[Summer: 1995]
Draco Malfoy was empty. Well, perhaps it was better to say that he was
devoid of emotion--a body lacking the ability to feel or think. It was an
odd sensation, especially after so many months of feeling so many things,
but it wasn´t exactly unfamiliar.
He was home, now, back at Malfoy Manor with his mother and father,
both of who were currently sitting across from him in the drawing room.
They´d returned from King´s Cross station about an hour before, and he was
beginning to wish that he was back at platform nine-and-three-quarters...or
at Hogwarts...or Hell--anywhere but where he currently was.
"Are you certain you´re all right?" asked his mother, Narcissa,
concern in her eyes.
Nodding slightly, Draco managed to murmur, "Yes, Maman, I´m perfectly
fine."
His father, Lucius, snorted, expression haughty. "I still can´t
believe that you allowed that...that...Potter boy to land a curse on you!"
"He was rather angry, Father," said Draco, face fixed in the expected
semi-scowl, semi-simpering expression. It was probably a good thing that
he´d left out the fact that Hermione and the Weasleys had been in on the
cursing session as well; if his father found out about from anyone else,
he´d just say that he´d already been unconscious by that time. He felt no
real loyalty to Harry´s friends--they weren´t a part of his purpose, after
all--but his father wouldn´t hesitate to use Harry´s friends against Harry.
"Crabbe, Goyle, and I simply picked the wrong time to antagonise him, I´m
afraid."
Lucius´ eyes narrowed. "You were picking a fight with Potter?"
Draco shook his head, widening his eyes, making sure to put just the
right amount of surprise in his voice when he spoke; really, he was
getting rather too good at this. "No, Father! We were doing what you´d
told me to do, that´s all."
His father didn´t seem to really be convinced, but he nodded anyway.
"All right, Draco. Why don´t you retire to your room for the night? Your
mother and I have much to discuss."
I´m sure you do, Father, Draco thought coldly, though he jumped
to his feet and smiled brilliantly. "All right, Father. Bon soire,
Maman." He stepped forward and kissed his mother´s cheek, hurrying
from the room.
Waiting what he felt was a sufficient amount of time, Draco crept back
along the hallway, stopping about a metre from the doorway with his back
to the wall, straining his ears.
"...realise what you´re accusing him of, Lucius," his mother was saying
softly, sounding distressed. Draco imagined that she would be toying with
the pendant around her neck, twisting the chain through her long fingers.
He glanced down at his own fingers, noting the narrow taper, the long
pale digits that ended in carefully manicured nails. His mother´s hands
often created works of beauty, but what had his own done? Caused pain,
caused strife... He clenched his hands into fists, biting his lip as he
continued to listen.
"I know, Narcissa," his father snapped. He was probably pacing the
length of the drawing room, hands behind his back; Draco found it funny
how predictable his father could be. "And what he said fits with what
Crabbe and Goyle told me, but there´s something going on with that boy. I
can´t put my finger on it, but something´s different."
Draco breath caught in his throat. He knew it! He´d known that his
last minute plan would ruin things. Now his father suspected, and if he
didn´t play his cards carefully, he´d find himself with more than Harry
Potter for a mortal enemy.
"He´s simply growing up, that´s all! He just turned fifteen a couple
of months ago; you remember what it was like at that age, surely."
"From what Pansy Parkinson´s mother says, Draco doesn´t act much like
I did at that age."
Draco winced at his father´s cold tone, but still he couldn´t really
feel anything. He couldn´t feel angry, or nervous, or scared; he
simply felt tired, and a bit lonely as well. What do you want me to do,
Father? Paw her in public, get in her robes? I think I´d rather have sex
with Colin Creevey; at least I´d be sure I wouldn´t pick up any
diseases. It wasn´t that Pansy was a bad girl, really, but she was his
cousin--albeit a distant relation--and she wasn´t picky in spreading her
favours. Pansy just wanted to be loved.
And, in that respect, he couldn´t fault her in the least.
"What do you mean by that?" Narcissa´s voice was wary, as if she
suspected something and didn´t want her dread to be confirmed.
"Draco and Pansy have been dating for nearly two years now, and not
once has Draco tried to steal a kiss. Nor, for that matter, has he shown
an interest in any other female in Slytherin."
"What are you trying to say, Lucius? Are you saying that our son is a
nancy boy?"
Those words seemed so wrong coming from his mother´s mouth. But she
had been married to his father for nearly eighteen years now, and
had no doubt been forced to deal with his friends as the only woman in
their little gatherings; all of his father´s friends were blunt, and
Crabbe and Goyle could be decidedly crass on occasion. The accusation,
however, didn´t really bother him. He really had no interest in anyone of
either sex; Pansy was merely a convenience.
A convenience I tire of. I swear, if I have to sit with the girl at
one more function and have her run her foot up and down my calf, I might
just give the Weasleys a new practise dummy for their tricks. As far as
relatives go, she´s not bad, but, really! Despite that stupid Muggle
rhyme, incest is not a pastime I desire to pick up.
And there it is, really... I don´t desire her--nor do I love her.
There was a pause, and Draco imagined now that his parents would be
staring at one another, eyes locked in a contest of wills. His father
would win, in the end.
He always did.
"No. No, that´s not what I´m saying. But Draco has changed, especially
in this last year. When he came back last summer, he was withdrawn, moody.
And it´s not just puberty, Narcissa. Come, surely you´ve noticed it as
well. His temper, his carefully hidden duplicity..."
Narcissa´s tone was soft, almost lilting when she responded. "This has
to be a hard time for him, Lucius. With the things that have been going
on...within the family, at school... I´m certain that Draco is simply trying
to adjust, in his own way. He´s a bright boy, always has been, and there
aren´t many in Slytherin that he can talk to."
"There´s always Crabbe and Goyle."
Draco´s lips twisted in a small smile; his mother probably had an
eyebrow arched in disdain. Both of his parents could be snobs when the
occasion called for it, but it was his mother´s expressions that were the
best to imitate. No-one could do condescending quite like his mother.
"Those two couldn´t talk their way out of a paper bag, though they
are, by far, more intelligent than their fathers," she drawled. "All I´m
trying to say is that Draco is dealing with a lot right now--on top
of puberty--and he´s doing it all on his own. Give him some time to adjust
before you judge him."
There was a grunt and the sound of a chair dragging on the floor. "He
doesn´t have much time. Only three years left at Hogwarts--and that´s if we
send him back."
Those words made Draco go cold--the first thing he´d been able to feel
since coming home. Not go back to Hogwarts? But--
"We have decisions to make, Lucius. And we both need to think long and
hard about those decisions. I know...I know with what happened at the
Triwizard Tournament that you´ve got a lot to worry about, but this isn´t
like it was seventeen years ago. You have a son to think of now--are we
going to damn him to our lives or let him live his own?"
