The blind jealousy he used to feel had been replaced by a bitter comprehension. After all, in some ways, being a hero and being a Malfoy wasn´t so different. People assumed things about you. They thought they knew when they could never understand what it was like. They saw the well-crafted exterior and thought it effortless. They would never understand what must be sacrificed in order to live up to expectations. Never.

Harry was a hero, a miraculous incarnation of pure goodness.
Draco was an aristocrat, cold and selfish and untouchable.

The public couldn´t be bothered to look deeper.

Draco possessed more passion than seemed possible. He was quick to anger, quick to fear, quick to any extreme... but quicker to hide what seethed beneath the surface. It was barely but completely concealed, and no chink in his armor had yet been found. He´d often wondered what might have become of him under different circumstances. Who would he have been without the expectations his father had placed upon his young shoulders? Without the beliefs that he had been force-fed and unwittingly latched onto? It was so incredibly difficult now to tell where he ended and his father began. He had no grasp on how much of what he believed to be a part of him was inherent and how much was inherited. It was frightening, not knowing who you were, and Draco was just beginning to square his shoulders and face that fear.

He was curious.
And terrified.

And he was beginning to think that maybe Potter felt the same way. Who was to say how much of him was real and how much was an emulation of the ideal hero? Perhaps he was scared and confused and alone as well. Perhaps he was scrambling to live up to his own image, because Potter was the clear protagonist in whatever twisted drama Voldemort was weaving for the wizarding world. He must know that.

Most strikingly, Potter´s life was consumed by revenge. Hamlet had the burden placed upon him by a ghost, but Potter must be buckling under the weight of the expectations of an entire world. They all look to him to vanquish the Dark Lord, once and for all. Factor in the personal stakes--he, after all, would also be avenging his parents´ murder--and the anger must be unfathomable.

But anger for what? For being an orphan? For circumstances out of his control? For the responsibilities he had to contend with but didn´t want? For being kept in the dark for so long?

There was so much to be angry about. Draco had his father, Potter had his heroism... everyone had something, but they seemed to get an unusually large portion. It was unfair. It was something else to be incensed over.

The train was beginning to slow. Draco rooted around for his school robes and roused Crabbe and Goyle--they had slipped back into sleep at some point, Draco hadn´t noticed--with a sharp kick in the shins each.