Words of a Serpent

The sun was just beginning to stream through the window, but the pillow strewn over Draco’s face blocked it all out. He’d thrown it over himself sometime in the middle of the night - a frog had been croaking so loudly he kept being woken up.

"Young Master Draco, sir," a house-elf standing at the edge of his bed was roughly shaking him awake. "Master Malfoy is waiting for you."

"Mmmph," he mumbled, turning over on his stomach away from the house-elf. "Go away."

The house-elf snapped her fingers, instantly sending Draco's bed into convulsive shudders. The wooden frame made so much racket it sounded as if it would break in two.

"Stop!" Draco yelled. The house-elf shrieked loudly as he kicked it with a sleep-weary leg, sending it running out the door. The bed gave a few more lurches sending Draco slamming into his pillow then finally calmed down.

He mumbled a few obscenities before dragging himself out of bed, still a bit shaken from the sudden awakening. So this was what it was like to get up at the crack of dawn. Note to self - don't do it often.

Most of the early morning logic, or lack thereof in his case, that was required when one woke up was done; the black robes he was to wear today were already hanging neatly off the back of a side chair, a high probability that was the work of Dobby, one of the Malfoys' senior house-elves.

He noticed a green snake-shaped pin on the seat of the chair, as well, to show he was a part of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, though Draco was sure he didn’t need a pin to show that. Changing out of his severely wrinkled dark blue robes, which he had forgotten to take off the night before after so lazily falling asleep, he put on the freshly laundered ones that smelled of washing detergent and cinnamon.

His eyes were bloodshot, the tiny red veins darting out of the small grey irises and his hair oddly tangled in a way reminiscent of Harry Potter's, but he couldn’t help admiring himself in the mirror.

He began to brush out his hair with an expensive brush made of cherry maple wood and stiffened unicorn hair. His fingers became sticky as he plunged them into a small tub of hair gel to smooth everything out.

"You shouldn’t gel your hair back so much dear," the mirror said.

Draco glared at his reflection. "I didn’t ask your opinion."

Why he had to have a mirror that talked back was beyond him. They didn’t have much in common taste wise and it became quite a nuisance when Draco wasn’t sure if he liked how he looked or not.

Just for spite he added even more Slick-E-Z hair gel. The reflection of himself distorted as the mirror visibly cringed with horror. As much as a mirror can cringe, of course. Having heard of what had happened to Draco’s last mirror - a horrible “accident” in which it ended up completely shattered - his current mirror decided to say no more.

Once satisfied he sashayed out of the room, winking at himself every time he caught a glimpse of his face in the hallway mirrors.

"Your father is waiting for you in the dining room," Draco’s mother said, giving him an odd look, as he passed her down the staircase. On any other morning his mother would have still been sleeping in the master suite but she always took it upon herself to see them off when they made trips by Floo powder.

When Draco came to the door of the room he noted, not surprisingly, that his father was transfixed with the Daily Prophet resting uneasily in his hand. He assumed his father would likely want to keep abreast of what was going on throughout the more important regions of the Wizarding world, and to keep an eye on any misfortunes Arthur Weasley might come across.

"Good morning, Draco," Lucius said, in a choked yet still serious tone. "I trust you have finished all of your schoolwork?"

Draco nodded. "Finished my last Potions essay last night."

"You always did have a gift for Potions," he remarked.

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn’t continue the conversation. It was odd for his father to be so generous with compliments, he usually found him making comments on his lack of fair grades. Even then Lucius as discreet - he took pride in being a father but he made it only too obvious at times that he would have rather not had a child running amuck.

"I trust Professor Snape informed you of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Lucius’ eyes hadn’t left the page but Draco could tell they were becoming small slits in shocked anger.

Draco was helping himself to a bit of fried egg and looked to his father quizzically.

"Erm.. no," he admitted. He hadn’t heard anything from Professor Snape over summer holiday and he hadn’t expected to. It was common knowledge Snape enjoyed Draco’s presence in Potions but not enough to owl him any news of a new teacher. Unless it was Snape himself, but by the look on his father’s face that was not the case.

Lucius's eyes narrowed in disgust. "Gilderoy Lockhart," he spat. "The man is an idiot."

The noise of silver on silver rang out as Draco dropped his fork, horrified. In his opinion, anyone would have been better for the job then Lockhart. Anyone.

"What?" he sputtered, hardly noticing when an elf had clamoured into the room to replace the fork that now lay on the ground.