This was why he had been so angry when Harry had spoken badly of his
mother at the Quidditch World Cup; Narcissa was really the only champion
he had in his life. His mother had always been there for him, sacrificing
time and putting her own errands and duties aside in order to help him, to
make sure he was happy. She was the one who spoke on his behalf against
his father, the one he was able to confide his dreams to. Really, the
woman Harry and his friends had met had met was Mrs. Lucius Malfoy, not
his mother. His mother was a different person entirely.
"I don´t want to end up fighting my own son!" Lucius hissed. "If we
let him return to Hogwarts, you know that´s what will happen.
Dumbledore--"
"Dumbledore only wants what´s best for Draco. Don´t give me that look,
Lucius Malfoy; you know I´m only speaking truth. If Draco wants to leave
Hogwarts, Dumbledore will respect his decision. He believes in giving all
people a chance--even second ones, like Severus. He knows that we have made
our bed and chosen to lie in it; he won´t judge our son by us."
"...How can you be so sure, Narcissa?"
His mother would be smiling now, the pendant lying pressed in her
hand. "I graduated top of Slytherin; I know."
Unlike many at Hogwarts thought, being Slytherin didn´t mean that one
was inherently evil or prone to dark tendencies. Rather, it meant that one
had a penchant for shrewdness, for being clever and quick thinking.
Slytherins were the politicians, the negotiators; the ones who seemed to
forever shift loyalties simply because they didn´t want to be figured out.
Unfortunately, that meant that they had garnered a reputation rather akin
to Muggle lawyers; Draco was certain that the other Houses had quite a few
jokes up their sleeves about getting rid of Slytherins.
He´d heard enough, he decided, creeping back down the hall and heading
to his room for real this time. His mother´s words had made him feel a
sense of relief, but he knew that his father didn´t really believe her
words--especially since he felt that he now had enough evidence to make
four years worth of speculation a reality. His father was too entrenched
in his ways, too far into the mindset that Dumbledore and Hogwarts were
the enemy, that Harry Potter...
Draco closed the door to his room, head bowing, white-blonde hair
obscuring his face. There were times that he cursed the fact he was an
only child. He had no real skills when it came to relating to those his
own age--"socially stunted," as his mother was oft fond of saying--and his
father expected him to act like a Malfoy: rich, good-looking, and
self-assured.
To act like a bloody prat, he thought with a snort, pushing
away from the door and stalking to his bed. Draco wasn´t a nice person--he
knew that, and it didn´t really bother him because he could admit it; it
was a defence mechanism that he reacted with anger, with spite. And it
helped that people expected it from him, which kept them from looking
beneath the surface.
A very good thing since he´d spent four years being a very bad, very
stupid boy.
He scowled the whole while he changed into his pyjamas, sliding
between the sheets and lacing his arms behind his head while he stared up
at the ceiling.
Nearly four years had passed since he´d first set eyes on the one
named Harry Potter, famously known as the Boy Who Lived. He´d been
intrigued by Harry, looking lost and bewildered in his too-large Muggle
clothing, trying not to gawp at all of the oddities that littered Diagon
Alley, possessing those oh-so-intriguing green eyes. And he´d thought,
back then, not even knowing who he was looking at, This boy´s like me.
He´s lonely and lost...probably going to be a first year too.
And so he´d approached, hoping to make a friend. But then, as things
rapidly went wrong, Draco Malfoy reached an epiphany: he hadn´t the
faintest notion how to make friends. He was eleven years old, and all of
the friends he´d ever had in his life had been made by his father.
He´d reacted badly to Harry´s responses, both in Diagon Alley and on
the Hogwarts Express. He´d been hurt and terribly confused, and felt
absolutely none of the assurance that his father said he should have.
Watching how the other children his age interacted, he began to understand
a bit better what this "friendship" thing was supposed to be. And he
thought, after a couple of weeks at the school, that he might try to make
a go of it.
But then the letter from his father had arrived. Draco felt as if that
first year had been a lifetime ago, but thinking of that letter...it seemed
like only yesterday that he´d read that letter.
His father had informed him, down to the last detail, of who exactly
Harry Potter was--well, not really who he was, since Draco had already
known by that point that he was Harry Potter, but more like who he
was--a threat to Lucius, to the Malfoys, to the Death Eaters, to the rise
of the Dark Lord once again. Lucius had then proceeded to paint a very
black picture of Harry and his deceased parents, none of which had sat
well with eleven-year-old Draco. In closing, his father said that it was
in his best interest--and in the best interest of Slytherin House--if he did
his best to alienate Potter from the others at Hogwarts.
And so Draco had done for the past four years. He´d been much taken
with his father´s tales as a child, of his glorious days as a Death Eater
under Lord Voldemort, with the notion of belonging to something, to
a brotherhood of sorts. But after third year--after having that summer at
home to think and reflect, to remember and dream--his thoughts and feelings
about his purpose had altered. Oh, he´d kept up the pretences well enough:
Ron Weasley still wanted to strangle him, Hermione Granger would no doubt
like to use him for Transfiguration practise, and Harry...
Well, Harry most likely hated him.
Not that he blamed Harry--or Ron or Hermione--in the least. He´d done a
lot of cruel things in the last four years, some of which even he thought
unforgivable. All of it had been on purpose--well, nearly all of it. That
was Draco´s purpose after all, to be Harry Potter´s foil in all things.
However, in the last year, his heart hadn´t really been in it. He´s
meant all of the things he´d said and done, insofar as he had meant to do
them, he´d meant them to hurt, but it hadn´t been malicious--at least, not
most of the time.
Still want to beat Weasley bloody for that last prank, though.
Really, putting a ferret in my bed...
`Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.´ His mother had used
that phrase often enough in his youth, but it hadn´t been until last
summer that he´d truly been able to understand it completely. The
decisions he´s made at eleven years of age had finally culminated into a
reality that fifteen-year-old Draco was only just beginning to fully
grasp.
Reality was frightening.
Harry Potter was special, no matter how much he hated it and tried to
deny it. And he was going to have a pivotal role to play in the coming
years, with the Death Eaters having resurfaced, with
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named having been restored to power. He was going to
have to fight, to say and do things that were awful, to make sacrifices
for the greater good.
But Harry was kind. Oh, he´d developed a wicked sense of humour, Draco
had noticed, but for the most part, Harry was nice. He helped others, he
tried not to hurt people´s feelings. He´d learned quite well how to
respond to the Slytherins taunts and jeers, and seemed to be developing a
thicker hide. When it came to the real thing, though...when it came
to facing the real evil and not fellow classmates...Draco wasn´t sure of
Harry Potter could hold up.
