Words of a Serpent

Arriving home at last, Draco stole a glance at the only clock in the house that gave off the real time - the rest were wizarding clocks that he never bothered to read. The short hand was rounding towards two . Just in time for lunch, Draco thought.

"Mother!" he yelled.

"It’s already on the table, Draco," she replied, appearing at the doorway.

After stepping out of their much larger fireplace in the main study room, he began to dust himself off while peering into a mirror to straighten his hair. The light blonde strands had become severely covered in black soot, much to his dismay. He would have loved to fix his appearance with a wave of his wand but he knew only too well what his parents would say if they got an owl from the Ministry of Magic.

The table in the dining room was, as his mother had said, already set and lavished with a variety of foods. There was a delicious looking plate of sandwiches that Draco helped himself to, washing it down with a bit of pumpkin juice. Stacking a few crackers and cheese in his hand, he headed toward his room to get a better look at the books he had purchased. On a normal day he would not have been allowed to take food into his room - both of his parents disapproved of crumbs on the floor as any good parent should - but Lucius and Narcissa were currently distracted with talk of the raids and of Mr. Borgin and took no notice as Draco slipped away.

After settling himself comfortably on his bed he pulled Year with the Yeti out of the small leather bag it had been resting in and began to read. The first chapter went too much into detail on the finer things in Lockhart’s life - most things only adoring girl fans would care to know - but provided some much needed comic relief for Draco. Draco had only met Lockhart once and it was obvious he was not smart nor clever enough to have done all of this himself much less alone.

Chapter three proved to be even more unbelievable as a fight with a twenty-foot Yeti raged on page after page. It became somewhat dull as he reached page eighty two and deciding he had better things to do with his time then waste a perfectly good afternoon reading this rubbish - there wasn’t much point in reading them now anyway. He could only assume they’d have to read them for assignments and he couldn’t imagine remembering everything until the start of term.

Draco wasn’t even sure if he’d make it through every class, he was already really agitated that he’d have to spend what was one of his favourite classes with Lockhart. He was easily becoming distracted by these somewhat disturbing thoughts from other, more important, things at hand.

As he scanned the room in search of something to do the handle of one of his Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones glittered in the sunlight through the window on the East side of his room is, reminding Draco that there were seven broomsticks sitting in the corner, begging to be used. The wood was highly polished and sanded - it was so perfect it was hard to comprehend that it was real and not an illusion playing tricks on his mind. The hand plucked twigs at the end were shaped to look like that of a wet paintbrush end while two brass metal footholds stuck out on the sides.

His thumb stroked over the gold letters near the front and admired the fine carving work of the whole broom. Gryffindor didn’t stand a chance with the Slytherin team riding on these. He smiled to himself; he would love to see the look on Potter’s face when they won the Quidditch Cup.

Out the window, the sun was still hanging in the sky, alone, without a cloud in sight. It was perfect weather to test the steering and maneuverability, and most enjoyably the speed, of the new Nimbus. Draco hadn’t flown very much all summer - his father wanted him to focus more on his studies after learning of Draco’s disappointing end of term grades. Now with the chance to get on the House Team, he couldn’t imagine his father objecting that Draco get a bit of practice.

With one of the Nimbus’s in hand, Draco descended the stairs toward his father’s study where Lucius was known to spend most of his time doing work for the Ministry. What he did in that room was unknown, but Draco had the sneaking suspicion it was meant to be kept in the utmost secrecy until he was old enough to help out.

"Father?" he asked, tapping lightly on the door with two slim fingers.

"Come in," was the muffled reply.

Draco creaked the door open. His father was sitting at a desk in a tense position, pouring over a long roll of parchment with words in what looked like Italian - had Draco been able to stand behind him and get a good look he would have most likely been able to translate it - he had taken up learning a new language a summer ago when his father was sent to Italy on an urgent Ministry call - Lucius hardly looked up as his son entered.

"Could I ride one of the new Nimbus’s? I’ve hardly had any practice all summer..." he trailed off looking forlornly again at the parchment, it would have to be important to not be written in English.

"Be in before dark then," Lucius muttered, waving an absent hand to dismiss Draco from the room.