"I told your mother that you were better off at Durmstrang, but she refused to listen. With that Muggle-loving Dumbledore as headmaster, I knew you wouldn’t get an adequate Dark Arts training," Lucius seemed to have ignored his son's outcry but Draco hardly noticed.

He’d never met Lockhart, but he knew plenty about him. But who wouldn’t? His ugly face was on the cover of Witch Weekly every other edition and he was always being praised for banishing a banshee or staking a vampire.

“Why didn’t Dumbledore give the job to Professor Snape?” That only seemed logical in Draco’s mind as Professor Snape had wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching job for years.

Lucius only shrugged in reply though he thought it would have been an excellent idea himself.

"Father, you’ve got to do something about it," Draco said.

"I plan to," his father replied through gritted teeth.

"Lucius," his mother had appeared at the doorway. "You’ve got an owl from Mr. Borgin."

She handed him the envelope stamped with the Knockturn Alley emblem, watching tensely as he tore it open.

"We had better go, Draco," his father said giving no physical clues as to what was written.

Narcissa remained quiet, waiting for Lucius to announce what the letter said.

Draco looked from his mother to his father, "What’s going on?"

Lucius glanced at his son, clearly not wanting to say anything in front of him, but he did nonetheless.

"Mr. Borgin has informed me that the Ministry of Magic is conducting more raids and that it would be wise to go to him immediately if I wish to sell certain things," he looked livid.

Draco was sure no one from the Ministry would dare search the Manor - the name Malfoy still demanded respect throughout the wizarding world - but they couldn’t be too careful, especially with the shocking amount of valuable things hidden around the house. Lucius seemed to think the same - making his way hastily to the passageways throughout the Manor that housed the objects he had come to be almost famous for.

"Have you got your list of things you need, Draco?" Narcissa asked as Lucius left the room to gather the items being sold.

"Yes mum," he replied impatiently. "Not that it matters, half the books on there are Lockhart’s."

His mother visibly shuddered at the mere mention of his name. She had gone to school with Lockhart and being a true Slytherin at heart she had never warmed up to his poly-glitter stained smile nor believed all his tales of impossible feats.

Lucius returned a short time later with his hair pulled back in a messy ponytail to rest on his spine.

"Let’s go,” he said, pulling Draco out of his chair and ushering him out of the room.

"Father, you are still going to buy me a broom, aren’t you?" Draco asked as he followed Lucius to the main fireplace in the Manor.

His father gave an aggravated sigh. "Not if you keep asking."

Draco didn’t have time to protest, a serpent-carved jar filled with a greenish substance was being thrust into his chest impatiently by Lucius.

The grainy sand tickled the tips of his fingers as he grasped onto a fistful of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. It roared with a sudden burst of emerald flames, tickling Draco further as he stepped in. The fire covered him like a wet blanket, sending a slight shiver down his spine. He could just make out Lucius’ tall figure through the flames standing impatiently as he waited for his son to be done.

"Knockturn Alley!" Draco yelled, willing himself not to cough as a trickle of Floo powder entered his throat.

His head spun as he passed fireplace after fireplace the people on the outside were blurry blobs at the speed he was going. Draco’s body was just getting used to the dizzying images when his feet slammed into the fire place of an unfamiliar shop. It was small and dingy, like most of the shops at Knockturn Alley, but it was missing the intriguing dark objects that usually inhabited the shop shelves.

In fact, it was missing basically everything. The shelves had thick layers of dust settled upon them and the windows were covered with so much dirt and grim you could hardly see out of them. Why the Floo Networking Office chose this shop as the connection to Knockturn Alley was beyond Draco.

A swooshing sound of a cape behind him indicated that his father had arrived as well. Brandishing his wand, Lucius cleared the soot off himself and Draco. Travelling by Floo powder was definitely his father’s least favourite way of getting about, but they had no choice until Draco was old enough to Apparate - brooms were too slow to cover the distance to London and much too dangerous if they wished to stay hidden from Muggles - and, as his father had warned, Draco would learn how to Apparate the minute he was out of Hogwarts.

Draco had hoped to learn sooner but after telling Lucius this he had been given a lecture on the dangerousness of Apparating, and that his father would not tolerate having to be questioned by the Ministry if Draco wound up being spliced and seen by Muggles.

They walked out of the shop without so much as a word to each other and began to make their way over to Borgin and Burkes. Draco had hoped to get there as quickly as possible but it took a considerably long time as Lucius kept getting stopped to chat with by old friends. He’d try to quickly end the conversation with a hushed whisper about the raids, but it didn’t seem to be working on a particularly jolly fellow who kept slapping Draco on the back, much to Draco’s own annoyance.