It had hurt, the things he had done. It hurt the people he´d attacked
and himself, especially in having to dredge of the hurt of an
eleven-year-old boy in order to be able to have the courage to make most
of his attacks. And Draco Malfoy wasn´t a person used to feeling that kind
of raw gnawing that ate at his heart ever time he opened his mouth to hurt
Harry. But Harry needed to be stronger or he wasn´t going to live.
That was a disturbing thought, Draco decided with a sigh. Harry Potter
had helped to shape and define his world the last four years; a world
without him seemed so wrong.
So here he was, having spent the last four years being a royal bastard
to the last person who deserved it, and for what?
Because Draco Malfoy had decided that Harry needed an enemy, someone
to be cruel, that wasn´t quite as dangerous as the real threat. He was
being cruel to be kind, though even in his cruelty he´d been trying to
warn Harry, trying to make him see the seriousness of the situation.
He couldn´t help the dry laugh that slipped free as he thought about
what his final attack had earned him. Whoever had cast the Stupefy spell
had packed quite a punch; he´d had a headache for nearly three hours. And
though his parents had been outraged, he´d found his too-large ears and
mouse whiskers funny.
Draco felt an odd sensation in his breast, a warmth similar to how he
felt in those brief times when his mother had dared to hug him, his heart
filled with both contentment and sorrow. He was sad that he couldn´t be a
part of Harry´s life as anything more than his enemy. But he was happy and
warm because of Harry, and--with grudging admittance--because of his
friends. It was hope, maybe, he thought; hope that one day he would have
friends and closeness and warmth, that one day he wouldn´t be on the
outside looking in...that he wouldn´t be alone.
He glanced briefly at the tiny magic light that bobbed over his head,
lighting the shadows of his room. It would flicker out if his father ever
came near his room, but otherwise the light shone constantly; it had ever
since he was a child. He´d never quite gotten over his childhood fear, and
as the years went by--as his emptiness continued to grow--his dependency on
the little light seemed to grow.
What would Harry think if he knew? Draco Malfoy was afraid of the
dark--afraid of being alone.
The first several weeks of break seemed to fly by, and Draco was
surprised when he woke up one morning and realised that it was the
sixteenth of July. He dressed in a hurry, scowling as he noticed he´d been
growing and his wrists stuck from the ends of his sleeves.
He walked into the dining room with a smile, pausing to kiss his
mother good morning.
"Sleep well, Draco?" she asked, though she didn´t look up from the
copy of the Daily Prophet she was reading. "Don´t forget that we´re
going to London later."
"Relatively, Maman. And I haven´t forgotten." His sleep had been
dreamless, a rare occurrence these days, and it had afforded him a chance
to catch up on nights of restlessness and lost sleep. Sitting down, he
reached for the juice pitcher and poured a glass, grabbing a muffin from
the stack of cakes and pastries. "Where´s Father?"
"Hmmm? Oh, I imagine he´ll be along any minute now. He was speaking to
someone in the fireplace when I walked by his study."
About fifteen minutes later, Lucius Malfoy entered the room,
expression dark.
"Have a muffin, mon cher," Narcissa murmured, gesturing to the
plate. "Or a pastry, if you´d prefer."
"I´m not interested in eating!" he snapped, yanking a chair from the
table and sitting down. "Do you have any idea what Crabbe just told me?"
"That many of the Free Giants are heading for Hogwarts in the care of
Rubeus Hagrid and Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons?"
Lucius gazed at his wife in surprise. "How´d you know?"
Narcissa smiled thinly, handing him the paper. "Front page news."
"Damn." Lucius´ eyes quickly scanned the article, his jaw clenching.
"Damn!" He thrust the paper aside, turning to glare at his son. "Did you
know about this?"
Draco shook his head, eyes wide. "No! I knew that something was going
on with the professors, but I told you about that already." It was the
truth, since he´d been afraid of digging further; in some cases, the less
he knew, the less Harry was likely to be targeted. Really, being the foil
of the Boy Who Lived was a bothersome job.
"Yes, well..." His father pursed his lips in thought, fingers absently
drumming on the tabletop. "I´m beginning to think that I won´t let you
back to Hogwarts next year; maybe Durmstrang, or even one of the smaller
schools instead."
"Father, no!" Draco clapped his hands over his mouth as soon as the
protest had left, his eyes wide, a hint of fear showing. Oh, how could he
have been so stupid? Really, blurting such a thing out in front of his
father, after so many years of maintaining a mask of calm? He really
needed to start sleeping more if he was losing control of his tongue to
such an extent.
Lucius started at his outburst. "What did you say, Draco?"
He couldn´t take his words back; he was going to have to attempt to
patch the situation as best he could. Pulling his shaking hands aside and
hiding them under the table, Draco said earnestly, "Please don´t, Father.
I like Hogwarts; all my friends are there." That was it; simper and whine,
be the Malfoy heir, secure in the knowledge that you´re rich and popular
with a lot of friends.
What friends? his inner voice taunted. Draco ignored it, as he usually
did.
"And...and it´s going to be fifth year, and Slytherin needs to make up
for losing the House Cup the past three times." Please don´t make me
leave; I may not actually like it there, but he´s there, and his friends.
Please, Father! If he could, he would have locked his thoughts away as
well, for they were being far more traitorous than his tongue.
Silver-grey eyes narrowed, his father´s gaze swept over him, settling
on his slightly bowed head. "Narcissa, could you give Draco and I a moment
alone?"
His mother paled at those softly uttered words. "Lucius..."
"Draco and I need to have a bit of a father/son chat, I think."
Narcissa nodded shakily and rose to her feet, hands unconsciously
clasping the pendant around her neck as she walked from the room.
It was worse than Draco had thought; he realised that in the instant
that his father asked his mother to leave the room. He´d confirmed his
father´s suspicions rather than appeased them, and now he was in for it.
All he could hope for was that he was a far more accomplished liar than
his father.
When the doors closed behind her, Lucius smiled at his son. "Draco,
why are you so adamant about returning to Hogwarts? I distinctly remember
you telling me you hated it there, that everyone was incompetent."
Draco swallowed back the lump in his throat, slowly raising his head
to look his father in the eye. "I don´t really like it there, Father," he
said slowly, "and they are all almost dreadfully incompetent."
Otherwise they´d have figured out a way to stop you. "But I´ve only
three years left, and I´d rather not leave my friends and House." Honesty
was the best policy in such a situation; save the lying for the moment you
really needed it.
After a few moments in which his father just continued to stare at
him, in which the silence began to stretch and become taut, Draco felt a
sinking sensation in the region of his stomach. He knows...
There really wasn´t any way his father could know--not really.
