Whatever Happened

The castle stood tall with its various towers and spires stretching towards the sky. No one (besides the Malfoy's) was quite sure what the actual building material was; it seemed to be a sort of silvery grey stone that was blatantly expensive. An extravagant flight of steps made of the same stone (which always felt curiously warm) led the way to the door, though not before they passed under a rather wicked looking portcullis. The portcullis, nicknamed Mercy, had happily induced many a visitor to hysterical laughter, mad giggles, and finally a sob or two. Coupled with the shockingly real, life-sized dragon statue, which stood silent guard over the grounds, and the ravenous vines, which crawled unceasingly across the stone building and occasionally took a snap at passing unfortunates, people learned to keep their distance.

And it was just as well, because the grounds were a friendly playground in comparison to the inner chambers and corridors and great echoing halls. Upon entering the mansion, an intruder might - or might not, depending on the guards mood that night - be slaughtered by the identical ebony knights who guarded the entrance. Man-eating plants littered the corridors. A flaming sword that appeared to have no bearer hung in mid-air in front of the dungeons. Looming over the dining hall was an ancient statue of Anubis, and it wasn't an uncommon occurrence to find it walking stiffly to and fro in the hall to which it was confined. Confusing spells and Baffling charms riddled the many staircases and dark passageways.

None of these things were ever an inconvenience to those who knew the Manor, however. Those such as Draco Malfoy, who stood practising his already satisfactory sneer before the silver rimmed mirror (who would have beamed proudly at him, had it a mouth).

'You look just fabulous, Draco!' it sang adoringly. 'So much like your father...'

Though the mirror was enchanted to compliment any of Malfoy blood, the last statement was true enough, and Draco was proud of it. His sleek blond hair was the same fine texture, the same silvery colour. They were both built like athletes; tall, lithe, lean. He had inherited the trademark Malfoy face- pointed and long. The same lips. But not everything was the same. Draco had his mother's eyes; grey like his fathers, but olive-shaped and cat-like and angled up slightly. And Draco had already outgrown his father by several inches. He might even be the tallest boy in Slytherin, aside from Crabbe and Goyle. There was only one thing he yet lacked. For all the gifts and curses he had inherited from his father, he hadn't developed the ability to command fear. Yet, he told himself, it's only a matter of time.

'Your father is waiting, Draco,' the mirror interrupted lazily, 'in the drawing room, I believe.'

Draco fled the room immediately, willing himself, with some effort, not to run. His father hated to be kept waiting, even more so since his little 'trip' to Azkaban. Azkaban. What had gone on there? Scarcely six weeks after being thrown into the dreaded wizard prison, Lucius had broken out, to no one's surprise. But his father had come back...different. Apparently, even without the Dementors, the prison still struck fear in the hearts of all men. In all honesty, Draco wasn't sure he wanted to know what had changed his father. He had never been a brave boy.

Composing himself, Draco veiled all emotions from his face, smoothed his hair for the fifth time since leaving his room, and stepped through the arched doorway of the drawing room. His eyes slid over the voluptuous statue of Evaleen the vampire and the massive marble fireplace (which stood silent and empty), the violent painting of Bruce the Brute and his seven maidens, before finally focusing on the still form of his father - a statue in his own way.

'You're late.' Lucius did not turn from his spot by the window, and his voice was even and controlled. Lately, Draco had a feeling that control was false. His father would rather die than admit any weakness, but Draco had seen the worried looks Narcissa sent his way; seen his father stare unblinkingly at a spot on the wall, or the floor, or the grounds for literally hours. He knew well enough not to ask questions, but he simply couldn't imagine what had made his father change. And it wasn't a big change. No one but those who knew him thoroughly would notice anything was 'off '. It wasn't that he seemed shaken or nervous; if anything he seemed sharper, colder, more removed. This vexed Draco. The respect he had always had for his father had wavered considerably since his return from Azkaban. Only six weeks he had been there, and yet here he was, seeming to struggle just to pull off his usual facade of calm. A shadow of his old self, Draco thought distastefully. Azkaban or no Azkaban, he hated seeing his father weak, whether he was willing to admit it or not.