"Well," Lucius said abruptly. "We really must be going. We have a great deal to do."

"Oh come now, Lucius!" the man protested. "Have a drink with me, we can catch up on old times." He slapped Draco again, sending him lurching forward and almost knocking into a witch carrying a tray of fingers. His father quickly grabbed the collar of his robe and pulled him backward again, noticeably more irritated that he couldn’t seem to get rid of the man.

"I’ve got business elsewhere," he finally said, in a low warning hiss.

The man’s face went from gaily smiling to a solemn frown. His manner changed as well. "Well, good day then, Mr. Malfoy," he said formally, bowing slightly and scurrying away.

After a few more minutes of battling their way through shadowed crowds, which was quite unlike Knockturn Alley but not surprising due to the news of the raids, both Draco and Lucius made it to Borgin and Burkes unscathed.

For the sheer mass of volume apparent out on the street, the shop they entered was eerily deserted. Draco didn’t seem to mind; he rather enjoyed being able to roam around without bumping into someone every two seconds. His father had gone up to the front counter ringing the bell sitting on top impatiently.

Draco eyed a rather bloody tongue with interest but it was the withered hand on the pillow that got his attention. He bent down to study the wrinkles and cuts of it and the moldy fingernails clinging for life at the tips of the fingers.

"Father, can I have that?" he asked, pointing to the hand.

"Draco, I said I’d buy you a racing broom, not a useless, shrivelled hand," Lucius had hardly even given the object that lay in such stark contrast on the silken pillow a second glance.

Draco crossed his arms in anger, glaring at the back of his father’s head and scowling. The hand might be useless but it was interesting and would look dangerous perched near his bed at Hogwarts.

"What’s the point if I’m not even on the House team?" he pouted, his trademark grey eyes in tiny slits. He already had schemes reeling in his mind of how to get a position on the Slytherin team but that wouldn’t help his argument at the moment.

"Potter got special treatment last year. He’s not even that good. Dumbledore probably just wants to get on his good side; Merlin forbid anyone should stand up to the famous Harry Potter. Just because he has some stupid scar on his forehead."

He mumbled the last bit, but Lucius still heard him.

"You have told me this at least a dozen times, Draco. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that you had a crush on him," Lucius drawled, ringing the bell for the shopkeeper once more. "And you ought to be more careful how you talk about him around your peers. It wouldn’t be prudent to have people thinking we’re on the Dark Lord’s side. After all of the convincing and money I had to -"

Mr. Borgin had finally appeared, cutting off the lengthy speech Lucius had just started.

"Ah, Mr. Borgin," Lucius smiled coldly.

Draco turned his attention away - he had no interest in listening to his father haggle. Nor any interest in looking at Mr. Borgin. His hair and face were about as oily as his voice, and twice as hideous.

Instead, he looked back to the hand. Reading the sign, he discovered it was called the Hand of Glory, but it gave away no other details.

"Ah!" Mr. Borgin had suddenly appeared behind him and was looking quite interested. Draco winced at the sudden closeness of their bodies. Mr. Borgin was a fine dealer in Dark objects but he had no knack for social skills nor, apparently, bathing skills either.

"I see your son has taken a liking to the Hand of Glory," he said to Lucius, his voice dripping. He was trying to keep a tone of professionalism but quavering slightly in his excitement. He no doubt thought Draco was interested in buying and by the tone in his voice the Hand of Glory was expensive. “Impeccable taste he has. The Hand has been known to be most helpful to thieves and plunderers; gives light only to the person holding it."

Lucius sneered. "I hope you’re not insinuating my son is to become a thief or plunderer."

Mr. Borgin’s eyes widened a bit in shock. "N-no, of course not."

"Good, now if we could get back to my list? We’ve still got Draco’s school supplies to purchase today."

The attention shifted back to Lucius’ list of objects he was interested in selling, and Draco had abandoned the Hand of Glory.

Instead, he made his way forward to a neglected looking curio-cabinet. The handles were slightly rusted but he figured that he could probably wrench it open anyway. You never knew what you would find in a place like this - the shop was of considerable size and many places in it had been long forgotten. Maybe he had just stumbled upon something that held objects of promise.

Draco reached out to try when his father’s voice cut in again. "Done. Come Draco, we’re finished here."

He frowned slightly, turning to follow his father obediently out of the shop. He wanted to protest but seeing Mr. Borgin always put Lucius in a horrid mood.

"Good day, Borgin," Lucius didn’t wait for Borgin to reply, the sound of the bell above the door tinkling as he hustled out, Draco in tow.