But he already suspected Draco of hiding something, had suspected it for
four years, and Draco couldn´t help but think, as his father stared at him
with the eyes Draco himself had inherited, that Lucius knew.
"Draco, is there someone...special...at school? Is that the reason you
don´t want to leave?" asked Lucius gently.
Someone...special? Draco knew he must look baffled; he hadn´t
expected his father to ask that question.
There was someone special at school, someone that he wistfully wished
he could know better, equally liked and equally hated, completely unaware
of his effect on others... But his father was bent on destroying Harry
Potter; he was a Death Eater, and despite the fact that he´d not tried to
find the Dark Lord in his absence, he was still quite loyal to his cause.
"What do you mean, Father?" he found himself asking, tone light and
slightly confused. This was the moment to use his skills--or at least try.
"Don´t play me for a fool, boy," sneered his father. "Like your
mother, your charms won´t work against me."
Draco wondered what his father meant by that. But his musings were
stopped short when the back of his father´s hand connected with his cheek.
It wasn´t a hard slap, really; enough to sting his face and leave a mark.
His surprise wasn´t feigned, however, when he looked back; his father
rarely ever hit him.
"Who is it, Draco?" Lucius hissed. "Who are you trying to protect?"
"Trying to protect?" A slim, silvery eyebrow arched despite the
fact that his tone and expression continued to convey confusion. "I´m not
trying to protect anyone, Father." Yes, Father, he thought, keeping
his expression haughty and only slightly ruffled. Look upon what it is
you have moulded and see what a good job you have done. Protect? Someone
has to, now, don´t they?
"You´re lying." His father spoke flatly, eyes never leaving Draco´s
face. "You´re good at it, just like your mother. However, I´ve had years
of practise at learning to see through her masks, and as I said before,
the charms you inherited from her side of the family won´t work on me.
"Now," said Lucius softly, leaning in closer, "you are going to tell
me what exactly it is you are hiding from me. You´re protecting someone at
Hogwarts, I can feel it. Who is it you´re trying to protect--it can´t be
Crabbe or Goyle...nor Pansy, either, I think. Perhaps someone from another
house? Do you fancy a Ravenclaw...or a Hufflepuff? Good God, I hope not; I´d
almost rather have you fancying a Gryffindor than a Hufflepuff!"
Draco made his expression remain neutral through his father´s
monologue, desperately trying to come up with a way to get out of his
current predicament. Truthfully, he´d never thought about what he was
doing as `protection,´ per se, but sitting here facing his father made him
realise that, yes, that was exactly what he had been doing. He wasn´t sure
exactly, though, who he was protecting Potter from, if it was from the
Death Eaters, their children, or...
Or from himself.
Definitely from yourself. Isn´t that right, Potter? No-one else has
seen it like I have, those waters that you drown in, that I drown in.
No-one else knows, quite like I do. And that´s why I´m the bloody prat who
got stuck with the job. No-one else wanted to take it--everyone else was
afraid to take it.
Deep as you go, Potter...
Lucius gripped Draco´s shoulder tightly in his hand, fingers grinding
muscle and tendons. "Answer me, Draco: who--are--you--protecting?"
He wasn´t certain what came over him in that instant. Maybe it was the
fact that he could see directly into his father´s eyes, that it seemed as
though a veil had been lifted and he could see everything that was the
remains of his father´s soul. It could have been that he´d been thinking
far too much--and sleeping too little--over summer break, that he´d had too
much time to reflect on his current life and decide that it was ruddy
awful to be so lonely. But the most likely cause of his next action was
probably the fact that he realised if he didn´t do something now, when he
had the chance, he may never have a chance again.
Smiling a bit sadly, Draco said, "Someone that you hate."
Ah, truth, how freeing you are. Where are you now, Harry? I´ve
followed you down where you led me, but it seems I´m here alone at the
moment. I wonder...shall I drown?
It took Lucius a moment to process what his son had said, and then a
strange sort of transformation overtook his handsome features. Pale
eyebrows drew tightly over his eyes, which had narrowed to mere slits of
silver-grey; his lips drew into something resembling a cross between a
sneer and a snarl; and his pale cheeks seemed to glow with a red tinge
that could only have been caused by fury. The hand on Draco´s shoulder
tightened further; by all rights, Draco should have cried out it pain, for
it did hurt, but he didn´t even flinch.
"What did you say?" hissed his father icily.
Looking at his father, he wanted to drop his gaze, wanted to look away
and mumble some sort of nonsense about being confused. Not because it was
his desire to do such things, but because it was what was Expected. It was
what Child-Draco wanted so badly, his father´s kind words, gentle touch,
and effusive approval.
However, the bitter, angsty teenager that Draco had become knew much
better than to expect such things, and he clutched at that thread of
damnable Gryffindor resolve and stubbornness that he couldn´t seem to be
rid of. "It´s somebody that you hate, Father."
Like a Thoroughbred on the track, Lucius´ nostrils flared, eyes
widening slightly. "You dare to be cheeky with me, boy?" His tone was
still ice-cold and hadn´t lost its hissing quality. "Who is it then?
That...that Mudblood, Granger? One of those Weasley brats?" His eyes darted
about hawk-like, watching Draco´s expression, finding what he suspected
yet feared he would. Sucking a breath in sharply, he said, "No. Not even
you could be so foolish."
Draco lifted his chin at that. "Foolish, Father?" he asked archly.
Though he seemed cool and unruffled, his heart was pounding a mile a
minute. He couldn´t believe that it had come this far this fast, but he´d
known... He´d known, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before
someone had caught on.
Why did that someone have to be his father, though?
Damn you, Harry, leaving me here all alone... I hollowed my world,
let it shrivel and dry up for you, and you leave me either high and dry or
drowning in the remnants.
...Will you ever let me go?
"I don´t know what you´re talking about," said Draco aloud. "Now,
please excuse me, Father, for I believe that Mother said something about a
shopping expedition to London."
Without another word, without looking back, Draco stood and headed for
the door. He walked softly down the halls, the only telltale sign to his
inner turmoil being the rapid beating of his heart within the confines of
his chest.
I can´t believe I did that, he thought, pausing at the top of
the long staircase that lead to the parlour. I can´t believe that I
actually said that. I mean, I know I´ve thought about doing such a thing
before, but what an utterly, utterly stupid thing to do, now, of all
times. Cursed streak of Gryffindor nature! Like Father will actually let
me get away with such cheek...
"Draco Salazar Malfoy."
Draco halted at the quietly issued command but didn´t turn. "Yes,
sir?"
"Look at me when I´m speaking to you."
Turning around slowly, Draco sighed in resignation, looking upwards
into the face of the man he had so longed to emulate, so longed for
approval from. Please...take me down... "Yes, Father."