'Sorry, Father.'

His father said nothing, but continued to gaze at the grounds far below. Summer drew to its end, but the vibrant green lawns did not betray that fact. Draco had already received his letter from Hogwarts; he would need to be getting to London for his supplies soon.

'You are sixteen,' he said suddenly, and now he did turn, 'and old enough to take on some responsibility. When I was your age, Maximus had me writing for the Daily Prophet, studying with a tutor morning and night - which you have been neglecting, I might add - practising Quidditch daily, and most importantly, learning the finer points of the Dark Arts. I will not have a useless prat for an heir.'

Draco lowered his eyes respectfully when Lucius' gaze fell on his own. This routine was not unusual. Questions were sure to follow, as well as a little rant about loyalties and beating Saint Potter in everything, and upholding the family name; if he was unlucky, he might even have to listen to his father lecture on his future life as a Death Eater. Those conversations could go on for hours. Draco tried his best to look interested.

'What sort of responsibility, sir?' Lucius' face brightened considerably, and he leaned towards his son, his eyes sparking maliciously. There, Draco thought with a small twinge of relief, there is the father I know. He brushed the fact that Lucius looked even pastier than usual, and that his hair was less-than-perfect, off as a simple side effect of having stayed in Azkaban. And soon those effects will soon be gone as well, he concluded confidently.

'The kind you will like, Draco. The challenging kind. The rewarding kind.'

'The dangerous kind,' Draco said softly, knowing exactly the kind his father spoke of. The Dark Lord seemed to find its way into every conversation in their house these last weeks.

'Perhaps.' The falsely pleasant expression did not leave the man's face as he twirled his cane easily, pacing as he did so, but the glint in his eye and the cruel twist of his lips belied his true intentions. Ah, how he adored planning his son's life!

'Certain steps must be taken to ensure none of this becomes known. There are some who might hinder those who strive for power, Draco. Some who might put an end to your progress. But we won't allow that to happen, will we? You are promised to Him. I told Him you would be a good servant...you never did have a will of your own...yes, my boy, you will be His and you will serve Him.' This thread of conversation was common enough in the Mafloy house-hold. Draco had become accustomed to after-dinner lectures on becoming a faithful servant to the Dark Lord, and of all the wonderful benefits and rewards of being involved in such work. In Draco's opinion, it seemed a bit submissive for the likes of the Malfoy's, but he never voiced his opinions; no doubt his father knew better than he. Still, this particular day's lecture seemed different.. Like Lucius. It was driven, impassioned, almost...desperate. Lucius did not seem to be speaking to Draco at all; his voice lost its carelessness, his pacing quickened; Draco took a step back to avoid the whirling cane. These were the times he grew most afraid of his father. Always he was the definition of control, but now he walked and talked to himself, an image too close to raving for comfort, and the man that was his idol faded in his madness. Potter would pay for what he had done to the Malfoy family. He would pay.

Draco was snapped out of his thoughts by his father's hand, which had latched itself firmly, painfully, around his wrist. Lucius was no longer pacing, but looking right at his son, his eyes narrowed. It was a look that Draco had faced relentlessly since he was a little boy. It was almost comforting.

'Are you paying attention? Don't you know how important this is? I have enough on my mind trying to re-build the family name after this most recent episode and I don't need to baby-sit an insolent child as well!' His voice quieted suddenly, and he seemed once again to regain his calm; he smoothed his hair, and his voice became his trademark drawl. 'Don't do anything stupid, boy. I don't care what that idiot Potter boy says or does. You ignore him like a Malfoy. You will live up to the family name. You will serve Him.' Lucius punctuated each sentence by shaking his son slightly, as if trying to drill the words into his head. As if I don't know this already, Draco thought bitterly, as if you don't tell me every time I'm in your presence. He stared at the back of his father's hand, which continued to squeeze his wrist. Lucius gave it a last grip.

