The Readiness Is All

The train, indeed, pulled into Hogsmeade in seemingly no time at all. Now donning their school robes with a prominently displayed Slytherin crest, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle made their way off the train and through the throng of students. After much shoving--which was both necessary and for sport--they reached the carriages which would take them up to the school, the feast, and a most dreaded term, at least where Draco was concerned.

He must have looked particularly pensive, judging by a few quizzical looks from his cohorts. He paid them no mind, however, and focused, instead, on steeling himself for the task at hand. Draco realized that he was probably being a bit fatalistic. It was, after all, only school. True, he was nothing short of miserable in the months he spent under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore, but there were certainly several, far worse alternatives--many of which Draco could readily visualize. He cringed involuntarily. When looked at from a wholly rational standpoint, this was rather valuable training. If he couldn't find the strength to fool sycophantic Slytherins who were inclined to look up to and romanticize him, he wouldn't last five seconds under the scrutiny of the ever-skeptical Dark Lord.

Draco scowled as the carriage careened over a particularly large rut. One thing he might never be able to rid himself of was an utter incapacity for discomfort. In this respect, his aristocratic tendencies were completely imbedded.

Draco Malfoy did not deal well with anything that displeased him in the slightest.

He sighed resignedly as the carriage finally came to a faltering halt in front of the main entrance. Crabbe and Goyle once again shot him half-veiled glances.

"Oh, for the love of God, you two. Mind your own damned business before I make you."

They said nothing, opting, instead, to exit the carriage with as much bumbling and little grace as could be deemed humanly possible. Out of habit as much as anything else, Draco clicked his tongue in disapproval at their retreating backs. He himself stepped out with considerably more poise. Just ahead, he could see the Trinity ascending the staircase and making their way into the Great Hall. Yet again, he could not help but let his thoughts wander to Potter's unusually well honed shroud of secrecy. It seemed rather disingenuous, having a hero whom you could not read like an open book. Then again, Potter never asked to be a hero. He had been super-imposed into that role, and everyone else seemed well and truly fooled. Draco was suddenly struck with a sense of wonder and simultaneous disgust at having nearly felt sympathetic toward the git. This did not add up at all. For once in his life, he felt fully justified in remaining selfishly consumed with his own well being. He didn't have the time or energy to suddenly take an active interest in deciphering what seethed beneath the surface of The Boy Who Lived.

Without even having noticed, he'd already made his way into the Great Hall and over to the Slytherin table. Auto-pilot was a blessed thing, and Draco breathed a barely audible sigh of relief after recovering from his moment of disorientation. Admittedly ruffled, he attempted to assume his usual post between Crabbe and Goyle as inconspicuously as possible. He surveyed the commotion around him with intense distaste that was--for the moment, at least--entirely genuine.

As the first years were finally herded in as a collectively terrified mass, he took to studying the table and feigning boredom in order to avoid any possible forthcoming conversation. Actually, he could barely believe his luck in having avoided it for this length of time. He had no qualms about ignoring them utterly, but was rarely successful in doing so. After all, they were entirely capable of thinking up decidedly nasty things to say about each first-year who was sorted into a house other than their own without him. He found the whole business crass and juvenile, and wasn't afraid to tell them so if anyone dared question his lack of interest.

No one did.

So, Draco was allowed to endure the sorting and subsequent start-of-term feast in sullen silence. It was much to his housemates' credit that they had enough sense to leave him be. At times, they found it fun to bait him into a state of agitation so great he would berate whoever had the unfortunate luck of being nearest. His deftness at using words to reduce his enemies to nothingness was unrivaled. It was sadly fitting that the Slytherins would find taking witness to Draco's art entertaining. Of course, he was always well aware of what they were trying to do. It was nowhere near that easy to use Draco Malfoy, even in matters of no great importance. He was an excellent judge of the general disposition of those that surrounded him at any given moment, and knew from the instant the thought had entered their heads that they would try to set him off. He had allowed it to happen out of personal pride in his cutting wit, and, perhaps, out of a ridiculous need to be admired and accepted. A need he would certainly never admit to having, even to himself.

Speaking of which. He could not deny himself a bitter glance at the Gryffindor table, where the golden children of Hogwarts sat--tittering happily about nonsense--confident, happy, and blissfully unsuspicious in each other's company. Draco felt a sudden pang of resentment at the back stabbing and sniping that swirled around him. When half of the members of one's house are already keying up for careers as Death Eaters, one is ever-mindful of letting slip potential blackmail material. It was like a bloody mantra. In his younger days, Draco had done all he could to encourage this atmosphere, considering it profoundly useful to his own ambitions. He had been foolish, to be sure. He hadn't considered what it would really mean. However, following in his father's footsteps was one of the only choices he had left in an exponentially shrinking array of options for his future. Perhaps if he'd done more, sooner to disqualify himself, unfit for Voldemort's service. The Dark Lord was selective, and, though it would have been more difficult for Draco to safely count himself out of consideration than the child of a less prominent Death Eater, it was possible. He had been so desperate to be worthy in his father's eyes. The desperation had blinded him. It had been the most important thing, and he had failed, even, to consider considering what he might see for himself in the future. It had been an opportunity to cheat destiny. An opportunity missed, and perhaps the only one that would ever come his way.

Dumbledore's commanding voice startled him out of his reverie.

"As always, just a few start-of-term notices need announcing before I send you all off to your dormitories. We all have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, I realize, so I will be as brief as possible."

Draco rolled his eyes at the Headmaster's assertion.

"Brief? I should hardly think him capable of brevity. Pity. 'Brevity is the soul of wit, / And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes.' The bumbling old fool might want to consider it in practice, rather than just in theory."

Pansy snickered into her plate across from him. He shot her a venomous look. That shut her up quickly enough. Leering bitch.

"I should hardly think, Parkinson," he spat out her name with all the disgust he could muster, "that you have any reason to deign yourself privy to some private joke."

It was Crabbe and Goyle's turn to laugh. It seemed that they had somehow gotten the notion that they were allowed special dispensation in laughing at those struck down by Draco's quick temper. They were sorely mistaken.

"Shut up. The both of you. I'm in absolutely no mood to put up with shit from either of you, and have absolutely no qualms about hexing you both from here until Christmas. I wouldn't push to discover whether it's an empty threat, either."

Dawning realization. Dumbledore's voice no longer droned in the background. Shit. He must've raised his voice in that latest tirade. He chanced a veiled glance at the staff table. The headmaster was looking down on him with a rather imperious, if not unkind expression. It was too subtle to be sure, but he imagined he'd seen a slight smile tug at the corners of the old wizard's mouth before he continued, undaunted, on whatever tack he'd been speaking. Draco was slightly bemused, but hardly grateful for the lack of reprimand.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding--since when was he afraid of getting in trouble?--and retreated within himself, content to be left perfectly alone to seethe until they were dismissed to the dormitories.