Standing rigid, hand hovering between them, Lucius said, "Did I
understand your meaning correctly? Do you protect the boy I think you do?"
Draco looked away in answer.
Lucius pulled his hand back as if he´d been burned, continuing to
stare at his son as if he were a creature of unknown origins. "You think
that you can protect him? You? No-one can protect him anymore,
Draco; he´s as good as dead, now that the Dark Lord has returned!"
A small chuckle escaped Draco´s lips before he could stop it. When his
father glanced at him sharply, he said, "No-one is safe, Father, no
one at all. Now that Voldemort has come back, we´re all in danger--from
everyone."
"You speak boldly, as if you are certain."
"I am." I am, Father, I know. I´ve seen too much already, heard the
rumours and lies, seen some of the horrors--lived some of the
horrors. My own family is no longer safe. Your love is as likely to kill
me as your hatred.
"Why Potter?" Lucius snapped, his anger evident. "How could you
fall into the same trap as the rest of those blind fools? He´s
nothing! He´s a silly boy who´s going to end up in an early
grave--and he´ll take each and every one of his little friends with him!
Stupid boy, how could you be like the rest of those Muggle-loving idiots?
I raised you better than that!"
Draco sighed and shook his head; for the first time in a long while,
he felt something for his father: contempt. "Because he is special,
Father; that´s why so many people are drawn to him. He can be clumsy and
terribly stupid at times, but he´s also a very good person--one of the
best. He helps people, makes them feel good about themselves." ...Which
is something you´d never understand. You tried to inflate my ego, and all
you were doing was making me feel worse; you never raised me at all,
Father.
His father looked away, disgust written on his face. "My own son,
duped by Potter charm. How could you betray me like this, Draco?"
Draco couldn´t help it; he began to laugh, near hysterically, silver
eyes fever bright. "Not everything is about you, Father," he said
heatedly. Now that they´d begun talking, now that he´d taken the plunge
into his four-year-long insanity, anger and fear were fuelling his courage
and loosening his tongue. "And this isn´t about me either, Father, not
really. This is about doing what´s right, and not what´s easy. I´ve done
that for far too long. You´ve made what I am thus far, Father; now it´s
time for me to make myself."
Please, please...gods, this freedom...I don´t know if I want it. Where
are my chains, now that I need them? I just want to sleep...
He felt giddy with relief once the words slipped from his mouth. Never
in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he´d be able to tell his father
what he thought, how he felt in his heart of hearts. But he knew that his
actions wouldn´t come without consequences.
However, they weren´t the consequences he´d been expecting.
Before he could blink, his father had backhanded him so hard it made
him stumble back a step. The blow split his lip, the coppery tang of blood
filling his mouth. A second strike on his other cheek smeared blood across
his jaw and made Draco´s face begin to tingle.
"I thought you more intelligent than that, Draco," his father said
calmly, adjusting the glove on his hand. "I thought you hated Potter, you
know."
"So did I, Father," said Draco with a bitter smile just before Lucius´
hand struck once again.
Deep as you go, I´ll follow...
Once more was all it took though for Draco´s footing on the slightly
rumpled carpet to give. His arms reeled wildly as he tried to clutch for
something--anything--to draw him back on balance. However, nothing met with
his grasping hands, and as if in slow motion, he felt himself fall
backwards down the staircase. The image that clung to his mind as he
tumbled head over foot down the long and winding steps, crashing into the
wall and the unforgiving wrought-iron railings, was his father´s
expression: eyes wide, as if he´d been surprised and slightly horrified by
the turn of events, but a curious and somewhat eagerly-macabre smile upon
his face.
That´s it, take me down...
It was odd, he would think later, that he hadn´t felt scared during
the tumble. He remained mostly silent through the blows that jostled him,
that made his face swell and bloom with colour, that made stars dance
before his eyes. He lost track of how many times his limbs connected with
immovable objects like the iron railings and the plant holder that was on
the small landing between floors, and the only reason he recalled reaching
the landing of the main staircase was because his forehead had connected
with a sickening crack to the newel post. Blood dripped down his face,
stinging his eyes, pooling on the floor in a spread of crimson as he heard
his father´s slow descent down the stairs after him.
He thought he screamed then, when his father´s foot connected with his
ribs, sending him down the last passage of five marble steps to the
parlour floor, the softly-spoken words, "Stupid, stupid boy," following
after him. He agreed, even as he felt on fire one moment, icy the next,
body riddled with pain as the abuse continued in his head, though it had
stopped without. Things were cracked, broken, he was sure; blood continued
to drip from his face, staining his pale hair and hands, and his throat
felt raw by the time he reached the parlour´s blue and green Oriental rug
to land in a broken sprawl. Vision was rapidly greying and he felt
nauseous; dimly he thought he saw his mother´s shoes coming towards him
before a kick connected with the back of his head and sent him into
blissful blackness.
Let me drown.
Once upon a time--for that was how all fairytale stories began, after
all--he had read that there was truth found in dreams, that no matter how
fantastic the places you visited and the people you met while you floated
between waking and sleeping, there was a certain amount of reality present
as well.
Draco had never thought himself particularly imaginative, and had you
asked any of his classmates, they would have agreed. Everything that Draco
did and said could be attributed to either his upbringing or the people he
associated with at school. His tricks and verbal attacks wanted for any
real creativity, and though his grades were second only to Hermione
Granger, his schoolwork showed a singular lack of originality.
It was a character flaw that he´d not been taught to think outside the
bounds of his narrow mindset. Even when he read books of wizard history,
he found it hard to believe them; abstract thought seemed like a foreign
concept at times. How could such fantastic creatures really exist in their
own little worlds? How could they keep hidden from the world´s notice? And
how could real people have adventures like that, have friends and
companions that were utter paragons?
Hell, how could they have friends period?
Maybe it wasn´t that Draco was unimaginative. More than likely it was
the fact that he was almost obscenely cynical for someone not even in
their second decade of life; `pretend´ was not a word that had been
introduced in his vocabulary, though he was a terrific actor despite that
fact.
Draco had very little illusions about himself and life. He was the
type of person one would describe as running "hot and cold." He could be
extremely passionate about some things, while others would draw absolutely
no reaction from him, no emotion, no thought at all. He felt contempt for
many, he pitied few, and compassion... Compassion was something that Draco
wasn´t sure he understood.
He floated in a void at the moment, and he welcomed the void with open
arms. He could feel nothing and nothing could touch him, could reach his
mind while he denied reality´s existence.
Here I am, drowning... Gods, I want to disappear.
The void was warm and comforting, which would have surprised him had
he been thinking clearly. Wasn´t the void supposed to be cold and
desolate? Why did he feel so welcome there?
He opened his eyes slowly, surprisingly dark gold-brown lashes
fluttering against pale cheeks before silver-bright orbs were revealed.
