Draco is hopelessly lost between what he is supposed to do, and what he wants to do. As the pressure from his father to follow in Lucius' footsteps grows heavier, and Draco's feelings for Harry grow stronger, Draco finds himself at a fork in the road.
Chapter 13
Chapter Summary:
Draco gets some much-needed advice from a dusty portrait and a house elf.
Posted:
12/04/2002
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“Is it enough to love?
Is it enough to breathe?
Somebody rip my heart out
And leave me here to bleed…
”
--Avril Lavigne “Anything But Ordinary”
After his sobs had subsided, Draco ventured from the closet and sneaked back to the Slytherin dormitory. He had scooped the sweets that had fallen from Harry’s bag into his, noting that there was many Chocolate Frogs.
Everyone was sleeping in his dormitory, so he dropped off his bag and grabbed a blanket. The castle was oppressively quiet as he made his with to the South Tower.
In his fourth year Rita Skeeter had told him to meet her in this abandoned Tower, with boarded up classrooms, magically locked to keep their contents from prying student eyes. Afterwards, sometimes, whenever he was feeling sad or too cooped up in the Slytherin common room, he would sneak away to rest his mind there.
A small slit window, reminiscent of windows on mid-evil castles, served as the only light into the small tower. Draco rested against the wall, the thin sliver of moonlight lying across his stomach, and he tried to sleep.
But he kept tasting Harry on his lips, feeling the momentary tingle that had past through the both of them when they had connected. And though the hatred that had sprung from Harry was burned into Draco, he hoped against hope that Harry had felt something.
Though his heart was hopeful, his bitter and cynical mind yelled at him, telling him exactly how ridiculous he was to believe that Harry would ever, ever, ever love someone as low and disgusting as Draco Malfoy.
That thought made his eyes burn with unshed tears, so he blinked and tried to think of something else. His mind involuntarily wandered over to his mother, and how much he wished she was nearby. He wanted to know how the search for Draco’s father was going, and whether or not he would even have anyone to go to during Christmas break.
With a small, half-hearted chuckled, he silently mocked himself for his childish and immature feelings of loneliness. He could almost imagine what his mother would say if she knew about this. “You just need to find a nice girl and settle down with her. What about that pretty little Parkinson girl? You and her would be so wonderful together.”
With a shudder like Harry’s, Draco tried to dislodge the image of Pansy and he settling down to do anything but bicker. He stood, wrapped the blanket around him and began to trace his fingers along the stone walls where the dust was deep.
“Excuse me!” a high-pitched, but barely audible voice cried from beneath his touch. Draco jumped back as if he had been shocked.
“What?” he asked out loud, feeling stupid since he was simply staring at a particularly thick patch of dust.
“Wipe me off so I can speak properly!” the pompous voice chimed again from beneath the dust. Draco warily used a corner of the blanket to wipe away the dust, slowly revealing an old, oil-paint portrait. It was smaller than the newer ones around the castle, and the woman featured looked old and weary, though she was portrayed as a young woman. When she was clean and touched her hair and stared down at Draco.
“Well, finally, someone sent someone up here for me,” she exclaimed. Draco shook his head.
“No, no one did. How come you never said anything before?”
“I was asleep!” she said shrilly. “As you should be! What is the meaning of touching my painting.”
“So sorry, your highness, but it was under a couple feet of dust. Why haven’t you gone to the other paintings?”
“Well, aren’t we just the genius?” she quipped, touching her hair again. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? There was too much dust to move!” Rolling his eyes, Draco began to beat the dust out of his blanket.
“Well, princess, you’re all clean now. Scamper off and get Filch so you can tell him how the little Slytherin saved you. So noble, they’ll call me, until they slap me with a month’s detention and minus fifty points from my house.” The angry words tumbled forth as he whipped the dust off, it stinging his eyes and lungs.
“Oh, dear,” the woman whispered, watching Draco stumble backwards and let out a dry sob. “What is troubling you so?” she asked in a calmer, kinder voice than before.
“Have you ever fallen in love with someone, and they didn’t return the affections?” he asked, desperate for advice.
“I’m an oil-painting,” the woman replied calmly.
“Of course,” Draco said, satisfied with his beating of the blanket, and now folding it under his arm. “Well, thanks for the help. I’m off.”
“Wait!” she called. Draco paused, much against his better judgment. “I’ve been around for hundreds of years, but I do remember a dashing man early in my years…oh, what was his name…” she tapped her chin and pondered this man for a moment. Draco was about to say to forget it when she squealed and jumped. “Oh, goodness, his name was Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor.” Moaning, Draco put his face in his hands.