The fields surrounding the Manor were bare, with only a few lone trees to be seen for what felt like miles. The architecture, or lack of it, of the outlying land was intentional. The Malfoy’s had lived in this particular manor for centuries and the men of the family had always prided themselves on their Quidditch abilities-- so when the house was built, trees were exempt to make for easier flying. It had been discussed whether or not they should include a small forest in order to provide a harder flying area if one got bored with being able to fly so easily so a group of trees were added a mile away if one wished to become a master of ballet flight. Ordinarily, it would’ve looked quite odd to a passing Muggle, but self-respecting wizards had learned long ago to put Muggle repelling charms on their houses and there were plenty on the Manor to keep any Muggle away for at least a twenty mile radius.

The moment Draco had stepped out of the front door, he had already mounted the broom and was soaring through the air weightlessly. He felt as though he hardly had to do a thing, the Nimbus seemed to take control of speed and direction, letting Draco’s mind drift elsewhere. He could almost feel the Quidditch Cup in his hand, the cool gold on his fingertips as he lifted it into the air, the crowd chanting his name.

His feet were resting easily on the footholds, balancing him back as he started to lean forward pretending to give the crowd a better look at what he held. The sudden jerking motion of his conscience trying to save himself from falling off the front interrupted his short lived fantasy, though. He sighed loudly disappointed that he’d lost concentration on what he had been thinking but thought better to do what he had set out to do in the first place - which was practise. Nobody won the Quidditch Cup by daydreaming.

He practised a few loops and sharp turns around the corners of the Manor. If he hadn’t known better he could have sworn the broom had a mind of its own. It slowed itself down to brace for the turns and did all of the physical work that usually had to be included when making loops.

All too soon, the sun began to hide itself behind a hill and Draco was forced to trudge back into the house, feeling as though he had just hit rock bottom from an extreme euphoria. He’d hardly got instead the door when he heard rustling in front of him.

"You look like shit," a voice said. The owner was hidden in the shadows, their somewhat bulky frame leaning against the wall.

Draco’s head shot up from staring at the floor glumly just in time to see Pansy Parkinson emerge into the darkened candle light with a playful smirk on her pug-like face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, straightening his back to appear taller and more superior. His hair was wind blown from the hours he had spent practising and his cheeks were an air-beaten rosy colour.

Pansy’s smirk flickered. "I told you I was coming in the letter I sent - didn’t you read it?" Draco wanted to laugh in her face.

As if he’d waste his time with petty letters from silly little girls. If it had been any other person standing in front of him right now, asking this insanely obvious question, he would have given them a truthful answer, but it was Pansy Parkinson, and he knew all too well that their fathers were in alliance with each other and the Dark Lord. The moment he said anything crude to Pansy, she would be at her father’s side crying like he had just killed a beloved pet of hers.

"I didn’t get it," he said defensively. The owl that had delivered the letter to his bedside hadn’t looked too strong in the first place, so it was a plausible excuse that it hadn’t made the journey to the Manor even if it really had.

Pansy shrugged slightly, a look of hurt still on her face. "Well, we won’t be leaving for awhile." She twiddled with her hair nervously watching Draco’s every muscle movement and breathe. It wasn’t like her to be so jumpy and girlie-like around him even if it was obvious she thought more of him then just a friend which he didn’t even consider himself to be with Pansy.

Draco groaned inwardly. He’d experienced having Pansy and her father over far too many times already. Usually in such an instance he was reduced to play baby-sitter, entertaining Pansy so she wouldn’t whine and interrupt whatever important matters were taking place in Lucius’ private study.

"Is that the new Nimbus Two Thousand and One?" Her eyes scanned the gold letters incredulously, her fingers twitching to get a touch. Draco instinctively backed away with his prized possession in hand. He would never let her dirty fingers come anywhere near such a prized object.

"Yes, my father bought a whole set for the Slytherin Team." His chest puffed out in pride. Even if it was just Pansy, he felt the need to impress her and she’d always been reliable to put in a good word for him without his asking. No doubt the whole Slytherin House would find out about this before the start of term with her knowing - she was the queen of gossip.

"Wow..." she muttered, her hands instinctively twitching once more.

Draco sighed, finally letting her grubby hands get a feel of the broom. This was going to be a long night.