Where am I? he wondered briefly, a small furrow decorating his
brow.
A fine-boned hand moved away from his body, gently touching the
surface that appeared before him. To his surprise, it rippled like water;
eventually settling to pristine lines once the disturbance was gone. But
now there were two Dracos, himself and his mirror.
White-blond hair fell into his eyes as he tipped his head to the side
to observe his mirror-self, noting that the movement was copied. He´d
never realised before how ethereal he looked--his mother often mentioned
it, but he´d never really listened. Was that really him there in the
mirror surface? Surely his skin wasn´t that marble pale, that flawless.
And since when had his hair had that shimmering silver quality that he
associated with moonlight? Was it possible that the planes of his face
really were that delicate, that angular? And the eyes, lacking the cold
disdain he was familiar with, burning like molten quicksilver as he stared
at himself--were those his eyes?
He didn´t recognise the outfit his mirror-self was wearing; it vaguely
resembled his dress robes but was far more ornate yet with an extremely
simplistic style, tied with a wide sash about the waist. The colour was
odd as well, for though Slytherin´s house colour was green, he
never wore straight green outside of Quidditch matches and other
necessary functions. Now here he stood, clothed in the most brilliant
swath of emerald green he´d ever seen, loose and swaying, wide-sleeved.
There was some sort of creature embroidered along the front, reminding him
vaguely of a winged dragon having been crossed with a snake.
Odd, he thought, brushing his fingers over the material,
appreciating the feel of silk as his fingertips slid over it.
"Isn´t it just?" his mirror-self responded with a sardonic
smirk, startling Draco.
Mirror-Draco laughed silently at his expression, silver eyes
narrowing. "Really, Draco, I´m surprised it´s taken you so long to make
your way here."
"Where is here?" Draco asked, arching an eyebrow as he gestured around
with his hand.
"Here?" Mirror-Draco´s smirk softened into something resembling
a gentle smile as he brushed strands of moon-pale hair from in front of
his eyes. The movement made Draco realise that his hair was quite longer
than he usually kept it, nearly reaching his chin in the front. "This
is you, Draco. This is the place inside of yourself that even you deny
exists. Deep as you´ve gone already, it´s surprising. But, I guess it
takes awhile to make your way down into the pit of your self-wrought hell,
doesn´t it?"
Draco snorted and shook his head. "You expect me to believe that you
are my soul? Oh, come off it. My soul is a mirror of myself? How
unoriginal is that?" He ignored the "self-wrought hell" comment; really,
did the truth require an answer other than silent acknowledgment?
"Oh, yes, and we´re just sooo creative, aren´t we, Malfoy?"
sneered Mirror-Draco.
His other-self reminded Draco of Ron Weasley in that instant, and
burning anger welled inside of him. "You know, for being my soul you´re a
ruddy pain in the ass," he hissed through clenched teeth. He´d never
wanted to punch himself so badly before...and when he thought about that
exact thought, it sounded rather screwed up.
"Years of practise, Draco." Mirror-Draco winked. "After all,
I am you. Your razor quick wit had to start somewhere."
Draco scowled at that. "All right, so you´re my bloody soul. Why did
you choose now, of all times, to have a heart to heart?" After all he´d
already had to go through to reach here--wherever here was,
exactly--it seemed as though he should be allowed a few moments of rest
without aggravation.
...If his soul had the same dogged Gryffindor tenacity that he did,
however, they would be fighting all night and rest would be left at the
wayside.
Mirror-Draco smiled mysteriously, eyes shadowed. "We´re not nice,
Draco--I hope I didn´t upset your tender feelings with that revelation. Oh,
you already knew? Hmmm, how droll. We´ll never be nice, either; not the
way those Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors are--though we do seem to have a
rather nasty amount of lion roaming through our serpentic blood, don´t we?
It doesn´t suit our nature in the least, really, so it´s not that big of a
loss--not being like them completely, that is. Oh, quit looking as though
someone rammed a stick up your arse, Malfoy!" the other snapped.
"Well, at least my soul has my nasty temper," murmured Draco, feeling
somehow vindicated. Arguing with himself... Maybe it was a good thing he´d
been an only child after all.
His mirror-self glared ominously, but continued. "We´re not nice,
but, then again, there´s not a whole ruddy lot we can do about it, is
there? No, you made quite sure of that, didn´t you, all those years ago
when you had a pre-pubescent epiphany and ran with it. Well, I have just
one question for you, Malfoy..."
"Fire away," Draco drawled.
"Why the bloody hell Potter?!"
Draco blinked in astonishment as his mirror-self lost all composure,
arms akimbo at his sides, eyes wide and colour staining his pale cheeks.
"You´re me," he replied. "Don´t you know?" It seemed ludicrous that he
would have to explain four years worth of actions to himself, but it
looked as though he might have to do just that.
"Oh, I know, and I think we´re ruddy well insane. The fact of the
matter is, though, that I´ve always known, Draco--I´ve always known the
exact reasons, the exact reactions, and the exact pains that you,
yourself, have a hard time admitting to. Now, you still don´t like
Weasley--and I can´t say I blame you, since the stupid git hates everyone
Slytherin on principal--and Granger drives you absolutely batty at times,
being such a bloody know-it-all. But you envy them."
"Duh." Draco had picked that little word up from a Slytherin first
year the year before, and he rather liked the sound of it. There were
certain Muggle-isms that were fun to use upon occasion--especially when
they riled the tempers of people he didn´t like.
"Why?" Mirror-Draco asked the question softly, cocking his head
to the side. "Why do you envy Granger and Weasley so much that it
borders on hate?"
A crack formed in Draco´s usually rock-solid mask, and words and
emotions began to slip free; but it was okay to lose control here, because
the only person who would see would be himself. "Because he chose
them!" he snapped, eyes wild. This was different from confronting
his father. His soul already knew everything, after all, so there was no
reason to hide anything. "The first friend I ever wanted, the first person
I ever thought might understand me, and he rejected me and chose them!"
Nothing hurt worse than admitting the truth aloud.
"And rejection burns, doesn´t it?"
"Of course it does, you sod," said Draco, rolling his eyes. Souls
weren´t the smartest things in creation, he decided with a snort.
Mirror-Draco seemed completely unfazed by his actions. "Why did it
hurt so much, being rejected?"
A silvery eyebrow arched. "Is the only purpose of a soul to cause
annoyance? Because, if it is, you´re doing a remarkably good job of it. In
fact, if you give me the name of your supervisor, I´ll recommend you for a
promotion."
"Quit being a twit and just answer the bloody question!"
"Because it made me feel like I wasn´t good enough, all right?" Draco
snapped. He was truly angry now, a heated flush staining his pale cheeks.