“Perfect,” he said. The woman looked at him oddly, and cocked her head to the side,
“He had his portrait drawn, and it was hung near mine, and I just remember adoring him. But…it wasn’t meant to be…” she sighed, reached into the folds of her dress and dabbed at her eyes with a yellowed handkerchief. “He loved another. Ravenclaw. I couldn’t stand that woman. So…I think I asked to be transferred somewhere quiet…” she raised her hands and smirked at Draco. “And here I am.”
“Is that your advice?” Draco asked sarcastically. “Should I move to this tower and you and I can cry on each other’s shoulders about the loved and lost?”
The woman frowned at Draco. “Of course that isn’t my advice. My advice is…well…I suppose it is to learn from my example. I didn’t get what I wanted, yet I hardly tried, so I tried to abandon my love…and look where it got me. Old, lonely, and dusty.” She dabbed at her eyes again. All in all, it wasn’t bad advice.
Shrugging uncomfortably, Draco said, “Well, the painting may still be around. You can try to look for it.” The woman giggled and touched her hair again.
“Oh, he wouldn’t want a frumpy old me,” she laughed shyly.
“You’re not frumpy,” Draco said quietly. The woman blushed, and giggled again, her youthful side showing. After a moment of silence, Draco began to leave, resigned to having to find a new ‘thinking spot,’ when the woman cried out to him again.
“Who did you fall for?” she asked. Draco shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter. Good luck with Gryffindor, if he’s still around,” and then Draco left.
‘For Christmas I want an invisibility cloak,’ Draco thought as he pressed himself into the shadows of the corridor to avoid Filch. He was near the entrance to the Slytherin dormitory, but he couldn’t have chosen a worse night to stroll along; Filch was hanging around there primarily. At any moment he could raise his lantern and see Draco.
‘The kitchens!’ Draco thought, slipping away towards the direction of the painting Harry had led him to the night they had—literally—stumbled into each other.
After tickling the pear, and opening the door, Draco slid into the kitchens discreetly. Some of the elves stopped their work to ask him if he was hungry, but he simply requested some tea. It was delivered to him almost immediately, and he had to convince the elves that he was fine with just tea.
Dobby inched his way over to Draco, who sat on the floor and sipped the tea, watching the work of the zealous elves. With Draco sitting, Dobby was now eye-level with him, and it was the first time Draco had ever looked at the elf as it if were an equal.
“Hello Dobby,” Draco ventured tentatively. Dobby nodded his head, his odd ears flapping back and forth.
“Hello Mas…Draco Malfoy,” he said, just as timidly.
“Dobby…I’m…I’m sorry about all those things I did to you when you were our servant,” apologized Draco, finding it hard to form the words since he had never apologized for much in his pampered life. Suddenly he was finding a lot to be sorry for.
“Harry Potter was here a while ago,” Dobby commented. Draco sputtered into his tea and one of the elves cried frantically, “Is tea not good?”
Not answering the elf, Draco looked at Dobby and asked with wide eyes, “Did he say anything to you?” Dobby cocked his head to the side.
“No, Master Potter said nothing. He is sad, though. He is very sad, he is. We tried to give him food, but he is lost. His eyes is lost,” Dobby said, nodding strangely. There was a moment when Draco wished he could rush to Harry and hold him, and comfort him, but if a tiny peck on the lips and an admission of attraction is enough to send the boy into a coma, than heaven knows what comfort would do.
“Oh, okay…” Draco said, setting the tea down. “Thanks,” he said to the elf who scooped it up to wash it. He picked up his blanket and was going to leave when Dobby reached out and touched his back.
“You is looking lost too,” Dobby said, his eyes roving over Draco’s features. “More lost than Harry Potter.”
Draco felt uneasy under the elf’s stare, and began to sidle away. “Thanks for the tea,” he said weakly, and began to open the door, but Dobby tugged on his robes again.
“You is searching for something that you is lost,” intoned Dobby. Draco pulled from the elf’s grasp and ran, without stopping, back to his dorm, where he tumbled into his bed. He was visibly shaken by the elf, and had to do more than a couple breathing exercises to calm his heart.
Once calm, he pulled out the Famous Witches and Wizards card from his pocket, and ran his fingers lightly over the picture. Harry was resting against the side of the photo, sleeping quietly. Again, Draco felt pains in his heart that Harry wasn’t his. He slipped the card into a book that was resting on his nightstand and changed into his pajamas. He paused a moment to glance at himself in the full length mirror on the far wall.