'I'll do my best, Father.' Draco tried desperately to keep the scorn out of his voice; now was not the time. As much of a whiner as he was, he knew when to shut up.

'Hmmm...' Lucius had at last lost interest again (for he seemed to do that often these days) and he swept past his son for the door, his hand trailing carelessly over the vampire woman's torso.
'Yes,' he said, without stopping, 'yes, I'm sure you will.'
And so began a typical Malfoy day.

^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^
Life at the Dursleys' was no less challenging. Despite Mad-Eye Moody's rather adamant warning, the dislikeable family continued to bother Harry, in one way or another. Not that he really noticed. He drifted through summer holidays detached and cold and absent, and the Dursleys took no notice. They knew nothing of Sirius, or his death, or of how it was effecting Harry, and they wouldn't have cared it they had known. No one knew; except, perhaps, for Dumbledore, who seemed to know everything.

Hermione and Ron didn't know either; not really. Harry received at least a few letters from each of them every week. And he read them, trying to concentrate on the words and silly, unimportant topics his friends rambled on about. They wanted to talk to him. How was he doing? Were the Dursleys all right to him? Talk to us, Harry!

About what? He thought darkly. Do you want me to tell you all about how Dumbledore isn't as strong as we thought? That he almost broke down in front of me? Or how about how the fact that I wouldn't be opposed to killing one - any - of the Death Eaters that were there that night? Or maybe you'd rather hear me say that we're not going to win this war. We're not. I know it.

But of course Harry said none of these things; in fact, he said nothing at all. He hadn't written them all summer. He was going to have to though; he was going to write and say he was coming to Diagon Alley to get his stuff for Hogwarts. And to tell them that he most certainly would not come with them to Number twelve Grimmauld Place. He was never going back there again. Apparently, it was still the 'headquarters' for the Order of the Phoenix, but Harry wanted no part in it, even if Ron and Hermione did.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by his cousin Dudley's rather large figure barging it's way into his room. Over the past year Dudley had managed to pack a pound or two, or twenty, onto his already porky frame. His thick blond hair was parted flat against his round head as ever, while his beady little eyes darted from side to side as if waiting for some magical monster to leap out of the corner. Harry watched him boredly.

'What do you need, Dudders?' Harry spoke unpleasantly, wishing to drive the annoying plod out of his sight as soon as possible. 'Do be quick about it.'

Dudley's eyes finally came to land disdainfully on Harry's form (the room seemed to be monster-free at the moment), which lay sprawled on his too-small bed. His nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly, and his lip curled in a way almost reminiscent of a Malfoy.
'Mum says your to come down and clean up dinner. No use letting you laze about any longer; got to get some work out of you before you slink off to that,' - he gave a little shudder, and Harry amused himself by watching Dudley's chest flab jiggle - 'that school of yours.'

This was an extraordinarily long speech for Dudley, who seemed barely capable of complete sentences, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

'Sure thing, Dinky Duddydums!' Harry sneered, knowing how Dudley hated being called by his 'pet names'. His eyes swept up and down Dudley's rotund shape, and his sneer widened. 'Enjoy your meal, Dudley? Broken any chairs lately?' He got up smoothly and swept passed his cousin, who's face had reached a new shade of purple; he knew he was being cruel, but mercifully, he felt no guilt.

Entering the kitchen, his eyes took in the scene in front of him: the dishes strewn across the counters, food already crusting on the rims; his Aunt Petunia, who took one look at her sweetums face, turned to Harry and began yelling shrilly; his Uncle Vernon, who joined in, and at last through the little window above the sink: the sun setting on another day. Harry turned to the dishes with a sigh and shut off his mind, allowing the combined shouting of all three 'family' members to wash over him. Two more weeks.