"That day, on the Hogwarts Express, when he told me he knew how to choose
the right friends...that hurt, a lot. And it wasn´t just a blow to my pride,
either. With Crabbe, or Goyle, or Pansy, it wouldn´t be that big a deal;
they aren´t really my friends, not in the way that other people consider
friendship. They´re the children of Father´s friends or my relatives,
people I´m expected to associate with. And it wasn´t as though I had a lot
of encouragement at home, now, was it? No, Father made certain that my
time with Maman was limited, and he also never seemed to have time to
spare a kind word for me. No, it was `You´re not good enough,´ `That´s not
right,´ `Do it again, but make it better.´ Never--not once--did I receive a
truly kind word from him."
Mirror-Draco sighed and closed his eyes, placing his fingertips
against his forehead and adopting a "praying for patience" pose.
"Draco, Draco, Draco... Our duplicity never ceases to amaze me. You can´t
even admit to yourself why you picked Potter, can you? Oh, sure, you
sounded quite convincing and sure of yourself when you stood up to Father,
but you can´t actually put into words why you protect Potter. Can you,
Draco? These last four years you´ve wavered back and forth in your
allegiance, between Father and the Boy Who Lived: throwing taunts and
harsh words, trying to get Potter expelled or scare him into leaving; then
doing things like sending Dobby, using his fear of the Dementors, and
giving hints about Rita Skeeter. Really, Draco, if I didn´t know better,
I´d think you had a split personality."
"Look, I´m sure being my soul means you get some sort of artistic
license to be all philosophical and mysterious, but I would really
appreciate it if you would cut the bullshit out and just get to the
point," said Draco irritably, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Are you certain you want me to?" asked Mirror-Draco,
expression utterly impassive. "You realise that if I just up and tell
you--show you--what you´re asking for, you´ll forget most of it when you
return to the world of waking. You´ll remember vague impressions, and
something may jog a memory loose here and there, but it will still be as
if you never knew in the first place--as if you´d never had a choice to
begin with. Which, I´m afraid to say, you don´t." Mirror-Draco smiled
wryly. "Like you said back in first year: you never really had a choice in
this, since it pulled you in and under without warning."
The way his other-self said those words chilled Draco to the bone.
Silver eyes--his eyes--looked dead, flat and empty of emotion. He felt fear,
in that moment, such as he´d never felt fear before; fear of the unknown,
fear of the suspected, fear that couldn´t even really be placed. "I don´t
want to know," he said softly, gazing down at his hands clasped together
before him. It was cowardly, he thought, like he´d been that time in first
year when they´d been in the Forbidden Forest. Then he slowly raised his
head till he was looking himself the eye, saying, "But I need to
know...don´t I?"
It wasn´t really a question, more a statement of fact, and Draco´s
suspicions were confirmed when Mirror-Draco nodded.
Draco sighed, shoulders slumping; he so hated things like Irrevocable
Fate and Inescapable Destiny--really, they never turned out well for
anyone, in the end. "All right, then."
He hadn´t expected a good end for himself in the first place. Being
proved right, in this case, was a bitch, though.
Mirror-Draco nodded again, and with an elegant wave of his hand, the
surface between them became semi-opaque. "This isn´t the future, Draco,
nor is it the past or present. This is what is, was, and shall be, all
rolled into one. This is you, all of you, the sum of your parts that make
you whole."
Draco laughed briefly before it began. "All parts? But some are dead
and some are free, some are chained and some are sleeping. All parts?
Hmmm, if that´s so, I guess I shall drown, then."
Images slid across the surface, picture after endless picture of
people and places and things. There were faces he knew and faces he
didn´t; there were the four Founders of Hogwarts and the house symbols;
there was a giant blue-green serpent with magnificent wings cradling a
glasslike sphere in its scaled coils; there was a sword decorated in
rubies, blade slick with the cherry-red of fresh blood; there was the
crash of water and the song of beautiful, shimmering creatures he couldn´t
quite see. The images swelled and swirled, mixing together like some mad
inconsistency of fate. A black dog and a brindle wolf curled up to sleep
beneath a full moon; a radiant phoenix in flight, trilling sorrowfully; a
black blade that rippled and changed colours ever few moments; a serpent
wriggling from a hideous face, recognised as the Dark Mark; a silver
goblet overflowing with blood; a huge white stag with horns lowered in
challenge; a green snake curled about a wilting white lily.
They seemed to go on forever, showing no end. But then--
Eyes... Draco stared in awe at the most beautiful pair of green
eyes he´d ever seen, trimmed in long, dark lashes. Like a multi-faceted
gem, pure and deep and dark with passion, the eyes seemed like windows to
something--the soul, perhaps. The eyes were first one, then two, then three
sets, all identical--unwavering, unyielding, full of life.
The first set of eyes resolved into a coldly beautiful, angular face,
pale and aristocratic, framed by long silver-white hair. He recognised the
face as that of Salazar Slytherin, one of Hogwarts´ four Founders. The
second set of eyes became a smiling young woman, long dark-auburn hair
surrounding a pretty heart-shaped face. The third set--
To his dismay, the third set became Harry Potter.
"Heir to Gryffindor...or Heir to Slytherin?" Mirror Draco
murmured.
"What do you mean?" whispered Draco. Some had been expected, some had
not... And the question about inheritance...it threw him for a loop. Heir to
Gryffindor, surely. Unless... "What does this mean?"
"Mean? I don´t know, Draco--I´m you, after all. And I believe it´s
time to return to reality."
But he knew the look that his mirror-self gave him, knew it as surely
as he knew his intentions. The serpentic venom ran deeper than even he had
guessed, apparently.
You really will be the death of me, won´t you, Potter?
And then the void spiralled wildly, and Draco´s cries were lost in a
sea of nothingness that roared and crashed around him. The giant
dragon-snake rose up before him, coming towards him with wings spread and
sharp-toothed maw gaping open. And then...
And then, the dragon-snake swallowed him whole.
Reality was decidedly fuzzy when it decided to return to the boy named
Draco Malfoy. He slowly cracked his eyes open, closing them again with a
slight groan. His eyes burned and itched with dryness, and the sunlight
that shone into his room seemed almost obscenely bright.
"Master Draco is awake now?" a voice squeaked softly.
Carefully opening his eyes again, Draco blinked in surprise at the
house elf leaning over him. "Dobby?"
Dobby smiled brightly. "Oh, Master Draco is awake now! Master´s mother
will
be very happy when Dobby tells her!" And with that, the house elf
scurried from sight.
Draco tried to sit up, but found that his arms trembled and refused to
support his weight. With a huffy sigh, he dropped his head back to the
pillow and waited for Dobby to return.
Images tickled his awareness, and vaguely he thought he recalled
dreaming just before he´d woken up. The thoughts hovered at the edge of
his consciousness; close enough to tantalise, yet far enough away to
remain hidden. Something about a snake--no, a dragon--and green eyes-- The
fuzzy images irked him, and with a scowl, Draco tried to banish such
thoughts from his mind.
Hearing a noise at the door, he turned his head in time to see Dobby
scurry back inside, quietly but firmly shutting the door. His large eyes
were even wider than usual as he scuttled to Draco´s side.
"Dobby, what´s going on?" croaked Draco, confused.
Dobby made shushing motions with his hands, expression fearful.
"Master Draco needs to be silent right now!"
Closing his mouth with a slight frown, Draco wondered what the house
elf was going on about--and what he was doing back in the household. Hadn´t
Potter freed Dobby during second year?
Raised voices caught his ear, coming slowly closer till they were
right outside his door. He was having a hard time hearing them, muffled as
they were by the thick oak of his door. However, that changed when Dobby
made an obscure motion with his hands and the voices were amplified to his
ears.
Wonderful thing, house elf magic, he thought wryly before he
was distracted by the hushed yelling outside his door.
"...not letting you near him!"
Silver-grey eyes widened at those icily hissed words. They´d come from
none other than his mother.
"I didn´t mean for all that to happen and you know it. He is my son as
well!" retorted his father, sounding as angry as he had the day--
Draco gingerly touched his forehead, frowning as his fingertips found
the smooth seam of a scar. How long have I been out of it?
"He is not your son, Lucius Malfoy! When you bargained for my
hand in marriage, when you asked me to join your side in the Great Battle,
I demanded one thing and one thing alone from you: a child. You didn´t
even want him at first!"
"That was then, Narcissa. Things have changed."
There was a moment of silence before his mother spoke again. "Yes.
Yes, Lucius, some things have changed. But you made a bargain seventeen
years ago, bound by oath and blood. A bargain with the rusalki is
permanently binding. Draco is mine, in every way--and after what you did,
whether it was intended or not, I will not let you touch him or see
him. His blood is mine more than yours--even you cannot deny the evidence
of that with his emerging powers."
"I could force you," said Lucius, sounding certain.
But, then again, so did Narcissa. "If it were for anything else, yes,
you would be able to. However, Draco is part of the contract--my part--and
as long as he is involved, you can force me to do nothing."
"Some days I wonder why I don´t kill you."
Draco gasped, eyes flying wide at his father´s almost conversational
comment. Kill Maman? No!
"Because then you would lose your hold over the Ministry. Now leave,
Lucius. You´ve left your mark upon your son now, so be gone with you. His
future is his to forge from now on, not yours; if he wants to leave, he
shall leave, and you will not stop him."
There was a muffled growl and then the sound of angry feet stomping
away. After a moment, Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room--and she was
wearing the oddest clothing he´d ever seen. Not even the Muggle clothes
Draco had seen in London had been so odd.
Three layers of close-fitting robes trailed down to the floor, each a
varying shade of sapphire patterned like rolling waves that was a perfect
match for his mother´s eyes. A wide sash of deep silver, embroidered in
the same shade with patterns of waves, was snug around her waist, tied
ornately at the back. The wide sleeves hid her hands, which she must have
been clutching together before her. The outfit seemed familiar, as if he
were experiencing déjà vu, but he couldn´t place where he´d seen it
before.
Draco wanted to say `hullo´ at the sight of her, wanted to
smile--wanted to shout, to cry--but what came out in a dry croak was,
"Maman, what are you wearing?"
Narcissa blinked in surprise and looked down at her self. "Oh, dear,"
she murmured, sounding as though she were speaking more to herself than to
Draco. "No wonder Lucius was so upset. I haven´t worn clan robes since you
were a baby."
"Clan...robes...?" Draco looked at his mother in confusion. "Maman, what´s
going on? How long have I been out?"
His mother´s lips pressed into a thin smile as she turned to address
Dobby first. "Dobby, would you go and fetch some juice from the kitchen
for Draco?"
Dobby nodded with a silly grin, the tea cosy atop his head falling
askew. "Yes, Lady Narcissa. Dobby will do that." Snapping his fingers, the
house elf disappeared in a small puff of smoke.
Sitting carefully on the edge of Draco´s bed, Narcissa smiled as she
gently brushed hair back from his face. "How are you feeling, mon
petit Draco?"
"Can´t really tell," rasped Draco with a frown. "Everything feels a
little hazy."
"I imagine so," she said with a small laugh. Then her expression
abruptly sobered, full of worry. "Draco, did you mean what you said
before?"
His mother wanted him to be honest, he could tell, but he wasn´t sure
what she was asking exactly. After all, he recalled saying a lot of things
before his father had sent him into unconsciousness. "What do you mean,
Maman?"
Pale fingers slowly drew through long, loose strands of white-blonde
hair before Narcissa replied. "Your left wrist was fractured in three
places," she spoke softly, clinically. "Your right shoulder was
dislocated. You suffered a concussion due to severe head trauma. Four ribs
were cracked. Your spleen ruptured. The gash on your forehead was
approximately six centimetres long and bled profusely. You suffered
contusions and minor hemorrhaging over half of your body, including
bruising your kidneys. For the last two weeks you have lain in a coma, not
even twitching a finger or fluttering your eyelashes because of the tumble
you took down two long flights of stairs."
She glanced down at his face, expression shuttered. "All of that you
suffered for one reason: Harry Potter. Were you speaking truthfully to
your father that morning?"
Draco nodded slowly, mind still reeling from the list of injuries. "I
don´t even know who I am anymore, Maman. I´ve spent so long trying to
please Father, trying to do what he wanted me to do, the way he wanted me
do it. Harry Potter hasn´t done anything for me to hate. Well, except
maybe beating me at Quidditch," he admitted with a rueful laugh. "I´ve
done a lot of things for him to hate, though, but it needed to be done."
He looked up at her, silver-grey catching murky blue. "You know that I had
to."
Narcissa looked away. "You´re determined to return to Hogwarts, even
knowing that you may one day face your father as an enemy? I watched, you
know. I was sitting in the parlour when I heard your father and you at the
top of the stairs. I watched you fall, Draco: twenty-eight steps, six full
turns of the staircase before you hit the newel post and the floor."
His mother´s face remained inscrutable no matter how hard he stared at
her, trying to think of how to answer. "I´m lonely, Maman," he said at
last, looking away. "There is no one in my life that I would call
friend--and I don´t blame anyone for not wanting to be my friend. I´ve
acted spoiled and hateful since the first day of school, I´ve said and
done things to others that seem unforgivable even to me. And it hurts now,
like it never did before, the fact that I´m so alone."
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